This Is Literally One Of My Favorite Fics Ever I Have Heart Eyes Whenever I Think About It
this is literally one of my favorite fics ever i have heart eyes whenever i think about it
A Christmas Special
summary: after Christmas Eve at Remus' flat, thick snowfall prevents you from going home. He's more than happy to host you
cw: mentions of alcohol, smut mdni, p in v, oral (fem receiving), praise, inexperienced reader, shy little idiots in love
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 11k words
Remus isn’t sure entirely how he’d gotten strongarmed into hosting Christmas Eve at his flat. James and Lily usually host, but James claimed that this year their house was in too much a state of “baby mayhem” to have any hope of being tidied enough for a gathering. He’s said it in such a lovesick voice Remus couldn’t push back for long, his friend’s happiness so potent it was like looking into the sun. Sirius had begged off quickly, saying that his “bachelor pad” was too small to have a group over. As usual, when Remus spoke last, the matter was settled before he’d gotten the chance to have much of a say.
He’s made an effort to live up to the hosting legacy passed onto him by the Potters, but it’s a flimsy attempt at best. Thankfully, the snowfall outside is doing a fair amount of the work for him. Remus’ street is coated in fresh, gleaming powder, enough that the trees look weighted down with it and his neighbor had put her little dog in a knit sweater to go into the yard and do its business. It’s still coming down, the snowflakes visible in crisp contrast against the darkening sky as they drift lazily to the earth.
Inside Remus’ home, the Christmas tree is nearly covered in tinsel to make up for his scant supply of ornaments, he’s run out of stockings to put up above the fireplace and has had to use one large sock (that one will have to be for Sirius), and he’s still stringing up popcorn when a knock sounds on the door.
Remus is surprised (he’d told everyone to come at six, but that was only because he didn’t think anyone would actually show up until a couple hours after), but that dies away when he unbolts the door and opens it to find you on the other side.
“Hi,” you say, teeth nearly chattering as Remus ushers you inside. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was worse than I expected.”
“It’s hardly fifteen after six.” Remus takes your coat, tsking. “People do seem to become worse drivers around the holidays, don’t they?”
“Well, I suppose not everyone on the road tonight might be used to driving in the snow,” you allow, ever forgiving.
Remus smiles. “Merry Christmas, love.”
Your face is already flushed from the chill outside, but he could swear it goes pinker as you unwrap your scarf, smiling back at him. “Merry Christmas.” You’re merry as can be, cheeks dimpling and eyes sparkling under the twinkling lights Remus is suddenly very glad he decided to purchase for the occasion. “Where is everyone?”
“Well,” Remus says, heading back for the couch, “Sirius is hitching a ride with James and Lily, so if I had to guess I’d wager that James is just putting the finishing touches whatever food he’s decided to bring while Lily tries to rush him out the door. And then they’ll go to Sirius’ place and have to wait for him to finish wrapping the presents he undoubtedly just remembered today.”
You sit beside him with a half-exasperated laugh. “I was thinking I’d be the last one here,” you admit, “but I’d forgotten how they can be when it comes to events.”
Remus shrugs. “Easy to forget.” Lily is usually able to marshal James and Sirius most places on time these days, but the frenzy when they actually have things to prepare is inevitable; Remus has learnt to account for it. He reclaims his half-finished string of popcorn, clumsily stabbing the needle into another kernel and wincing when it goes through easier than expected, pricking his finger.
“Oh no, did you hurt yourself?” you lean over, trying to see his hand.
“No, just a scratch.” Remus has about a billion of them by now. He’s far from coordinated on a good day, but the unwise decision to have coffee earlier has resulted in shaky hands that make working with a needle somewhat hazardous.
You watch him try again, and it’s really the distraction of your cute frown more than anything else that messes him up. His needle goes through the fluffy edge of the popcorn, stabbing him and giving the string hardly anything to hold onto in the process. The flake falls to his lap for his efforts.
“Remus, your hand’s not a pincushion,” you say, and you weren’t yourself he’d almost think you were chiding him. You reach over, taking the needle and thread from him. “Here, let me do that.”
“I didn’t mean for you to come here early so I could put you to work,” Remus protests, watching as you string up the next piece of popcorn with nimble fingers. Jealousy wars with admiration, but his esteem for you wins out. “You’ll never come back for New Year’s if this is what you have to look forward to.”
You smile down at your hands. “Sure I will. You’ll still be there, won’t you? And I really don’t mind helping, it gives me something to do.”
Remus smiles back even though you’re not looking. “Alright, well I guess that means I can start rolling out the gingerbread dough. Thanks, love.” He touches his hand lightly to the crown of your head as he stands, letting the urge to press a kiss there pass as quickly as it arises. He goes into the kitchen and a second later you decide to follow. Popcorn swishes against the floor behind you as you make your way over to the bar counter, sitting on a stool with the string trailing all the way back to the couch.
“You’re making gingerbread cookies?” you ask, watching with eager eyes as he plops the dough onto the floured counter, rolling it flat.
“Mhm. You like them?”
“Never had one.”
Remus feels his eyebrows inch upwards. “Seriously?”
You look almost sheepish, as though this is a crime which you expect to be held against you. Honestly, you’re not far off; had James been here, you would have been questioned and scolded to hell and back, and then he would’ve made Remus give you some dough to try, salmonella be damned.
“No,” you answer him. “We made ornaments of them in school, once, but we weren’t allowed to eat them. I always thought they were so cute, though, with the little people cutouts.”
“They’re the best,” Remus agrees, pressing out the shapes and laying them on the baking sheet. “If you finish that quickly enough, I might even let you help me cut out a few.”
“Yes!” you cheer, and he laughs as you start working quicker with the needle.
“Don’t hurt yourself. The privilege of cookie cutting is not actually contingent on your labor.”
“I know,” you say, but your hands don’t slow. Remus has barely finished filling his second baking sheet before you’re done, having made more progress in the last twenty minutes than he had over nearly an hour.
Remus’ hip touches yours as he shows you how to give the cookie cutters a little shake in the dough, freeing the shape before lifting it and placing it on the sheet. It’s not a painfully difficult task, and still he’s impressed by how quickly you catch on. You’re a machine of efficiency. You seem to enjoy rolling out the dough almost as much as pressing out the shapes, falling into a quick, happy rhythm. Before long you’ve pushed Remus out of the way (Lily would be proud, he thinks), urging him to go and hang up the popcorn garland before everyone else arrives.
You haven’t seen each other in over a month, both of you caught up in the hustle and bustle of the season, and you catch up as you work on your separate tasks. Remus talks to you about his job, the students who plague him and the ones he wishes he could take home after work each day, and how none of them had liked the film he’d put on the day before break. (“Mister Magoo’s is a classic!” you protest as Remus shakes his head. “They’re too young to get it,” he says. “Our classics are just old to them.”) You tell him about your new cat, and the sweater you’d crocheted her for the holiday which she despises above all else, and he promises to come over sometime soon to meet her.
You’ve poured yourselves spiked eggnog and sampled a few ginger cookies (“They’re twice as good when they’re fresh,” Remus says. “Don’t let the others’ tardiness rob you of the experience.”) by the time the door bursts open again, Sirius of course not bothering to knock.
“Hello!” he calls from somewhere behind a tower of presents. “Merry holiday to you, Moony!”
You get up to help, and so Remus is compelled to do so as well, taking a couple sloppily-wrapped boxes from Sirius’ arms.
“Merlin, it smells good in here,” James declares as he comes through the door, Lily carrying a beaming baby Harry on her hip behind him. James’ eyes fall on you. “Aw, you beat us here?”
Remus scoffs, setting down the gifts by the tree and leaving you to arrange them as you see fit. “Not a very difficult task, when you’re over an hour late,” he says. “You’re lucky Y/N’s good company, or I’d be more cross with you.”
“Sorry,” Lily says as Sirius makes a dismissive sound, flopping onto the couch. “We had some trouble fitting everything in the car with Harry’s seat, and then Sirius—” she shoots him a glare, and he grins like she’s sweetly cooed his name “—wouldn’t leave without his hat, even though he’d lost it.”
“One only gets to wear one’s elf hat every so often,” Sirius justifies, unperturbed. “I wasn’t going to miss the occasion even if it took me all night to find it.”
“It nearly did,” Lily shoots back, but then James is at her side, having discarded his load of food and presents and now vying to hold Harry.
“Come here, my handsome little guy.”
“Used to call me that,” Sirius quips with his mouth full of gingerbread cookies, a heaping plate seeming to have found its way into his lap.
Remus isn’t going to smile at that poor attempt at a joke, but once you laugh he can’t help it.
“Only on special occasions,” James replies, taking Harry under the arms and hoisting him into the air. Harry laughs, and it’s probably the most contagious thing Remus has ever heard. Everyone smiles; James most of all, grinning ear to ear as he does it again.
“He never lets me hold him,” Lily complains fondly.
“Because I know how much you like seeing me with him,” James says breezily, making a face at Harry above him. “You’re mad with lust right now, Evans, don’t try to deny it.”
“Sleaze,” Sirius says to him, the bell on his hat jingling when he tilts his head.
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“I,” Remus says, “am hungry. And I’ll bet Y/N is too, since she’s very politely refrained from snacking much while we waited for you lot.”
James' attention actually leaves his son for half a second to look at you and see if what Remus says is true, and you go instantly bashful. It doesn’t seem to matter how long you’re friends with them; having attention drawn to you will always bring some color to your cheeks. Lily comes to your rescue, ushering you into the kitchen like she needs somewhere to channel her mother hen urges while James is monopolizing Harry.
“I hope you really are hungry,” she says, “because James has made enough bhaji to feed us all for a month.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Soon even James is stuffed and you’re all a bit tipsy on eggnog. Some of your natural anxiety fades as everything starts to feel slower and more fluid, your insides warm and soft as wax.
“No, because it was so obvious,” Sirius says. He’s telling a story of a girl he’d seen at a coffee shop that he’s sure was enamored with him. James, naturally, agrees completely, but Lily and Remus aren’t so sure. “She did the—the thing. Y/N, back me up. When a girl makes eye contact with you and then looks off to the side, it means she’s not interested, but when she looks down, it’s because she’s nervous, right?”
You raise your eyebrows. “I think you made that up,” you tell him, tiny bits of laughter running in between your words. “Anyway, is her being nervous necessarily a good thing?”
“She was nervous because she’s obsessed with me,” Sirius insists.
“Or,” Remus says, “she was nervous because you were staring at her, and she thought you were going to follow her outside.”
“And probably kill her,” Lily agrees.
James’ eyebrows shoot up. “Merlin, you two are dark. Our Padfoot’s not putting out murderous vibes. He’s got too much boyish charm.”
Sirius nods appreciatively, but Lily only shrugs, careful not to jostle Harry where he’s sleeping on her lap. “Girls have to think of those things.”
“Gross,” James says, looking slightly troubled as he kisses the side of his wife’s head. “Well, I think she was in love with you, Pads.”
“Yeah,” Remus rolls his eyes, “he should show up at her house and find out. It’d be romantic.”
“And on that note,” James goes on, ignoring him, “shall we do presents?”
You all agree, and Sirius looks at James with an older brother’s entitlement. “Go ahead and distribute them, Prongsie.”
James, well used to this, doesn’t even question it, scampering back and forth between the tree (which you can’t help but notice is somewhat lacking in the ornament department but quite sparkly) to deliver your presents at your feet. After a few rounds of this, you can’t stand it anymore and get up to help, laughing through the protests of your remaining three friends. (“He’s got it, love,” Remus says, and Sirius adds, “He’s got energy he needs to run off anyway.”) Between the two of you, the bottom of the Christmas tree is bare within a couple of minutes, small piles of presents next to each of your friends. You go to sit back by the pile meant for you, touched at the fact that you have a box from every person there.
“S’not fair that James and Lily get to do couple’s presents now,” Sirius complains. “I’m going to start buying gifts for you like you’re one person, see how you like it.”
The biggest pile is obviously for Harry, and you all start there, no small amount of eagerness in James’ expression as he tears open the first box. “The Velveteen Rabbit,” he reads aloud. “Wow, this is kinda hefty for a children’s book.”
“Who’s it from?” Lily prompts, as if you don’t all already know.
“Shit, I forgot to check.”
“And that’s why we read the box,” Lily says slowly, and you get the sense this is a conversation that’s happened more than once, “before we start ripping, honey.”
“It was me,” Remus volunteers, lips pulling into a half-smile.
“Course it was,” James says, taking a break from sticking his tongue out at his wife to smile at Remus. “Thanks, Moony.”
“You had the opportunity to get him Goodnight Moon,” Sirius tsks, “and you just let it pass you by.”
Remus rolls his eyes, but then Lily says, “He already has that one,” and you watch as he tries and fails to suppress the shy smile that takes him. It shifts the scars on his cheek and lights his eyes with a warm tenderness.
He looks especially pretty under the Christmas lights, you think. The warm glow suits him, bringing out the amber in his eyes and richening the various brown shades of his hair. It makes his skin look softer too, smooth even where you know he has stubble around his jawline. You want suddenly to reach out and touch it, and you’re glad you’re sitting too far from him to act on the urge.
You’ve noticed Remus over the years, of course. It’d be impossible not to. You’ve always harbored a tiny crush on him, but you keep it shoved deep down in your gut where it can’t hurt anyone. You think the world of him, but you love your little group of friends more than anything else. You’re not unaware of the fact that Remus is a more crucial fixture in it than you are; if anything happened between you and it made things awkward for everyone, you’d be the one to go.
“Aw, is this a hat?” Lily pulls something tawny brown from a box, and you realize they’ve gotten to your gift. “Oh my god, it has little antlers!”
You try not to smile too hard as she shows it to James and he coos, taking it from her hands. “No way, he’ll be like our little Prongsie! I’m going to put it on him.”
“Don’t wake him,” Lily warns, but James waves her off.
“He can sleep through anything,” he says, settling the baby beanie on Harry’s head. Sure enough, he doesn’t stir.
“Oh, that’s so darling.” Lily presses a hand to her chest. “Y/N, where’d you get this?”
You feel your face heat and hope the lighting is covering your blush. “I made it,” you admit. “I know we’re already well into winter, but I hope he can still use it a little.”
“Um, he’s never taking it off. Like, ever.” James leans around Lily to press a smacking kiss to your cheek. You laugh, trying not to shrink in on yourself from all the attention. “Thanks, love.”
Once all the cooing over Harry’s presents is done, the rest of the gift opening proceeds with decidedly less fanfare, though no shortage of gratitude. You get a bunch of purple eyeliners from Sirius (you’d complained to him a few weeks ago that they’d stopped selling your old one, and he’d been thoughtful enough to find you options to help decide upon new one), a cookbook from James and Lily (“Now you can stop eating all those frozen meals,” James tells you with a meaningful look), and a set of mittens from Remus (“They’re alpaca,” he explains. “Supposed to be extra warm, and your hands are always freezing.”). The rest of your gifts are received happily too, and then Remus’ living room is covered with the wrapping paper Lily had tried but eventually given up on getting everyone to put in piles as they went and you’re all starting to yawn.
“Alright,” Lily says after a while, “it’s well past Harry’s bedtime, and ours, and I’m sure Remus would like his flat back.”
“Booo.” Sirius lays back on the couch, letting his head loll over the edge of the armrest. “Domestic life has made you lame, Evans-Potter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” James drawls, gathering Harry against his chest, “I saw you yawning, Pads. Let’s go.”
You stand with the rest of them, going to find your shoes by the door. “Thanks for everything, Remus,” you say. “It was great.”
“For a first time hosting,” James allows, jokingly prideful, “I suppose you did a pretty decent job. Big shoes to fill, and all that.”
Remus smiles as he rolls his eyes, but it falters when his gaze settles on something behind you. “Are you all going to be alright getting home? It looks like it’s really picked up.”
You follow his stare out the window. He’s not wrong. The unusually thick snowfall you’d arrived in has morphed into something that looks more like a blizzard, the wind whipping white across the black backdrop of sky outside Remus’ flat.
James looks between the scene outside and his family once before seeming to make a decision. “Yeah, we’ll be alright,” he says, watching Lily as he talks. She nods her approval, and James’ voice becomes more solid. “We don’t have far to drive.”
Remus nods, still looking worried. His brows furrow as he turns to you. “What about you? Are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah.” It’s the only answer in these situations, though you’re sure Remus would be alright with the alternative if you felt very strongly. “It doesn’t look too bad out there.”
Remus casts another dubious glance out the window, and a particularly loud gust of wind whooshes past as if to spite you. “Are you sure? It looks pretty bad to me.”
“Yeah,” James says, “don’t you live a bit far?”
“It’s not that far,” you fib, at the same time as Remus says, “She does.”
You laugh awkwardly, pulling on your coat “It’s not. Anyway, I’ve driven in a lot worse than this.”
Lily gives you a small smile. “That’s hardly reassuring, babe.”
“You can stay here,” Remus offers, but you’re shaking your head before he’s even gotten the words out.
“That’s sweet of you, but I can make it home.” You give him your most competent smile. “If I end up driving off the road and have to camp in my car, at least I’ll have fantastic mittens to keep the frostbite from my hands.”
He gives you a deadpan look. “While I’m glad you’re excited to use my gift, I’d prefer to keep it from coming to that.”
“You can’t get in a crash and die on Christmas,” Sirius says. “It’d be, like, a super huge downer for us every year.”
“I’ll be fine,” you insist.
“Shortcake, I don’t care if we have to lock you in here,” James says, frowning in a way that doesn’t look particularly tough when he’s swaying back and forth to rock Harry on his chest. “There’s no way you can drive all the way to your place in this.”
You roll your eyes good-naturedly, wrapping your scarf.
“Okay, you know I would never usually say this,” Lily says, gnawing on her lip as she watches the snow blow past outside, “but I think you should listen to the boys. It looks too scary out there to drive that far.”
“It’s…” You look between them, your argument dying of futility on your tongue. James seems prepared to blockade you in Remus’ flat, and even Lily’s giving you a stern look. Your gaze lands on Remus, and the last of your resistance melts away.
“You really should stay here,” he says kindly. “Actually, I’d feel a lot better if you did. Okay?”
You sigh, slipping your scarf back over your head. “Okay.”
“Phew!” Sirius says, pulling you into a one-armed hug. “Glad that’s settled. See you all soon, thanks for Christmas Moony!”
“He’s so tired,” Lily says after Sirius is out the door.
“Wiped,” James agrees, adjusting his grip on Harry so that he can wrap one arm around Remus’ neck. Remus leans down into the awkward hug, begrudgingly fond as he pats his friend on the back, then kisses Lily on the cheek when James moves to you.
“Thanks for the gifts,” James says, grinning down at Harry’s knit antlers after he releases you. “He’s never taking this off.”
“He means it.” Lily sends her husband a look as fond as it is weary as she hugs you. “I’ll probably have to bathe Harry when James is asleep so he doesn’t catch him without it.”
Your face is feeling hot again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say with a little shrug, but your friends are used to your shyness and only smile and wave on their way out.
And then the door shuts, and you and Remus are left alone in the quiet.
“Are you tired?” he asks you, moving back into the living room. Lily had sneakily taken care of a good deal of the cleanup, but there’s still a few half-empty glasses of eggnog strewn about which Remus begins gathering.
“Not really,” you answer honestly, beating him to the sink and forcing him to hand you the glasses to wash. “Are you?”
“No,” he agrees, and the look he shoots you has to be the gentlest form malice has ever taken as he takes up the dish towel and stations himself beside you. “Fancy a film?”
“Mmm, a Christmas film?”
“Obviously.”
The dishes are finished quickly thanks to Lily’s interference, and Remus makes you some hot cocoa while you scroll through movies, calling out possibilities. The only conflict between you is your equal complaisance to whatever the other prefers, and you eventually settle on the first one you’d seen just to put an end to it. You take your cocoa gladly when Remus passes it to you, blowing gently while he settles a blanket over the both of you, your knees curled towards him and his one leg crossed over the other angling him towards you.
The first few minutes of the film are spent in that contented quietude that the two of you so often fall into when you’re alone together, but then Remus asks you, “What is it?”
You look over at him. “Hm?”
“You’re frowning.”
“Oh.” You laugh. “I’m just thinking about snow.”
His lips quirk. “It is kind of the bane of your existence tonight, isn’t it?”
“No.” You smile down at your hands, hoping it's not obvious how not unpleasant you find your circumstances at the moment. “That’s not it. I was thinking, I kind of hate how it always has to snow in these movies. It makes any Christmas where it doesn’t snow feel like it’s not up to par. Or not quintessential enough, or something.”
“Mmm, I see.” Remus looks back to the screen, considering. “Does that make this your quintessential Christmas, then? Are we living up to the movie standard?”
You watch him while he watches the TV, blue light cast over his handsome features. “I guess so,” you say.
The longer you sit there, the closer you get. You blame it on the late hour, your bodies relaxing towards each other on the couch. Remus’ arm brushes yours when he lifts his mug for a sip, and your knees dig into his thigh under the blanket. Soon you’ve drooped enough that you’re leaning nearly entirely against him. You don’t notice until Remus puts an arm around you to encourage your head to his shoulder. You tense but don’t sit up, and eventually his head comes to rest atop yours.
“Are you crying?” he murmurs during one scene near the end.
Your reply is equally soft, not wanting to jostle either Remus’ head or his shoulder with your speech movements. “I really like this part.”
“You know how it ends. It’s going to be okay.”
“I know.” You sniffle, bringing a hand up to wipe your face now that you’ve been caught. “I know it is. It’s just really profound.”
“Sure it is.”
“It’s the spirit of Christmas, Remus. Goodwill to man.”
“Okay.” He rubs your shoulder, and you pretend not to feel his shaking with quiet laughter. “Okay, I agree with you.”
And awhile later: “You’re tired,” he accuses.
You hum a denial.
“Sweetheart” —your stomach flutters, and there’s a jolt somewhere behind your ribcage; you ignore it— “you’re practically falling asleep right here.”
“Are you tired?”
He shifts slightly, stubble tickling your forehead. “No. But you are.”
“I want to finish the movie.”
He seems to debate this for a moment, then his shoulder relaxes beneath you. “Alright.”
The credits start, and neither of you move.
You let your head slump more heavily onto his shoulder. “Your place really does look lovely. Thanks for having me.”
“Of course, love.” You can feel his smile squish up against the top of your head. “Would you go so far as to say my hosting measures up to James’?”
You chuckle, gesturing to yourself. “I’d say you’ve gone above and beyond, for sure.”
Remus laughs too. “Perfect. Tell him so, would you?”
You’re going to agree when a great yawn takes you. You keep it quiet, but there’s no avoiding the way your chin digs into Remus’ shoulder, your shoulders rising with the prolonged inhale. He moves away from you.
“Ready for bed?” He smiles down at you as you run a knuckle under your eyes, collecting tears from your lashes.
You shrug an admittance. “Sort of. But I don’t want to kick you out of your own living room if you’re not tired yet.”
“No, I’m pretty wiped too,” he says. “Anyway, I’m the one kicking you out. You’re staying in my room.”
You had a feeling he would say something like that. You grab a throw pillow, getting situated with your head near the armrest. “No, I’m not.”
His laugh is disbelieving. “Yeah, you are. Come on, you’re my guest. I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
You tug the blanket off his lap, curling up with your pillow stubbornly. “I’m not going to steal your bed. You’ve already done so much. You’ve helped me try gingerbread cookies and given me nice mittens and hosted an amazing Christmas. Let me sleep on your couch, please.”
“While I appreciate all that,” he says, “no.”
“Remus.” You’re near pleading at this point. “Your back will hurt.”
“Your back will hurt.”
“Not as badly as yours.” You give him a hard look. “I’m not taking your bed.”
There’s a brief silence, terser than your usual ones but no more awkward for it. You stare each other down.
“Right,” Remus says, reclaiming the remote from where he’d set it on the coffee table. “I suppose we’d better start another movie, then.”
“Remus, come on.” You sit up, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge. “You’ve just said you’re tired. Go to bed, please.”
The TV flickers back on. “I’m not leaving this couch.”
“Well, neither am I,” you laugh, completely serious.
He rolls his eyes, then snuggles up to you under the blanket. You take this as a sign that he’s not really very cross with you. “You’re much more argumentative than usual tonight, you know that?”
You huff, laying your head back on his shoulder. “I could say the same about you.”
“True, but I know I’ll win out in the end.”
“You can think that if you like.”
“Want to watch this one next?”
“Sure.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Remus watches as your eyes drift closed, then twitch back open, over and over again. He thinks his bony shoulder is the only thing keeping you from falling over the precipice of sleep. If he were James Potter, he’d simply pick you up with ease and carry you to his bed, but Remus can’t say he’s entirely sorry for this extra time with you, even if neither of you are awake enough to make much conversation.
Silly as it sounds, he enjoys just sitting here with you nearly as much as talking. Your cheek squished into his shoulder, your legs curled up atop his, you’re warm and weighty against him.
He should have known it would be a hopeless endeavor trying to get you to agree to take the bed. You’re a gentle thing by nature, but stubborn in your selflessness. Even if you had gone, Remus knows he wouldn’t have slept all night anyway, too preoccupied with thoughts of you all wrapped up in his sheets, your face pressed to his pillow, getting your shampoo-smell on the pillowcase. He doesn’t know if it smells like him (does he have a smell?), but he would have wondered all night if it does, if you were noticing.
Your head nearly rolls off his shoulder, and a pitying sound escapes Remus when you jerk awake to set it right. He lets his head rest on yours so it doesn’t happen again. Your eyelids droop closed almost immediately, and Remus begins dragging his thumb over your shoulder blade, a nice, slow back-and-forth. You’re quiet for a long while.
“Are you trying to put me to sleep?” you murmur, words all sloshed together.
It’s a conscious effort not to let his thumb slow. “No,” he says.
You hum.
“Unless you mean it’s working.”
Another long silence. “It’s not,” you reply, head growing heavier on his shoulder.
He chuckles. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed, hm?”
“You go to bed,” you mumble, and if he thought you were capable of it he’d say there was some bitterness lining your words.
He sighs. “You’re too nice for your own good,” he tells you.
“No,” you reply, softly, plainly, like it’s a fact, “that’s you.”
He picks his head up off of yours to see your face. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Your eyes are closed. You don’t know he’s looking. Your face is wholly relaxed, no hint of pretense about you. “You’re the best I know.”
Something warm and wheedling works its way through Remus’ ribs to the soft gooey core of him. “Well,” he tells you honestly, “you’re the best I know.”
You seem unconcerned. “Another impasse for us.”
He actually laughs at that, instantly guilty when it jostles you on his shoulder and your eyelids peel apart. He can’t regret it, though, when you look at him the way you do. You’re glowing in the light coming off the tree, soft and warm and lovely, and yet you’re looking at him like he’s the only place your eyes want to go. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You come gradually more awake, eyebrows twitching towards each other just slightly. “Remus,” you murmur, and he finally does what he’s been wanting to since you’d shown up at his door hours ago. He kisses you.
Your lips are pliable, parting for his almost instantly, like you’d been waiting. His hand coasts from your shoulder to cup the back of your head, keeping you close as your nose slides against his. You both all but fall back onto the bed you’d made yourself on the couch. He’s careful not to put too much of his weight on you, but when his tongue brushes across the inside of your lip and you inhale, he draws back.
“I...” He pants into the space between you. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
You make a sound that’s half hum, half whine, and bump your chin up into his.
Remus loses himself again with frightening quickness. It’s even better now that you seem more sure, your mouth asking, coaxing against his. You taste like gingerbread. An low, embarrassing sound pries free from the back of his throat when you wind your fingers into the hair at his nape, and he slips his free hand beneath your back, getting as close to you as he can. Your legs make room for him automatically, knees tipping open so he can slot between them.
“Do you—” you breathe when his attentions move downward, tilting your head to the side to offer access as he mouths at the skin just under your jaw. “Do you want this?”
The word leaves him in a soft exhale, muffled against your skin. “Yes.”
You swallow. He feels the movement in your throat. “Are you sure?”
His eyelashes brush your jaw as his kisses slow, become more tender, more intentional. “Lovely girl,” he murmurs. “You’re silly, you know that?” His mouth meanders it’s way over to your pulse, getting stuck there and sucking at your skin lazily. “I mean, you’re smart.” The words are all mushed up against you. Noticeably amused. Remus quit the eggnog hours ago, yet he feels half drunk. “You’re really smart, honey, but you can be so oblivious sometimes.”
You don’t respond, and as much as he loves the sound of your voice, he’s hoping your silence is in his favor right now. He wants you wrapped up in him, wants to engross you so completely you forget how to form your lips around speech.
“Do you want to move to my room?”
You take a breath. Fuck, even the sound of you breathing is nearly enough to undo him. He moves back to your mouth as if to intercept it, nipping at your lower lip.
“Is this a ploy to get me off the couch?”
“You’re relentless.”
Your lips curve against his, and he mirrors them without thinking. You stay quiet.
“Fine. I promise it’s not, okay?”
Your laugh is fizzy like champagne, and it warms Remus’ chest like it too. “Okay,” you say in that lovely voice. “Okay, let’s go.”
❆ ❆ ❆
You’d always thought Remus was all softness. He’s made up of soft looks, soft colors, and hair that you can now confirm is soft as dandelion fluff. But this night has defied your expectations in a thousand ways. And your Remus, soft, gentle, kindhearted Remus, is scraping at your throat with his teeth.
You have to suck your lip between your teeth to keep from making a humiliatingly desperate sound when he passes his tongue over his work, another crescent moon that’s sure to be purple by morning. Your hands are beseeching in his dandelion fluff hair, keeping him close while his hands are busy lower, one gripping the fat of your hip while the other drags tantalizingly slow up and down your side. He’s kissing you like you have all the time in the world, sometimes rough but no more urgent for it, and you’re breathy and molten and useless beneath him.
You’re brimming with adoration and something else too. Something that you think you could almost identify—you’ve felt it before, but never like this.
“What do you want to do?” There’s a raspy quality to his voice that would send you to your knees if he hadn’t already taken them out from under you. He dots leisurely, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, soothing over spots he’s already nipped and sucked into oblivion. Your head feels fuzzy. “Sweetheart?”
Christ, is he trying to send you into cardiac arrest? Remus doesn’t stop kissing you even at your silence, finding your lip still held between your teeth and encouraging it free with his own. You try to remember what he’d ask you. What do you want to do? You have no idea. Where would you even start? You want him to keep talking to you in that raspy voice, that’s for sure. You want…you want to keep kissing him, to know what his hands would do if you let them beneath your clothes. You want to keep investigating that warm feeling in your gut. See where it takes you.
Remus’ kisses slow, then stop. He pulls back to look at you. In the dim street light coming in through the window, you wonder what he sees. “You alright?” His voice is soft, gentle, saying it’s okay if you’re not without saying it.
You take a breath. It shakes a little on the way out, but you don’t think he can tell. “Yeah, I’m good. Just nervous. But not in a bad way.” Nervous-happy.
“Don’t be,” he implores, lips brushing your cheek. “It’s only me.”
Exactly, you think. It’s you.
“What do you want to do?” You turn his own question back on him.
His smile is tinged with bashfulness. “I mean, whatever you’re alright with.” There’s a tentative quietness to his voice. “Have you…”
If it were possible for you to get any warmer, embarrassment would do it. “No,” you say, shrinking away from him though there’s nowhere to go. Whatever the end to that question might be, the answer is no.
“That’s okay,” he says quickly, dropping another kiss on the corner of your mouth like a cure-all remedy. “That’s okay, you just tell me if you want to stop, yeah? If you don’t like something, or you want to slow down—anything at all, you let me know.” He kisses you again, further up on your burning cheek. “Okay?”
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Don’t be nervous.” He says it like a promise, hand stroking your side again as if to soothe you. His lips find your shoulder, nosing the fabric of your sleeve. “Can I take this off, lovely?”
You nod, words all stoppered up in your throat, then realize he can’t see you and do it yourself. He has to pause as it comes off, taking the opportunity to do away with his own sweater, tossing it on the floor beside the bed. You do the same, and your bra quickly follows. You’d always thought (largely influenced, admittedly, by trashy novels) that this was the part where the guy stops what he’s doing and openly oggles the shirtless woman in front of him, but Remus has seen tits before and wastes no time in getting his mouth back on yours, pressing you into the mattress. His skin is as heated as yours, the areas where you touch deliciously warm despite the cold still whipping past his bedroom window. You allow yourself one sweeping, appreciative pass over the muscles on Remus’ back before your hands go down to your bottoms, shimmying them down your legs. A long-fingered hand finds the exposed skin of your thigh and kneads reverently. You swallow Remus’ groan, and he kisses you more deeply, long, savoring passes of his tongue along the inside of your mouth until his lips move downward.
One hand stays at your hip while the other strokes up and down your thigh, spit cooling in a path down your stomach. You try to relax as he passes your navel, but the anticipation is hard to shake. You’re nearly trembling when he kneels between your legs, kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
It’s all you can do to nod, gasping when his teeth drag over one of the stretch marks there. You clutch at the sheets above your head like a lifeline.
“We can stop anytime you want.”
You inhale raggedly. “No,” you manage. Your breathlessness is obvious in the quiet room. “I want—I want to keep going.” You pause. “Do you?”
You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, love, that sounds good to me.”
Good, you’re about to say, but Remus’ next kiss lands on your slit, and your voice withers and dies in your throat. He uses a hand to push one of your legs open further while bringing the other over his shoulder, spreading you open. His breath fans hot over your cunt.
You’re writhing at the first broad stroke of his tongue, and he wraps his fingers around the outside of your thigh, keeping you still while placating you at the same time.
Remus takes his time, lapping experimentally at your entrance before making his way upwards. You gasp as his tongue skims over your clit, burrowing your hand in his hair before hesitating.
“Is this okay?” you ask.
His hummed assent has you tightening your grasp. He brushes over your clit one more time, and when this gets a similar reaction from you, begins sucking on it gently. You’re panting, and Remus has to move his grip to your hip to hold you in place, squeezing indulgently at the fat there while he narrows in on what you like. Before long you’re trembling all over, grasping feebly at his hair as you squeeze your eyes shut against the odd sort of bliss that’s taking you under.
“Remus,” you breathe, and it’s a miracle that he hears you but he does, raising his head with a lewd suctioning sound.
He looks at you questioningly with eyes almost all pupil.
“Come here,” you plead.
He obeys, crawling back up you to peck at your bitten lips. “Doing alright?” he asks you.
“Yeah,” you promise, cupping his head in one hand and wrapping your leg over the back of his as if to prevent him from leaving. “Just wanted to kiss you.”
You feel him smile against your lips. He slots his mouth over yours, and you dedicate yourself to his top lip. He tastes like sex, braver now as he explores your mouth. He drags your bottom lip between his teeth, and you make a high, breathy sound. His grip on you tightens.
“Do you think—can we—”
He hesitates, kissing softly at the corner of your lips. “Are you sure?”
“I want to. Do you?”
Remus actually laughs, muffling the sound against your cheek. “Yeah, I fucking want to. I’ve wanted to forever.”
You can’t think about that. Think about that and you’ll fall to pieces.
He noses affectionately at the underside of your jaw, slipping down you once again to stand at the end of the bed. He steps out of his pants and grabs a condom from the drawer of his nightstand. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you promise, anticipation coiling up snugly with that other thing in your stomach. They don’t feel all that distinct from one another.
“Alright,” he says, palm slipping under your thigh. “Can I lift this up, love?”
You nod, and he grasps the soft underside of your knee, bringing your leg up to your stomach as he lines up. You gasp as he pushes in slowly, watching your face to make sure you’re doing okay. You’re already slick and worked open from his ministrations, and it’s still a bit shocking. His thumb strokes beside your knee as your walls adjust to the size of him. “How’s that feel?”
“Good,” you say honestly. There’s a note of desperation to your voice. “I can—more, please.”
He’s quick to accommodate you, pushing deeper as he folds himself over you to recapture your lips. Your breaths shallow. His free hand moves to your breast, kneading gently at the soft flesh. He gives it a firm squeeze at the same time as he moves inside you, and you nearly bite Remus’ lip off, a half-suppressed keening sound escaping you.
“So good,” he mumbles. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Taking it so well.” He lifts his head, kissing your temple. “Think you can handle a bit more?”
Your response is barely more than breath, but he catches the affirmation, pressing another firm kiss to your forehead before he bottoms out inside you. Your head lolls back, fuzzy with the strange pain and even stranger pleasure. Remus tightens his grip on your leg to keep it up, dotting kisses down the side of your face.
“Good girl,” he says hoarsely. “Still doing okay, lovely?”
“Yeah,” you say, somewhat dizzy. “Remus, it feels so good.”
“Good,” he croons. “It should feel good, love. Ready for me to move?”
“Mhm.”
He pulls out slowly, dragging against your sensitive walls. He starts mouthing at your neck again before he pushes back inside you, filling you up all over again. A slew of expletives roll out of your mouth, unbidden and entirely unlike you, as Remus begins pumping your breast again, the rhythm matching that of his thrusts. He sucks the flesh of your neck between his teeth, and you bite down hard on your lower lip to repress what promises to be a high-pitched and deeply mortifying sound.
Remus praises you amply, soft kisses and reverent touches and a raspy “Fuck, sweetheart, just like that.” Your head floats or swims or both, your body tensed all over and yet completely plaint beneath Remus’ hands. He moves back to your mouth, discovering your bottom lip held captive between your teeth.
“Come on, don’t do that,” he chides, easing it free with gentle kisses. “Let me hear you, bet you sound so pretty.”
The Welsh accent that’s grown faint after years of living away from home is emerging now, as is the crude vocabulary it's tied to in memory, a host of barely comprehensible profanities spewing from Remus’ lips when you clench on him again. His grip tightens on your tit, and a moan tears from the back of your throat.
“That’s it,” he praises, head dipping to kiss the soft spot he’s found under your ear. “There you are, lovely girl.”
The coil in your core grows impossibly tighter, your thighs quivering as you approach a peak you’ve never known before. Remus feels it, cooing softly even as he drives into you harder.
“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” You nod dazedly. “Good, good, just let it happen, I’ve got you.”
“Come here,” you demand again, and he wastes no time in obliging you. He kisses your lips sore as you dig your nails into his shoulders, pulling his body flush against yours, the feeling inside you growing so great you don’t know where to put it, don’t know if you can contain it. You can’t remember ever feeling this close to someone, Remus’ touch the only thing keeping you from hurtling off some unknown precipice.
“Let go,” he urges, and you do. You trust him to catch you.
It’s bliss like you’ve never known. You cry out, and Remus’ hand slides down from your breast to spread wide and flat against your ribs. Steadying. He kisses soothingly at your jaw as you gasp and pant your way back to him, grip slackening on his shoulders.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, though you really haven’t done much at all.
“Are you—” You swallow, choking on the emotion that’s risen unbidden in your throat. “Are you close?”
Remus smiles, coming back to your lips like he can’t help himself. He pecks you once, twice. “Sweetheart, I’m more than close. I’ve barely been holding myself together since you kissed me.”
Well, he’d actually kissed you, but you’ll take the compliment anyway.
“Do you think you’ll be alright if I move again?” he asks. “It’s okay if not.”
“You can,” you say certainly, leaning up on your elbows to see him better. “Is there…anything I can do to help?”
The smile fades from his face, leaving something far more tender in its wake. “Just, keep looking at me like that?” He says it almost like he’s embarrassed, voice quiet with supplication.
You want to tell him you’d never needed asking to look at him, but you don’t, keeping your eyes on his obediently as he pumps into you. He really must have been close, because he’s cursing again not long after, accent twisting his syllables with a gruff pleasure. Your walls contract at the movement, still sensitive, and that’s all it takes. Remus digs his fingers into your waist and makes sounds you’re sure you’ll dream about, panting, breathy moans you sit up to smother against your lips. He follows you back down onto the mattress, mouth slotted against your own. You hold him to you until his breaths even and his grip on you loosens.
“Was that alright?” he asks, some of the rasp still lingering in his voice.
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, dizzy with affection. “Yeah, it was good,” you promise him. Understatement of the year. “Really good, Rem.”
“Good,” he echoes, lips brushing the skin under your eye. You don’t know how you know, but you can feel the amusement building in him just before he asks, “Tired yet?”
You guffaw. The force of it jostles him on top of you, and his lips curve against your cheek. “A little bit, yeah.” Actually, you hadn’t realized how exhausting sex would be. If it didn’t mean having to take your eyes off Remus, you’d have closed them and passed out by now.
“Good,” he says again, hands sliding down your waist as he moves to stand again. You make a small sound as he shifts, and Remus shushes you, slipping out from inside you. You watch fascinatedly as he removes the condom, sticky with cum. He tosses it in the wastebasket under his desk and walks away from you.
“Hey,” you protest. “You’d better not be sneaking off to sleep on the couch.”
His chuckle echoes in the bathroom, followed by the sound of a cabinet opening. “So mistrustful,” he says when he comes back in with a damp towel. “What’ve I done to arouse such suspicion?”
Your fuzzy brain gets stuck on the word arouse in his teasing tone, and it takes you a second to answer. “Well, I’m here and a blink away from falling asleep, so you tell me.”
“Fair enough.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, taking your thigh in his grasp to move it aside. “Alright if I clean you up, love?”
You startle, coming up on your elbows to see where Remus is holding the towel between your legs. “I didn’t realize it’d be so messy,” you admit. “You don’t have to, though, I can do it myself.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, thumb soothing over your knee. “S’my mess anyway.” He seems to have not quite agreed with himself to say that last part aloud, a blush spreading over his cheeks.
“Sure,” you say, mostly to alleviate his embarrassment. You let your weight lean more heavily on your elbows, trying your best to look relaxed. “Sure, if you’re alright with it.”
“Might be a bit sensitive,” he warns. You’d guessed as much, but it's worth it for all the praises he rains down upon you as he works, finishing with a kiss to the side of your knee.
You miss him humiliatingly when he goes to the bathroom again to discard the towel. It’s all you can do not to reach for him when he comes back, but luckily Remus reads your mind anyway, slipping under the covers and tugging you to him until his lips rest against your forehead.
“That was really great,” you tell him.
“I thought so too.”
“You’ll stay here, right?”
A low laugh. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m staying here.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Remus hasn’t known anyone to sleep in longer than Sirius, but you seem to be vying for his title. The sun has long since passed above his windows when Remus wakes, and still he has time to spend idle hours marveling at the closeness of you. His nose is cold above the covers, but everywhere your bodies are pressed together is warm, your palm flat against his chest and one of your legs wormed between his own. Your fingers twitch as you dream.
It has to be early afternoon by the time he rises, slipping his hand carefully from beneath you and plodding into the kitchen. The blanket is still on the couch where you left it, throw pillow creased with your indentation. Your mugs are discarded on the coffee table with globs of once-hot cocoa stuck to the bottom. Bright light refracts off the snow outside and into his kitchen, making everything look shiny new.
Remus starts the kettle first, letting that warm up while he rifles through the cabinets for his big mixing bowl and starts whisking together ingredients. A bird chirps outside as the kettle gurgles, and somehow the peace of Remus’ kitchen feels more complete knowing that you’re sleeping just down the hall.
Until, apparently, you’re not. Your footsteps are so silent he startles when you appear, still blinking yourself awake as you cross your arms over the sweater you’ve thrown on with your bottoms from the night before. Remus’ sweater. And Remus had thought he’d come to terms with the idea of you here, in his apartment like the best Christmas gift of all time, but apparently not, because his heart stutters and stops at the sight of you.
He’d thought you’d looked adorable in the soft glow of the Christmas lights the night before, and again tucked into his sheets this morning, but you’re almost ethereal now. Sunlight bathes the planes of your face and gleams off your hair, making you appear almost like you’re emanating the bright light rather than standing in it. You smile at him, seraphim.
“Morning. Sorry I didn’t ask,” you say, fingering the hem of Remus’ sweater. “I was cold and you were gone, I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? Remus can’t even think.
“Course not,” he manages, but just barely. It’s more an exhale than a statement. “Did you sleep alright?”
“Really well,” you say. His sleeves cover your fingers as you rest your elbows on the counter, and your gaze has gone a bit shy again, but Remus can hardly blame you. You both seemed to have experienced unusual nerve the night before. He only hopes you aren’t regretting your part in it. And now that he’s had some time to think, he hopes even more that you’d truly wanted it in the first place. “Did you?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
You lean a bit closer in a way that he doubts either of you are even slightly unaware of, peering into the mixing bowl. “What’re you making?”
“I’m experimenting,” he says, though he wishes now he weren’t. He wanted to make you something good, but his confidence in his adaptation is waning now that you’re in the room. He should have gone with something basic, tried-and-true. “Or, I’m attempting. Gingerbread pancakes?”
His voice crawls up into a question, as if he really has no idea what it is he’s trying to make (maybe that’s closer to the truth), but Remus’ regrets vanish instantly at the genuine elation that lights your expression.
“Really?”
A laugh startles out of him, giddy. “Yeah, does that sound alright?”
“More than alright,” you declare with full seriousness, seating yourself at the bar counter. “That sounds amazing, Rem, thank you. Merlin, I owe you so big for all of this.”
“I think you’ve more than made it up to me.” It slips out without permission, Remus too high on the flow of your conversation to filter the words through his brain before they reach his mouth. His loathsome, traitorous mouth. “I mean, I’m sorry—fuck, that sounds awful—I only meant that I’ve had a really good time with you here. I’m glad you stayed.”
You flush horribly, and Remus doesn’t expect he’s faring much better.
“Not that I’m only glad because of—or, I’m always glad to have you. As a friend, too.”
There’s a tiny pinch in your features, gone before he can diagnose it. Somehow, you seem even more uncomfortable. “Right.” You give him a thin smile. It’s a hearty attempt, but you’re too genuine a soul to fake it. Remus hates himself for it. “As a friend.”
They’re his own words, put hearing them from your mouth and with that piss-poor smile feels like having a fire poker jammed between his ribs.
With his track record this morning, he really should be taking a vow of silence, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Just friends, then?” Hesitance makes his voice sound quiet even in the silent kitchen. He looks down, stirring the batter to avoid watching the answer take form on your face.
“I mean,” your tone is a match to his, “is that what you want?”
A short, soft laugh escapes him. “I think I made what I want fairly clear last night.”
There’s a short silence. “I thought I did too.”
It’s a conscious effort to keep stirring. Had you? Remus had kissed you, he’d brought you to his room, he’d been the one to ask if you wanted to do more. And you’d been game for it all, sure, but he can’t help but wonder if you were just going along with it. If maybe you’d thought it was just a fuck, something he’d come up with to pass the time while you were both snowed in, no strings attached. Remus could understand that. He could disentangle the strings from last night if it’s what you want. But he’s liked you for years. He could love you oh so easily. He’s practically teetering on the edge of it already, though you’ve only been friends all this time.
Remus spoons some batter into a waiting pan on the stove. He’s debating asking what exactly it is that you thought you’d made clear when you speak again.
“I understand if it’s too much for you.” Your voice is shy. He looks up, and your shoulders are hunched as if you’re trying to hide yourself. You shrink further under his gaze. “We can stay just friends if it’s…if that’s what you want. I want whatever’s easier for you.” Your next words are so impossibly soft, Remus has to strain to hear them over the low sizzling of the pancake batter. “I really want you to stay in my life.”
“What?” It’s a staccato, loud enough that it surprises you both, Remus stepping toward you while you nearly flinch back. “Sorry.” His hand goes up, reaching into the space between you as if he can soothe you from feet away. He lowers his volume. “Sorry, sweetheart, I just—I didn’t realize that was even on the table. I would never want to not be in your life.”
“I just mean that I don’t want to make things weird for you, or for everyone else—”
“Hey.” He manages to cross the distance this time, his hand landing on your wrist atop the counter. Remus isn’t sure why he needs it there so desperately, but he suddenly feels much better. “There is nothing that could make any of us not want to be friends with you. I can speak for everyone in that regard. Okay?”
You look at him consideringly for a moment. Remus holds your stare, letting you see his certainty. “Okay,” you echo, sounding unsure. He’ll deal with that later, he decides.
“Okay,” he says once more, and it’d almost be firm if it weren’t so gentled by the tenderness he can never seem to get rid of around you. Even so, what he says next doesn’t sound particularly tender. It’s not very kind to you, he knows, but Remus is selfish, and he feels (selfishly) like he’s done his part already. He tries to phrase it as nicely as he can. “Can you tell me what it is that you want, please?”
You try to shrink again, and Remus’ grip tightens on your wrist instinctually as if to keep you from running off. He swipes his thumb over your skin apologetically. “Remus, come on.” You sound almost upset, but it’s hard to tell with your voice so quiet. “I know I’m not that good at—at covering myself up. I must have hearts in my eyes half the time I look at you.”
Remus would give a month’s rent to know what you can see in his eyes right now. Even if he’d been hoping for an answer something like that, he hadn’t expected it. And for you to act like it’s been obvious…he does his best to think back.
You’ve always been a shy thing. It had taken James months to get you to be remotely yourself around them, and though you’d seemed to warm to Remus first, you’d always retained some of your bashfulness when you were alone together. He’d chalked it up to the result of two people, quiet by nature, with no wildly extroverted James or Sirius or Lily to run interference.
You’ve always been kind to him, but you’re kind to everyone. How is anyone supposed to suspect favoritism from a soul as indiscriminately sweet as yours?
He recalls your voice last night, thin and reedy and fragile as the cattails that had bordered the river behind his house as a kid. Wary of getting swept along by the current, but willing to go if Remus would take you. Do you want this?
He’d called you oblivious for asking. How could you wonder, when he’d been the one to kiss you and has probably been looking like he wanted to for years? He’s certainly been thinking about it for as long. But perhaps your obliviousness is another congruity between the two of you.
So much for opposites attract.
“I think I’m an idiot,” he says, and mercifully, a smile far more real than the last sneaks onto your face.
“You are not,” you reply, ever forgiving.
“Don’t tell Sirius,” he warns, “but I really think I am.” His voice drops into a more earnest register. “I had no idea, love, I’m sorry. Maybe you’re a better actress than you thought. But if you don’t want to be friends, I don’t want to either.” Remus hesitates. “Or, I always want to be your friend, just—”
“Remus?”
Finally. Someone needs to stop him. “Yeah?”
“Your pancake…”
He turns to find a thin spire of smoke rising from the pan. “Oh, fuck.” He grabs a spatula and quickly flips the pancake, but there’s no saving it. The bottom side is completely blackened. It’s inedible. “Sorry, I…I’m not sure I have enough batter for much more.”
“It’s fine.” There’s laughter in your tone, and that’s more than enough to make up for it. “It was a really sweet thought, that’s what matters anyway.”
Remus turns to find you’ve slipped out of your seat and are standing uncertainly on the threshold of the kitchen. His heart warms with incandescent, aching fondness.
“Would you come here?” he asks.
You comply with an eagerness he wonders he’s never noticed before, stepping forward to let him fold you into his arms. Your wrists cross over his mid back and the tip of his nose mushes into your hair as he touches his lips to the top of your head. He can’t believe he could have been holding you like this all along if only he hadn’t been so thick. He supposes he’ll have to make the most of it now.
“Let’s do away with asking about want, does that sound alright?” He rubs lightly between your shoulder blades, wonders if you like the feel of his breath on your scalp. “How about you tell me if anything comes up that you don’t want, and I’ll do the same.”
“Yeah.” Remus knows he likes the feel of your voice on his skin, chin moving against his chest. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Good.” He smiles, pressing another kiss to your head. “Okay, should we venture out to find something for breakfast? Or lunch, I suppose it is by now.”
You ease out of his arms. “I really should go home.” There’s an apology already embedded in your tone, but you add one anyway. “Sorry, but my cat’s been there all night by herself, so…”
“Right.” Remus ignores the dull throb behind his sternum, which is really a bit dramatic. He’ll see you soon, surely. “Yeah, that makes sense. Think you’ll be able to drive?”
“I mean, I looked outside.” You shrug, backing towards where you’d hung your coat the night before. “The roads here are cleared, which I hope means they’ve gotten to most of them already.”
“That’s good,” he says, though he feels the opposite. Your poor cat, he’s pitted completely against her now. She’s done nothing to deserve the resentment he’s directing at her, almost petulant in his malcontent. “Good, good.”
You’re both silent as you put on your shoes, your scarf. It’s not unusual for the two of you, but it lacks its usual easy contentedness. Your eyes flit up as you pull on your new gloves, a silent thanks in them that you know Remus won’t let you voice aloud again. Despite the upset in his chest, he smiles.
“I…listen, I have to go home,” you tell him, looking down as you wriggle your fingers more snugly into the gloves. “I have to feed my cat. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to…leave.”
Remus can’t see how that changes anything, but he recognizes it for the olive branch it is. You’re both so uncertain, and you’re trying to alleviate his worries about what you leaving right now means. He can return the favor.
“I don’t want you to leave either,” he says, “but I get it. She seems important to you, best to keep her well.”
“Exactly.” You smile, relieved. “But I mean, if you’re not doing anything, you could come meet her? We could pick up breakfast on the way. Or I could make you something there.”
Remus can’t believe his luck. And, once again, his stupidity in not getting there himself. Why is it that all of a sudden, everything that has to do with you seems so absurdly difficult? At least one of you is thinking clearly.
“Yeah, that would be fantastic.” He’s grinning hugely, totally unlike him but liking it very much. “Let me grab my coat.”
“Wait.” There’s a newly familiar breathless quality to your voice, and when Remus turns you’re already coming forward to meet him. Your palm slides against the stubble along his jaw as you stretch your neck, kissing him sweetly on the lips. “There,” you say, timidity shrouded beneath a good layer of happiness, “now we’re even.”
Remus laughs, loud and startled. He wants to be generous with you, he really does, but he still thinks you’re far from even. “I’m not sure about that, sweetheart,” he says warmly, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of your eyebrow, “but we'll get there.”
More Posts from Star-reaper and Others
In the Sheets | Azriel x reader
Summary: To put it in SJM's words: Azriel is a freak *wink wink nudge nudge* and his mate is a lucky lucky girl
A/N: This is honest-to-god faerie p0rn and it gets progressively worse. It's filth. No plot whatsoever. Don't come at me, I'm ovulating and have therefore decided to dump all the smut into one glorious fic. You're welcome.
(public service announcement: the smut does NOT contain degradation and/or the daddy kink because I don't roll that way and therefore our girl Y/N doesn't either)
Word count: 3506
Warnings: SMUT (18+!!!) it's nothing hardcore, just a lot of it, so (respectfully) fuck off if you're under 18
-
"So, enough with the chitchat," Mor proclaimed as she set her empty glass down on the table harder than necessary and proceeded to lean forward as though scheming. "You've been mated to Azriel for over a year now, and so far, I've been patient with you." Y/N blinked slowly, and Mor made a sound that immediately disproved her previous claim of patience. "What's it like?"
Feyre giggled from where she dipped into her third drink of the night, but Nesta sat quietly, a look of mild interest in her eyes as she locked them on Y/N.
An uncertain expression had entered the face of Azriel’s mate. "What's what like?"
Mor huffed. "What's he like. Azriel. The sex." Her eyes seemed aflame with a mixture of wine and the warm glow of Rita's faelights as she stared at her friend as though expecting her to sprout horns any moment now. "Is it good?"
Feyre sighed, though she couldn't quite keep the amusement from bleeding into her words. "Mor, that's an incredibly invasive question."
"And also unnecessary," Nesta added, her voice calm as she stirred the very tip of her finger around the clear contents of her glass. "We didn't see them for almost six months when their bond snapped. Of course it's good."
"But I'm so curious." Y/N smiled into her drink at the deep sigh Mor exhaled. "It's Azriel. The man's been a mystery for more than 500 years and now we finally have an agent on the inside."
"An agent?" Feyre asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Oh, you know what I mean." Mor waved a dismissive hand, her eyes never leaving Y/N. "I desperately need some details."
-
"Arch your back for me."
The soft fabric of the sheets brushed against her skin as Y/N stretched out her arms and let her body glide to the mattress in a slow arch from where she kneeled before him. She could feel the rough skin of scarred hands on her, broad palms pushing down the length of her back to follow the curve of her spine before retreating to hold her hips as though they'd been carved from the most precious of gems.
Her cheek lay pressed to the pillow, her hands twisted into the sheets, and when she felt featherlight kisses on the base of her spine, her back arched further down.
"You're so beautiful like this," Azriel breathed into her skin as his knee appeared between her legs to nudge them further apart. She felt him then, hard and heavy against her centre, and she shivered when he pushed forward to run his length through her folds once, twice, three times.
She sighed his name, closing her eyes at the heavy drag of him against the most sensitive part of her body, and when he finally nudged at her entrance, she did her best not to thrust her hips backwards.
Azriel hooked his hands into the flesh of her ass, grip firm enough to leave red marks, firm enough to sting in just the right way, and when he loosened his right hand, she knew what was to come.
His palm made sharp contact with her skin, and she couldn't help the quiet moan that passed her lips when he repeated it and her body gave a slight jolt.
He gripped her tighter then, pulling her apart. His voice was quiet when he spoke, deep enough to fog her mind with his words.
"Ready for me, my love?"
She was certain he felt her overwhelming need for him pulsing through the bond, because the breathless "yes" had barely just left her lips when he buried himself to the hilt with a single long thrust. She curled her fingers harder into the sheets and the moan that tore through her had Azriel's hands on her tighten even further.
As he ground into her with one harsh snap of his hips after the other, and as she moaned her pleasure into the pillows, she relished in the thought of finding his fingerprints glowing on her skin later.
-
"Don't close your eyes. Look at us."
When she pulled open her eyes, the world lay on its side and the picture that revealed itself to her brought heat to even the last inch of her body.
She'd been wondering why Azriel had relocated the huge, golden mirror that Feyre and Rhys had gifted them for Solstice, but as her gaze caught on the delicate golden edges now, she understood.
She caught her own gaze, and the version of her that was caught inside that magnificent mirror seemed delighted at the fact. She lay on her back, her head turned to the side, her legs wrapped around Azriel while he kept his own face buried in the side of her neck she couldn't see.
She licked her lips at the image. At the sinful roll of Azriel's hips, burying himself again and again in slow thrusts that had her mind swim. At the way majestic wings flared behind him as his hand held her thigh and his chest rubbed against hers with each move.
Her stomach gave a delicious pull when Azriel lifted his head to meet her eyes in the mirror, his own gaze darkened with hunger, his pupils blown wide.
"Look at you," he murmured, his lips close enough for her to feel them move against her cheek. "See how beautiful you look when you take me?"
He punctuated his words with a harder thrust, and her lips fell open at the jolt her mirrored counterpart gave, at the sounds she made, and the way Azriel's hips met hers again and again. The way each muscle in his legs, in his back, in his arms worked beneath tanned skin, it was ... breath-taking.
"Look at this," he now all but whispered as he hooked his hand beneath her knee to lift her leg higher and press it further towards her chest. She dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders at the change in depth, and when Azriel angled his hips slightly to the side, she could see the way his thick length glided in and out of her. He glistened with her arousal, his movements smooth, and she whimpered at the sight of his intrusion.
Azriel lowered his mouth back to her neck and drew her skin between his teeth.
"Keep watching, my love," he murmured into her, and as his hips snapped firmer against her, she didn’t take her eyes off the mirror once.
-
"You're in no position to tease, baby. Remember that."
A shiver ran through her body at the lips that hovered just barely above her breast. His low words washed over her nipple in warm puffs of air, and her thighs pressed together tightly in an attempt to create some friction.
"Azriel," she whispered, a plea evident in the way she spoke his name. She lifted her chest, but Azriel mirrored her movements and lifted his head a bit further, always keeping the distance between his lips and her skin.
She pulled on her restraints, but the shadows that kept her wrists locked to the pillow above her head didn't budge.
Azriel hummed, his wings tucked in closely, his eyes never leaving her face. He was careful not to touch her, his arms digging into the mattress on either side of her shoulders to keep his body hovering over her.
"Yes, my love?"
She couldn't keep the grin from her face as she sent all her desire shooting across the bond, accompanied with echoes of her moans, and flickering sensations of the pleasure she knew Azriel could draw from her.
When he shuddered against her, he finally lowered his mouth to the soft flesh of her breast, though it was only to give a sharp pinch of his teeth that had her jolt.
"Touch me," she pleaded.
A corner of his lips curled into a smile, and she watched closely as he lifted a hand only to weave his fingers through her hair.
She gave a frustrated huff. "Not like that."
Azriel tilted his head, and when he didn't say anything, she knew that he was waiting for her to specify.
"I want your tongue on me," she said, her voice breathless. Tension reached to her very fingertips as Azriel finally lowered his face far enough for his tongue to dart out and kitten-lick her nipple.
Her eyes fluttered at the sight, a full-body-shiver rolling through her at the brief, wet touch.
"Gods, you're such a fucking tease, I swear to—"
A grin flashed, and then finally, finally Azriel lowered his mouth to her breast, licking, and biting, and sucking her until her head swam and her arms shook from his mouth alone.
"Do you want me to fuck you, my love?" he hummed against her, his eyes locked with hers as he once again bit the sensitive skin of her breast, and, Cauldron, the image was sinful. Dark strands of hair fell into his face, his sole attention on her.
"Yes—Gods, yes."
She could only just refrain from whining when Azriel sat back on his feet and took all the warmth with him. He tilted his head as he trailed his eyes along her bare body.
"Open your legs for me, then."
-
"Come with me."
She hadn't heard him approach, the room filled with noise as the crowd of court visitors chatted and drank its way through the evening. She felt fingertips trail down the back of her arm until his hand found hers and he interlocked their fingers. Goosebumps arose in his wake.
"What's wrong?" she asked, having heard the urgency in his tone. When she turned, however, Azriel's heavy-lidded gaze told her the purpose of his proposal.
She smiled and put down her glass to lift her now free hand to cup his face, her thumb running along a sharp cheekbone. "Now?"
Azriel's eyes fluttered at her touch and when she let her thumb slip lower to trail along the curved lines of his lips, he pressed a kiss to the pad of her finger.
"What brought this on?"
"Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?" She noted a spark in Azriel's eyes, his hand tightening in hers. "As breath-taking as it is, I've spent the majority of the night going through all the ways I could get that dress off you as soon as possible."
It was true, the seamstresses of Velaris had outdone themselves this time. Heavy, flowing fabric bunching at her hips, a plunging neckline, a tall slit up the side for her leg to see daylight. The entire thing had been covered in diamonds barely big enough to see, though certainly big enough to catch the light and sparkle as though she'd been clothed in the night sky itself.
She couldn't help the grin that tugged the corners of her lips higher. "Careful. You'll make a girl blush."
The grin on Azriel's face mirrored hers, and when she turned to steer for the exit, she kept his hand in a firm grip.
They’d barely managed to find an empty office—Rhysand’s empty office, to be exact—before Azriel’s hands were on her.
"I changed my mind," he all but growled against her lips as he backed her towards the desk in the middle of the room. "Keep it on."
Her hands made quick work of his pants, her breathing already laboured when Azriel lifted her onto the sturdy wooden desktop and pried her legs open wide enough to step between her thighs. Nimble fingers bunched the fabric of her dress on her hip, and suddenly he was pushing into her, his groan as sinful as the shudder that ran through his wings.
“Fuck.” He buried his nose in her hair, his raspy tone enough to have her moan as he cursed softly. “I love being inside you.”
All she could do was hold on to his shoulders, her lips whispering delicious moans right into the shell of his ear as he took her for all she was, the desk creaking beneath her with each of his pounding thrusts.
She noticed then that they hadn't closed the door all the way, and when Azriel shifted a wing just an inch to the left, her eyes locked on the wide-eyed form of a faerie standing in the gap of the door.
Y/N didn't know her, but judging by her golden-blue attire she was one of the Summer Court's emissaries.
The unknown faerie stood stock still, her lips slightly agape as she held Y/N's gaze, and when Azriel lay more power into his thrusts and pounded into his mate with the wet slap of skin on skin, Y/N's nails dug a bit deeper into his shoulder, her moans reaching a higher pitch, turning pleading.
The faerie seemed to recoil, though there was no denying the heat that had entered her expression as she watched.
Azriel sensed her then, too, though he didn't turn to throw a glance over his shoulder, but instead lowered his forehead to Y/N's, his eyes on her as he slowed his thrusts to a deep grind.
"It seems we have an audience, my love," he spoke softly enough so that only she could hear. He lifted a hand to thread his fingers through her hair, his grip tightening to angle her head back far enough to meet her gaze. "Shall we put on our best show?"
She grinned, digging her teeth into her bottom lip as she tried to urge him deeper with her heels in his lower back.
"Can't leave them hanging now, can we?"
She caught the flash of a grin before Azriel pulled out of her. She barely had enough time to register the loss when he thrust back in to the hilt, and her body jerked with the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck," she cursed, breathless as she tightened her legs around him, doing her best to brace herself against the harsh snap of his hips. "Fuck, Azriel—ah."
Azriel kept an arm tightly looped around her waist, his free hand lifting her thigh higher, his hips relentless. He buried his face in her neck then, his grunts turning into groans, and as Y/N held the gaze of the faerie in the hallway, he ground against her hard enough to have her toes curl with pleasure that wiped every thought of the stranger from her mind.
-
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
Her chest was heaving in the dim light of their bedroom, Azriel’s arms wound tightly around her waist as she leaned back against his chest. She could feel the scruff of his chin against her temple, his lips so close to her ear that she shivered with every word he spoke in that low tone of his.
She moaned softly, her head lolling back onto his shoulder, her eyes falling closed.
“No, no,” Azriel tutted quietly, one of his arms loosening its grip for his fingers to take gentle hold of her jaw and direct her gaze back down towards her centre. “Look at them go,” he sounded mesmerised as he spoke, his every word dripping with desire. “Look at the way they feast on you.”
Her lids were heavy as she followed the direction of his gaze. Her knees were bent, her thighs held open by Azriel’s legs, baring her to the room and the shadows he’d unleashed upon her.
Shadowy tendrils brushed along her inner thighs before gliding against her very centre, teasing with cool sensations and barely-there touches, licking at her skin, sinking into her.
It was driving her crazy.
“Azriel,” she breathed, her head heavy with desire, her skin burning, longing to be touched properly. “Azriel stop teasing. Please.”
She felt his teeth on her earlobe then, dragging her skin between warm lips. “What was that?”
She writhed against him, the urge to snap her legs closed overwhelming at the gentle teasing of his shadows.
“You just want to hear me beg,” she huffed, turning her head enough to catch his gaze. And true enough, Azriel’s eyes were shining with anticipation, a small smirk edged into his features.
“I would enjoy that, yes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, lips tightly sealed, but when she felt one of his shadows curl into her, she couldn’t help the breathy moan that broke from her throat. Everything they did, every kiss of her skin, it all felt good—good enough to drive her crazy with it. But it all felt like the ghost of a touch, not the real deal, and certainly not enough.
“Fuck me, then,” she gasped, breathless. “I’ll beg all you want if you just fuck me.”
Azriel leaned down to kiss her then, the hand he didn’t keep wrapped around her waist slipping down to cup her breast. When he pulled back, he tracked half-lidded eyes down her face, a contemplative hum resonating in his chest.
Her body tensed when new shadows joined and Azriel chuckled into the shell of her ear.
“Just a little while longer, I think.”
-
"I wanna go again."
A tired laugh fell from her lips, her eyes closed as she kept her cheek pressed into the soft pillow, her arms wrapped around it. She could feel his fingertips trailing along the length of her spine and all the way down to her tailbone before returning to the back of her neck. She shivered.
"I can't," she breathed into the pillow. "I don't have another one in me."
She could feel his smile across the bond, could hear it in his voice when he spoke, his tone quiet, his words soft.
"I don't think that's true, my love."
A comfortable shiver shook her body when his lips appeared at her temple, breathing featherlight kisses along her cheekbone, and down towards her jaw.
She hummed, hugging the pillow tighter at the tingling his kisses left in their wake.
"How are you still going?"
"They call it frenzy for a reason."
She forced her eyes open at that—just a crack, just enough to see Azriel's smirk. "The frenzy lasts three weeks. We've been mated for a year."
He leaned down to kiss her then. It was slow, lazy, innocent, but she felt his palm flatten against her back, his warmth washing over her as he urged closer.
"I don't feel like it ever stopped," he breathed against her. "I spend every minute of every day wanting you, longing for you, aching for you."
She met his kiss firmer then, turning into his embrace until he pulled her close enough for her to feel his heartbeat against her own.
Azriel turned to his back, wincing a bit when he rearranged his wings beneath him. In truth, he was just as sore as she was—every inch of him aching with hours and hours spent loving, and fucking, and writhing in pleasure. It was the good kind of ache though. The kind he'd do anything to never lose.
She lay on top of him now, her arms wrapped around his neck, and Azriel's hands slipped to her thighs to pull her legs apart for a knee to rest on either side of his hips.
She urged closer, wanting to feel every bit of his warmth, wanting to chase away every bit of air left between them.
“I’m really sensitive,” she spoke against his lips, her eyes closed, her words barely above a whisper.
Azriel stroked his palms along her back. “I’ll be gentle.”
She couldn't help the gasp that left her when he slid into her, intruding her tender flesh with a single push to glide smoothly against the slick mess they'd left between her thighs. She dug her fingers into his skin and Azriel soothed his palms across the globes of her ass, cautious in the way he moved her against him.
It was lazy, slow, his strokes barely enough to call them that, but neither of them needed more. Sensitive from countless rounds and orgasms, she tightened around him just a few grinding thrusts later, her moans closer to whines as she buried her face in his neck and panted softly against his skin.
She shook against him, her body quaking with an orgasm, her low moans muffled against him, and when Azriel joined her, he gritted his teeth as a wave of pleasure crashed into him and he pressed their hips together with a raspy groan to crack through his throat.
"Fuck," he hissed, letting his head plop back into the pillow, his arms now moving to circle her waist.
Silence enveloped them for a while, only the sounds of their breathing mixing.
"I won't be able to walk tomorrow," she finally hummed against his neck, and Azriel smiled as he ran his finger through her hair.
"I shall carry you then, my love."
-
"Hello?" Mor waved her hand before Y/N's eyes, causing the faerie to flinch.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was just ... thinking."
It was Feyre who grinned at her now. "I bet."
By Any Other Name; Sirius Black ☕️
“D’you have a name, love?” He was spitting mischief into every word. “Or should I just call you angel face?”
By God, he was not pulling any punches. His voice being as silky as your knickers didn’t help, nor did his wicked teeth or his lithe hands. It was a feat of its own to close your mouth, and another altogether to speak.
Your name spilled off his lips with an exhaled drag, hot and smoking and swept away by the wind.
“Pleasure to meet you, angel face,” he said cheekily. “You can call me Sirius.”
summary: by the will of mother nature, you meet your charming downstairs neighbor—who has been dying to meet you just as much.
word count: 3K
warnings: fem!r, sexually implicit comments, lots of mentions of underwear and lingerie
authors note: me 🤝🏼 making sirius act like my other favorite scorpio (ryan gosling)
1978. London, England.
+
More than anything in the world, you wished you had a tumble-dryer. The London winds turned brutal in autumn, and you’d lost nearly ten items of clothing before the season was done.
A pretty sundress, a flannel you’d nicked from your father’s dresser. A skimpy little black nighty, the top only lace and the bottom sheer satin.
That one had been the most recent, only the day before. You blamed yourself, really; You thought you’d be coy and hang it outside for the boy downstairs to see, and the wind tore it off the line and blew it to who knows where. Now some creep probably had it in his sock drawer.
Despite all of this, you still did not have a blessed tumble-dryer. Which meant even at present, in wind that might’ve blown your makeup off, you were outside clipping your soggy knickers to the line. Three clips each, thank you very much.
You can’t say it was all that embarrassing. London wasn’t particularly a town of modesty or shame, especially in more recent times. All the ladies along your alley hung their undies out, and no one seemed to mind. Maybe you just lived on an especially progressive block of the city. Whatever it was, you liked it.
You hummed a soft tune as you hung the last piece of clothing on the line, feeling chilly yet accomplished.
The wind had died down just slightly, leaving the clothes swinging on the line—suspended between your building and the one neighboring it. You peeked across to ensure that everything seemed secure, just in time to watch a pair of silky pink undies slip from their clips and fall a story down into the alley.
You clicked your tongue, promptly making your way down the fire escape to retrieve them.
As you rounded the landing to descend the second half of stairs, you were aghast to see the boy from downstairs—the one you so desperately wanted to see your cheeky nightgown—leant against your flat building. He was smoking a cigarette languidly and intently watching your sad knickers which landed before him.
You stammered at first, unsure what to say. The remaining shreds of daylight were reflecting quite stunningly off of his pitch black hair, in a way that was all too distracting. Eventually, you settled for something apologetic.
“God, I’m sorry.” You inched forward until you could bend down and rescue the pink knickers from the filthy ground. You frowned at the specks of dirt on them. You’d have to wash them all over again. Or maybe you should just toss them.
Or cast them into the sea. Perhaps donate them to a bluebird to use for nesting. God, you were embarrassed.
For a split second you became mortified with a scenario where you kept the dirty undies and this handsome-boy-downstairs wanted to shag you, only to find you’re wearing the disgusting alley knickers. Your cheeks grew hot.
You pushed the underwear behind your back then, hoping he didn’t see them in full. When you looked up, he blew a cloud of smoke from his nose and smiled devilishly.
“Not to worry, darling. I’m quite accustomed to women dropping their knickers in front of me.”
Your mouth popped open in shock. A boyish but refined laugh bubbled out of him as you failed to respond.
“D’you have a name, love?” He was spitting mischief into every word. “Or should I just call you angel face?”
By God, he was not pulling any punches. His voice being as silky as your knickers didn’t help, nor did his wicked teeth or his lithe hands. It was a feat of its own to close your mouth, and another altogether to speak.
Your name spilled off his lips with an exhaled drag, hot and smoking and swept away by the wind.
“Pleasure to meet you, angel face,” he said cheekily. “You can call me Sirius.”
“I can’t call you handsome?” You blurted, and Sirius’ smile got so much worse, which is to say humbler and far more genuine.
“If the shoe fits,” he mumbled.
A gust of wind blew and his hair billowed with it, just as he took a final drag of his cigarette. The embers lit his face warmly.
It fit. It definitely fit.
Sirius stomped his smoke out on the cobblestone and brushed his hands off on his slacks.
“I actually have something I want to give you.” Sirius inched toward his flat window, ignoring your pinched brows. “Wait right there.”
Contorting his long limbs, he slipped inside and disappeared.
Within seconds he returned, holding what you instantly recognized as your black nighty. He walked it to you, growing taller with every step.
“Think this belongs to you,” he prodded. You took the garment from him, smiling coyly.
“Do you happen to have any of the other clothes I’m missing?” You accused, and he ducked his head sheepishly.
“Just this one,” he promised, “it fell last Sunday, just here, like your knickers.”
You flushed. “Sorry.”
Sirius’ expression turned boyish. “You should be. I’d have preferred that you came with it.”
The wind picked up again and wafted his cologne with it, something citrusy and clean. A pit stirred in your stomach.
“Maybe next time,” you murmured, and slipped up the fire escape before he could respond.
+
You sincerely didn’t expect to see Sirius after that. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it felt too simple. Too convenient.
Stunning, charming boy downstairs, holding onto your nightclothes to give back to you…
He had to be a creep. There was no other explanation. Or worse—he was only trying to be nice to save you from embarrassment.
You kept running through your conversation with him, adding new motivations and hidden meanings. Each one was like a warning siren, and it kept you from seeking him out.
Sirius, however, was not dissuaded at all.
A week later and it was the turn of November. The winds were cruel and rain barely ever let up, and any sunny day became laundry day.
One fateful, blessed dry Friday, you popped out to hang your loathsome clothes. If being clean was this much trouble, you weren’t sure it was worth it anymore. You were halfway through the soggy hamper when someone downstairs began to whistle.
“Darling, do you do anything but laundry?” A familiar voice called, posh and smug and handsome.
You peeked over the railing, and Sirius was in the alley with an amused grin on his face.
“Do you do anything but watch me do laundry,” you shot back, which made him laugh.
Sirius was making a paper boy cap look very stylish, holding the lip of it to aid his theatrics. There was something quite old fashioned about him, even in his boyish demeanor.
“I like to hear you sing,” he defended. “You have a pretty voice.”
You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You didn’t entirely realize you sang at all. Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around.
“Does this seem a bit cliché?”
You looked around, too, at your balcony and the shaded alley; At Sirius, who was the shining image of a hopeless romantic, ready to profess his undying love.
“I suppose,” you agree. “Wherefore art thou? No—a minute is not enough.“
Sirius pushed his tongue into his cheek, grinning.
“I was imagining something else,” he said. “Let down your hair…Or—your clothesline?”
You snorted.
“Luckily, this damsel has stairs.”
Smile widening, Sirius raised his eyebrows, wondering if you’d meant to invite him up. You nodded, and he took the steps two at a time.
It was charming. While you were still reserved, you couldn’t help but admire his complexities. He’d seemed so subdued upon first meeting him, but now he was almost howling with excitement.
He was completely out of place on your terrace. A sharp and shining bachelor lording over your half-dead plants and damp t-shirts. He looked like he had a tumble dryer, and an iron, too. Or a maid. Definitely a maid. It was a mystery why someone so put together was living on the floor beneath you.
“What,” Sirius asked, looking dubious.
“What?” Your cheeks warmed. You’d been spacing out.
“You’re looking at me weird,” he accused, but he kept a lightness in his voice. “You don’t still think I stole all your clothes, do you?”
“No,” you denied. Then, feeling cheeky, you added, “just the nighty, right?”
He blinked, looking shy again. “Well. It—it fell.”
“Oh, right, my mistake. It fell,” you nodded, and watched his mouth open and close.
“Y’know, most neighbors bake something if they want to make friends,” you continued, enjoying his squirming, his brown pearly loafers scuffing on the grated platform.
You thought he was handsome when you met, with his cavalier confidence and dangerous smile, but seeing him so embarrassed was just as enthralling; His fair skin flushed pink, his broad shoulders hunched…his voice turned raspy and unsure.
“I was never good in the kitchen.” He said it like it was a fatal flaw, unfixable.
“No, of course not,” you said with unwavering mirth. “You’d hire someone to do that, wouldn’t you?”
Sirius’ head snapped up, shocked, confirming your suspicions.
“What are you robbing my clothesline for, rich boy,” you teased, wrinkling your nose at him.
Scratching his jaw, he blew out a bewildered laugh.
“What gave it away?”
You snickered, making a sweeping gesture over him. “What didn’t?”
Sirius looked down at his pressed white dress shirt and well-fitted vest. He then ripped his hat off, deflating.
“Thought I was doing a good job of fitting in,” he muttered.
“Sorry,” you cooed, though you weren’t sure why. It should’ve been insulting, that this upper-class idiot was so upset at seeming as well-off as he was, but he kept striking you with an odd sincerity. He didn’t seem ignorant, he just seemed lost, and you felt sorry for him.
“If it’s any consolation, you look quite handsome.”
Sirius looked up at you through his lashes and shyly smiled.
“Do I?” He needled. You hummed affirmatively.
“If a bit chilly. Who’s been making your cuppas?”
Grabbing your basket, you backed away towards your window and slipped inside. You waited for Sirius to follow, hoping your invitation wasn’t too indirect. Thankfully, he crawled in after you, loitering by the window awkwardly.
“Well, don’t let all the heat out,” you called over your shoulder, dropping the basket onto your couch and bee-lining for the kitchen. Sirius closed the window and meandered further into your space.
“You’re not going to poison me, are you,” he asked from your kitchen threshold, watching you put the kettle on.
“I’m not sure you should be as paranoid as me,” you said, leaning against the counter. “But I’m fresh out, so not this time.”
Sirius laughed. “Oh, good.”
“So,” you started, crossing your arms to mirror him, “who are these girls dropping their undies for you? I’m painfully curious.”
Sirius sucked his teeth, hiding a grin.
“I’m not sure you have enough tea,” he sighed solemnly. “We’d be here all night.”
Eyes tracing over the long hands splayed over his biceps, you bit your lip.
“I can imagine,” you humored. “A pretty boy like you…you never catch a break, do you?”
Sirius looked constantly unprepared for complements like this, and you couldn’t get enough. He was pink and silent and restless, faltering for something witty to reply with.
In the end, he just shook his head.
When the water was hot, you made up Sirius’ tea, and he thanked you shyly as his hand brushed yours. He put far too much sugar in it, and not a spot of milk, but you found that just as charming as the rest of him. You sat at your kitchen table, smiling over your cups.
“I haven’t had a good cuppa in months,” Sirius sighed, spinning his mug in absentminded circles.
“Thought you had a maid,” you prodded, and Sirius’ responding smile was bittersweet.
“Not anymore,” he said quietly, “not for a while.”
You took a slow sip of your tea, watching him carefully. As you set your cup down, you licked your lips, and Sirius instinctively copied you.
“So…no maid.” You leaned back, lifting a brow. “Who presses your clothes, then?”
Sirius frowned. “I do.”
“Oh.” You frowned, too. “But you can’t make a cuppa?”
“I—“ Sirius chuckled. “I can make a cuppa. It just tastes better when someone else makes it.”
“Ah.” Picking up your cup again, you smiled at him. “Well, I’m happy to help.”
Sirius pulled his lip between his teeth as you drank, rubbing his hands on his slacks.
“Well I—“ he cleared his throat, “—I should go.”
Confused, you watched him as he pushed his chair back and stood, ducking to you gratefully.
“So soon,” you complained. It was odd. You’d been avoiding him all week, but once he was around you didn’t want him to go.
“Yes, well. I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Sirius smiled kindly, if a little distant.
“Well, I invited you, handsome. That’s hardly intruding.” Your words were intentionally soft and sticky, cloying, to change his mind.
Sirius’s eyes swept over your face for a moment, his mouth chewing on words that never came out. Eventually, he left a thankful caress on your hand, where it laid dormant on the table.
“Thank you for the tea,” he expressed, and then he was gone.
You sat at the table long after he left, until your tea was cold and his empty cup was dry.
+
The whole week after that, you turned your conversation with Sirius over in your mind again and again, looking for what you’d done wrong.
He’d never seemed angry, even as he left. He was almost sullen.
In the days following, it was like he’d never existed. The alley had a Sirius-shaped hole in it every time you hung your clothes, and—as if it was missing him, too—the wind had stopped blowing.
Singing softly, you hung your final garments, enjoying the still evening while you could. When you sucked in a new breath, it was thick with the scent of burning tobacco. You looked down through the slats, and as you expected, Sirius was leaning where he was when you’d first met him.
Sucking your bottom lip, you looked at the cloth in your hands, and then back at Sirius. At the sudden absence of your voice, he’d looked up, and your gaze met his. He stilled, the ash growing perilous on his smoke, and watched as you held your dark nightgown over the railing. You let it go, and watched Sirius sigh, tracking its feathery fall to the ground.
When he looked back up, you were already halfway down the rickety stairs.
“Darling, don’t—“
“You know, it’s rotten manners to leave a girl wondering what she’s done wrong,” you scolded, plucking the gown off of the cobblestones. “Especially after being so charming all the time.”
Sirius winced. “I’m sorry.”
He looked frustratingly good, more casual than you’d ever seen him. His hair was messy and his collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. It only made you bolder.
“Well,” you prodded, “won’t you at least tell me?”
He furrowed his brows, his cigarette long forgotten between his fingers.
“Tell you what?”
“What I did,” you huffed, exasperated.
His face crumpled.
“Darling,” Sirius stressed, “nothing. You’re the loveliest neighbor I’ve ever had.”
The compliment felt like an insult, calculatedly detached, and you wondered if you’d invented the whole thing in your head.
“Why’d you leave, then?”
Sirius shifted, his expensive shoes crunching on the ground.
“I didn’t want to impose.”
Unbelieving, you shook your head in disappointment. It must’ve been something awfully offensive if he still wouldn’t tell you.
“I can’t afford the expensive teas, so if it tasted odd—“
“—Love, it wasn’t the tea, it’s—“ Sirius licked his lips, hesitating. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”
Lost, the corners of your mouth pulled down. Sirius sighed.
“The gown, I—“ He gestured to the satin in your hands. “It was inappropriate. I’m sorry.”
Avoiding your eyes, he finally ashed his cigarette, but left it abandoned in his hand. Stepping closer, you batted your lashes at his shameful face.
“Sirius, if it worried me, I wouldn’t have invited you inside.”
“It should worry you!” His face contorted. “It was manipulative and debauched—“
“Debauched!” You grinned, eyes bright. “What exactly did you do to my nightgown, hm?”
Sirius’ mouth pursed disapprovingly. “Love, please.”
You stepped closer, pouting.
“You didn’t imagine me in it?” Sirius shook his head passionately, but his cheeks warmed. “Shame. I hung it for you, you know.”
Sucking in a breath, his cigarette met the ground as you waded closer. You reached out, tugging on the top button of his vest.
“Will it take a cyclone for you to ask me out?”
Sirius let out a heavy breath and shook his head. When he said no more, you tilted your head and pulled him into you.
“Well then?”
His eyes searched yours.
“Go on,” you said. “I’m not sure someone who likes his tea with seven sugars could be very scary.”
Brightening, Sirius took your hand where it fiddled with his vest. You watched with heat in your chest as he brought it to his face and pressed his mouth to it. He then turned it over and did the same to your open palm.
“Could I please take you out, angel face?” His breath was hot on the inside of your hand, sending chills up your neck. “To repay you for the stunning cuppa?”
Chuckling, you traced a feather-light finger over his jaw.
“Certainly.” You licked over your teeth. “I’ll wear my driest knickers.”
His smile slipped into wicked territory.
“Don’t sweat it, love.” A big hand smoothed over your shoulder, and you melted. “You’ll only be wasting your time.”
+
thank you for reading! 🦢
masterlist
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even if we don't have any of this in common, i'd love to chat anyway! hopefully this finds some folks <3
Hi, I'm MJ! She/her, '03 baby, Aquarius—
MDNI
Navigation — Updated 9/27/24
— About this Blog
— Fanfiction
MARVEL
Bucky Barnes x Reader: Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Series) ONGOING
SUPERNATURAL
Dean Winchester x Reader: Anniversary (One-shot)
ARCANE
Silco x Reader: I Trust You (One-shot)
HOGWARTS LEGACY
Sebastian Sallow x Reader: Winter Warmth (Drabble)
IV. “I Trust You Know What You’re Doing?”
"Trust" Series Masterlist
John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader
Struggling with the forced separation of your transfer and promotion, it does not take long for you and Bucky to plan a trip to London together. But even while you're on leave, the world around you continues to do its best to tear itself apart.
Warnings: Language, Grief, Alcohol Consumption, Angst, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [oral - f receiving, implied virginity loss, protected vaginal sex, condoms, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms] - 18+ ONLY.
Author’s Note: Welcome to this massive installment. I have no excuses, only apologies. Also I only had the fortitude to proof this once, there may be more errors than normal, but I didn't want to delay it any longer - I will correct things as I find them. 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.
ETA: The image descriptions for the letters contain the text within to allow for a screen reader or anyone who cannot read cursive. Click the ‘ALT’ button to access.
Word Count: 8497
-------------------------
Wycombe Abbey could not have been more different than Thorpe Abbotts if it had tried.
The private, or in a most confusing twist ‘public’ as the Brits called such institutions, girls’ school had begun its life in the 17th century as a manor house before being transformed into a much grander residence near the end of the 19th century. The school had opened in 1896 with only forty students, but that number had swelled to over two hundred by the time the building was requisitioned for use as the Headquarters of the 8th Air Force.
Stained glass windows, stonework, archways, and wood panelling now replaced squat concrete buildings and rough-and-ready Nissen huts. Though everything was just as drafty, so at least the temperature provided some familiar consistency to your new surroundings. As you descended from your quarters tucked away in some forgotten corner of the attic, down a set of precarious servants’ stairs, you nearly took a wrong turn – again. To your credit you had only been here three days and the maze of corridors and rooms further divided into offices for USAAF purposes was nearly unnavigable.
Chiding yourself softly under your breath that your office was to the right and not the left, as though the sharpness of your tone might really drive it home this time, you quickened your steps still hoping to beat to postal clerk to the outgoing mail box that sat on the corner of your desk. It had been more of a challenge than you were expecting to write the letter clutched in your hand, but the daily meetings that senior operations officers held at 1015, 1600, and 2200 were your responsibility to attend and record via frantically scribbled notes to be typed up in a more professional format later.
These were the meetings at which mission targets for the entire 8th were chosen. The strategic value of various locations was discussed alongside weather reports and aligning with the RAF’s Bomber Command for maximum impact against Nazi Germany. After the first meeting, it would be decided if a mission would even be conducted the following day, and each Division, Wing, and Base involved would be put on alert to allow them time to begin planning the operation. By the time the last meeting ended, the target and approach would be finalized, and the official field orders would be issued.
It made for a remarkably long day, even with breaks for meals, and though you were guaranteed every other Friday off because of this, by the time you crawled into bed near midnight, you only had enough energy to add a few lines onto the letter you had begun to Bucky as soon as you arrived. It made for a rather disjointed and rambling piece of correspondence, in your opinion, but you could not bear to keep him waiting any longer – not wanting him to assume you had forgotten to write and not knowing how long the thing would take to reach him regardless.
Dashing into the office you shared with Myrtle, a very stoic young woman with dark hair and thick eyelashes from Rhode Island, you exhaled in relief to see the post still waiting to be collected and added your letter to the pile. Unlocking your desk drawers, you began setting up for the day, hoping it would reach him quickly.
His reply arrived in your inbox just over two weeks later, near the end of September. Sliding it into your brown leather utility bag, you did your utmost to ignore its very existence throughout the first daily meeting, and your subsequent production of the official report thereof. Taking your lunch break a little earlier than usual paid off in that the line was much shorter at that time. You inhaled the mystery stew and rolls, hardly tasting them, before taking your letter outside to read in the rare afternoon sunshine.
It was short, and it was unspeakably adorable that Bucky did not write in cursive, but there was no lack of his personality in his response. It was as though the very essence of him had been distilled into the ink itself and you could not help the broad grin that bore its way into the muscles of your cheeks, making them ache as you read it.
Glancing quickly at your watch, you realized there was still time to send a reply before the second post pick-up but based on the length of time it had taken for this exchange of letters, it was unlikely another would reach him with enough time to plan for October 8 – your next Friday off. Worrying your lip between your teeth as you considered your options, you landed on a rather devious idea, one that quite honestly would have never come to you if not for the deep need to reach Bucky immediately. Vi had a telephone on her desk in the weather office, a number that you had access to given the strategic importance of weather to the senior operations officers.
Myrtle would be on her break for another fifteen minutes…you had not even realized you had made up your mind before your feet began to carry you back inside, up the stairs into the mercifully still-empty office. Digging out the directory, you found the number for Thorpe Abbotts’ weather office and took a shaky breath as you sank into your chair.
‘Keep it brief, keep it free of classified information. Worst you’ll get is a reprimand.’
The devious, deceptive voice in your mind was a new one, fostered, perhaps, by the rather carefree man you found yourself deeply entangled with, but it was not one you were about to disobey. Lifting the handset of your phone from its cradle, you cleared your throat as the operator answered.
“Norfolk 7315, please.” You tried your best to sound calm and collected as the line clicked and began to ring.
“Phillips.” An unexpected voice answered, and you gulped, knowing Ruth would be less likely to participate in some romantic scheme.
You greeted her in kind, trying to ignore the ache of loneliness as she gasped softly.
“I was hoping you might pass along a message for me?”
“To a certain Major?” You could hear the grin in her voice and felt the pressure on your chest ease.
“Indeed. October 8. I will arrange accommodations.”
“Your line should he need to reach you?”
Hesitating a moment, you ultimately decided to provide it as well, wanting to ensure he could in fact contact you if something came up. Or perhaps any of them could – should the worst happen.
‘Don’t think about that.’ You chastised yourself internally.
“You’re well?” Ruth asked and you smiled softly.
“I am, please tell everyone I miss them terribly.”
“Will do, have to go.”
There was a ‘click’ as she hung up and the line went dead but the lightness in your heart could not be extinguished.
Nine days later you found yourself waiting on the platform at Liverpool Street station awaiting the arrival of Bucky’s train from East Anglia. Given the proximity of High Wycombe to London, you had arrived much earlier that morning and checked into the hotel already, dropping off your small bag and come to wait for his train – well you assumed he’d be on the first train of the day, but as the carriages disgorged a sea of humanity and you had yet to spot him, your brows began to furrow in doubt.
You were about to fish the folded schedule you had picked up from the ticket counter to check the next arrival time when he was suddenly wrapping an arm around you, pulling you tight into his chest as you gasped softly in surprise.
“There you are doll.” Bucky sighed, dropping his bag at your feet to slide the other arm around you as he pulled back to nudge your cap out of the way and deliver a breathtakingly thorough kiss that you were not entirely sure was appropriate for the public setting you were in.
Not that you stopped him, you own arms snaking about his midsection to cling to him tightly.
Pulling back, his eyes raked over your features lovingly as you both inhaled deeply to fill your greedy lungs.
“Well, well 1st Lieutenant.” He smirked proudly as he lifted his hand to stroke the chrome insignia you now wore on your lapels courtesy of your promotion, leaving smudges of his thumb print.
“You are leaving my uniform in disarray, Major.” You chided playfully, unable to hold back you grin, even for a moment, to sell the joke.
His forefinger hooked behind the knot in your tie, tugging it out from beneath your jacket and pulling you closer – eliminating the last few inches of space that remained between your bodies.
“Good.” He rumbled against your lips before kissing you deeply, severely undermining the infrastructure of your knees.
The loud racket of the train cars as they shunted into one another jolted the pair of you apart, making you realize you were among the last few remaining on the platform as the now empty train left the station.
“Let’s get you checked in and your bag dropped off.” You murmured, clearing your throat as you unbuttoned your uniform jacket to straighten and re-secure your tie.
His hand slid into yours as the pair of you made your way out of the station and he happily followed you to a hotel you’d found near his station, knowing that he’d be here longer than you and it would be easier for him to find his way back to base this way. Sitting patiently in the lobby as he checked in and ran his bag up, you smiled as he returned to hold his hands out to you.
“C’mon doll, I have a whole plan.”
Taking his hands, you rose to your feet, raising your eyebrows curiously. “A whole plan?”
He leaned in to murmur against your ear, “you’re not the only one involved in planning you know.”
You pulled back quickly, eyes wide with a touch of panic. You were quite certain you had never told him just what your new position entailed, and there was no way he could simply guess it.
“Easy doll, your phone line.” He winked as he maneuvered your arm through his, turning to lead you out the front door.
Slowly exhaling, it clicked into place. Of course. Just as you were able to find Vi’s desk number in a directory, it seemed Bucky had been doing a little research of his own.
“Well, shhh.” You chastened him firmly, laying a finger over your lips, looking very much like an anti-slander campaign poster.
His hearty laugh in response did little to convince you that he took in the message.
“Now, how do we get to Hyde Park…” He murmured, pulling a crumpled leave guide out of his pocket.
“The underground.” You answered easily, leading him back towards the very station he had arrived at but this time down to the tube station entrance where the pair of you purchased your tickets.
His touch rarely left you – even if he was forced to release your hand, you could feel his palm pressed against your lower back as you made your way through the crowded subterranean space. You were glad to have him with you this time, not particularly a fan of this mode of transportation, but it certainly was an efficient way to get around London. Pressed close together on the train, you took the opportunity to simply gaze at him, basking in his presence after nearly a month apart, not missing the way his mouth ticked up at the corner cockily.
“Missed you too, doll.” He winked and ducked a kiss to your ear before guiding you off the train at your stop – once he had confirmed with you it was indeed your stop.
Blinking your way back into the light of day, you pointed at a directional sign guiding the way to Hyde Park.
“Perfect, now apparently there are…sandwiches!” He crowed and tugged you over to a sandwich truck that seemed quite popular based on the line of waiting patrons.
Your face was starting to hurt, driving home how infrequently you had found the opportunity to smile in his absence, making you squeeze his hand fondly. Bucky looked back to you quickly as he joined the queue.
“You really did plan everything.” You gulped quickly and he beamed proudly.
“Anything for my girl. What kind would you like?” He gestured at the menu written on the side of the truck.
By the time you reached the front of the line, Bucky was able to easily place your order, including two bottles of lemonade, insisting on paying. Opening your utility bag, you carefully packed the lunch away, earning a rather damp and enthusiastic kiss on your cheek as he snatched your hand to continue onto the park.
“May I ask what it is about this park in particular?” You inquired as the pair of you dashed across the road.
“You can ask…” His cheeky reply had you scoffing in return as you entered the canopy of trees, following a path further and further away from the traffic of downtown London.
Plenty of men in uniform seemed to be out, enjoying the nice weather with women on their arms. Women who, unlike you, enjoyed the luxury of being allowed to dress as they chose during their leisure time. It had been one of many reasons that nearly twenty-five percent of women had chosen not to remain enlisted during the transition from the WAAC to the WAC, the army requirement to remain in uniform even when off-duty. In all honesty, you had not really missed your civilian clothes until just then.
Watching the sheer femininity of those women as they swirled about in their colorful fabrics only drove home how drably olive and plainly cut your uniform truly was.
“You’re a million miles away, doll.” Bucky’s voice cut through the dark clouds that had gathered in your mind and you looked to him quickly.
“Sorry Bucky, it’s beautiful here. Like another place entirely.” You offered him a smile but by the way his eyebrow lifted slightly he did not seem to be entirely buying it. “Have the leaves started changing around the base yet?” You tried changing the subject.
He shook his head, releasing your hand to slide his arm around your waist instead, pulling you closer. “Seems everything will happen later here than back home.”
You hummed thoughtfully, glancing ahead and gasping a little at the glimpse of a sizeable body of water that seemed to be filled with rowboats.
“That’s why were here.”
You turned back to him to see a broad grin had overtaken his face and laughed in excitement as it was terribly romantic.
“If I had known, Major Egan, I would have brought my parasol.” You grinned and he snorted, squeezing your hip fondly.
“No need to put on airs, 1st Lieutenant,” he smirked, “the ride will be enjoyable all the same.”
“Bucky!” You hissed sharply, slapping his chest as he laughed deeply, ducking your head slightly as more than a few passersby shot glances your way.
“C’mon doll.” He chuckled and led you over to the booth beside the dock, paying the fee for a thirty-minute rental before the pair of you headed down to climb into one of the waiting row boats.
Setting your heavy bag on the floor, you carefully stepped into the rather unstable watercraft, settling on the passenger’s bench – denoted as such by the ornate ironwork arms. Bucky followed, seated across from you at the oars, his knees nearly brushing against yours, legs too long for so small a boat. Unbuttoning and sliding off his jacket, he tossed it and his cap to you before rolling up his sleeves and began to row the pair of you out onto The Serpentine, you now knew the small lake to be called.
“I trust you know what you’re doing?” You asked as he appeared to easily manage the oars, seeming at ease in the small boat.
“Mostly.” He teased with a wink before laughing at your slightly aghast expression. “Grew up on the shore of Lake Michigan, doll. Boats are like planes to me, easily managed.” He soothed.
It was difficult to decide which view to settle your eyes upon, the verdant green of the still-lush trees, the throng of boats around you, or Bucky working up a remarkably attractive sheen of sweat with his forearms on display as he propelled the rowboat through the water. A feathered fan would have been a very useful tool in that moment, to hide behind or cool yourself down, or perhaps both.
Belatedly, you realized that Bucky had been speaking this whole time – about events back at Thorpe Abbotts. Giving you the update about the people you knew, the trouble Meatball had caused with a farmer down the road, but he trailed off when he realized you were staring once more in dumbfounded silence at him.
“Doll, you’re going to give me a big head if you keep looking at me like that.” He winked as he lifted the oars from the water, letting the water sluice from the blades before tucking them into the boat on either side of you.
“Y…you’re good at that.” You replied lamely and shook your head. “Hungry?” Leaning forward for your bag, which was in all honestly a lot closer to his feet in the floor of the boat, you froze as everything tilted precariously in response to your movements.
Bucky lay a gentle hand on your shoulder to steady you. “Allow me.” Bending down slowly, he scooped up your bag and opened the flap to retrieve your sandwich and lemonade. “It’s sure tight in here, how did you even make this all fit?”
He tugged a little harder on the packet containing your lunch and your eyes widened in horror as, while he was triumphant, he also managed to send the three condoms you had tucked into your bag scattering to the floor of the boat. His eyes followed the distinct, square, paper packets and you could see his throat bob as he swallowed viciously.
“Doll…” His voice came out rough as a gravel road as he slowly raised his eyes to meet yours. “…been doing some planning of your own?”
“‘A WAC is always prepared.’” You quoted in a mortified whisper, struggling against the urge to lunge forward and hide the evidence, knowing it would only send both of you over the side and into the lake.
You watched another swallow ripple down Bucky’s throat before he offered your lunch to you, carefully collecting the offending items and returning them to your bag before he retrieved his own food.
“Would you mind,” He spoke after taking a rather ruthless and oversized bite of his sandwich, words muffled between slices of bread and chicken salad before he swallowed to start over. “Would you mind if, instead of following the rest of my plan, after these thirty minutes are up, I take you back to the hotel?”
Taking a thick swallow of your own, you shook your head slowly as you felt your cheeks heat up at the implications of that invitation. “I would not mind, no.” You clarified breathlessly and he nodded sharply, gesturing for your as-yet-unopened bottle of lemonade.
Handing it back to him, you watched silently as he lined the edge of the cap with the metal plate holding the oarlock in place, popping it off the bottle with one sharp blow of the heel of his palm.
“Thank you.” You murmured quietly as he passed you the opened drink, taking a deep sip as he repeated the process with his own, draining nearly half the bottle in one go.
Tilting your head back to take in the feel of the sun on your face, you slid your cap from your hair, adding it to the pile of his neatly folded items on the bench beside you, continuing to enjoy your picnic on the lake.
“You heard about Dye hitting twenty-five?” He broke the silence, sounding much more like himself again and you nodded quickly.
“Big news, everywhere in the 8th. Lucky crew all heading home – how did Lil take it?” You tilted your head curiously, raising your bottle to your lips, his eyes following the motion closely.
“Hm? Oh, she’ll be alright…they’re both good at letters.” He nodded, leaning back a little.
You knocked your knee against his affectionately. “Don’t sell yourself short you sweet man, I thoroughly enjoyed yours.”
His eyes flicked to yours quickly as a small smile curled his lips. “Yeah?”
You nodded firmly. “Yeah. Promise to give you more to reply to soon, phone was just necessary to make this happen.”
His hand landed on your thigh gently and he squeezed the flesh through your skirt. “Worth it. Just how long are your days though, doll?”
Your fingers played along the empty glass bottle, and you shrugged. “As long as they need to be.” You replied evasively.
“Mm, I’m going to get a better answer out of you than that.” He threatened playfully as he leaned forward to grasp the oar handles, swinging the blades back into the water and taking the pair of you on a loop around the corner of the lake before returning you to the dock.
Bucky climbed out first, taking his cap and jacket before helping you out easily, kissing you firmly as soon as you were on solid ground. “Let’s take a cab…” He breathed impatiently and you laughed, shaking your head.
“The cost would be astronomical, come on.” You affixed your cap on your head as he rolled down his sleeves and slid his jacket back on before the pair of you made your way back to the Underground.
Bucky’s body was practically pressed against yours the entire trip back to Liverpool Street station, seemingly unable to tolerate any form of separation. As you neared the hotel though, you looked to him slowly. “We should go in as colleagues…I booked us that way.”
He looked at you utterly confused, and you swallowed.
“We’re unwed, there was no way I could book us here together, and they will be none to please if they realize I’ve tricked them. I’ll get my key, you get yours, I’ll come to your room…”
He nodded slowly, arm reluctantly unwinding from around your waist before holding the door open for you to step inside.
“Thank you, Major.” You nodded, sliding your cap from your head as you stepped inside, heading to the counter to fetch your room key as he did the same, the pair of you walking up the stairs to the fifth floor together before parting ways so you could fetch your small overnight bag.
It was rather a waste of money, to book a room knowing you would most likely never sleep in it, but such things were necessary for women like you. Women who chose to go to bed with a man they were not married to in the long light of the afternoon. Taking a steadying breath, you left the perfectly made bed behind, walking down the hall to Bucky’s room and knocking on the door softly.
It promptly swung open to reveal a smiling Bucky, his jacket and cap long gone, along with his necktie, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He stepped back and gestured for you to enter his much larger room with a small brown paper wrapped packet clasped in his hand. Once the door was closed behind you, you let out the laugh you had been holding.
“I did book this under Major John Egan, I suppose they felt the need to give you a nicer room than a Lieutenant.”
He smirked and kissed your cheek, taking your cap and bag from your hand, then pressing the package into it. “Before I forget, again.”
“Bucky you didn’t have to get me anything, you came to see me…”
“Open it.” His eyes danced with anticipation, and you began to pull at the piece of twine holding the package closed, unfolding the utilitarian paper to reveal a brand-new pair of stockings.
You let out an audible gasp as your jaw fairly fell to the floor.
“To replace the pair that got wrecked when you fell.” He smiled, obviously pleased by your reaction.
“How on earth did you…?!” You trailed off, staring up at him in wonderment.
“A man never reveals his secrets, doll.” He grinned and let out a grunt as you launched yourself into his arms, kissing him fiercely at the thoughtfulness of his gift and in recognition of the sheer determination it must have taken to achieve such a feat in rationed England.
His fingers gently plied the items from your grasp, setting them on the bedside table, freeing your hands to latch onto his arms as he cupped your face gently.
“You sure about this, my beautiful girl?” He whispered and your breath hitched in your throat at the tender look on his face just inches from yours.
“Yes.” You nodded quickly, sliding your fingers into his hair to pull his lips back to yours greedily.
A pleased noise rolled from his throat and across your tongue as he coaxed your mouth open, his fingers shifting to make steady work at the buttons on your jacket before he unwound your hands from his dark curls to slide the garment off, tossing it in the general direction of the chair that held his. You could not help the giggle that bubbled up from your chest at that as you moved to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one.
The tug of his teeth on your lower lip quickly transformed your laughter to shuddering breath as you held tightly to the open sides of his shirt, feeling him tug your tie free from your collar before it joined the pile of clothes somewhere on the plush blue carpet of the hotel room floor. Your shirt and skirt were quick to join it, leaving you in your brassiere and slip, garter belt and underwear still hidden from view.
“You have a remarkable number of layers on, doll.” He huffed as his mouth descended along your throat to suck at the crook of your shoulder, installing a dramatic curve in your spine as you arched against him wantonly with a half-swallowed cry of pleasure.
“Y…you have almost as many…” You protested, tugging the ends of his shirt from his trousers before pushing it from his shoulders only to be met with his undershirt.
The sheer broadness of him had never quite been so very apparent and had you licking your lips as you struggled with the last barrier between you and his torso, your ID tags rasping metallically against his.
“Not nearly as complicated though.” He muttered as his fingers worked at the hook and eye closure of your bra until you felt the band go slack and he leaned back to slide the straps down your arms, making you shiver as your breasts were revealed to his hungry gaze.
Bucky’s heavy exhale fluttered against your collarbone, grown cool by the time it traversed the distance between you, and you shuddered slightly, looking to the side shyly. He leaned in to brush his nose against yours tenderly, pecking your lips.
“Whatcha hiding for, gorgeous?” His tone was gentle and had your eyes slowly sliding to meet his, an action he rewarded with a deep kiss.
He continued to distract you with repeated meetings your lips, each time with growing intensity as his palms slid upwards along your sides to cup your breasts. The meeting of flesh had you inhaling sharply through your nose, hands seeking anchor as your fingers twisted into his beltloops where his trousers hung open around his hips – yet again delaying you in your purpose of undressing him. As his thumbs honed in on your sensitive peaks, Bucky elicited all manner of noises from your throat only to eagerly devour them.
“D’ya have any idea how soft you are doll?” He sighed against your lips as he kneaded your tender flesh. “’Cept right here.” He smirked as he tugged at your nipples and you whined his name, pressing impossibly close against him, realizing he was anything but soft.
Your shimmies and writhes against him seemed to serve as a reminder of the greater purpose at hand and Bucky’s fingers ceased their torment, sliding down to your hips to divest you of your slip before beginning to work at your stockings. Toeing off your shoes, you pushed his trousers from his hips, letting gravity do the rest.
“So many hooks and straps and loops…” He muttered as his mouth dipped to the hollow of your throat, though his fingers seemed more than capable of stripping you down to only your underwear.
Seizing your hips, Bucky guided you back onto the bed, and you could not help the sigh at that flew from your mouth at the feel of a real mattress with springs and a duvet, drawing a broad grin across his face as he crawled over you, coaxing you to lay back.
“Precious women like you should always have luxurious beds like these. None of those stinking Army cots…” His hands slid beneath your spine to half guide, half drag you up to rest on the obnoxious mountain of pillows.
Staring up at him in awe, at a complete loss for words, you settled on pressing up onto your elbows to kiss him firmly, hoping to convey your appreciation physically rather than trying to summon speech. As his lips parted from yours to begin sliding down your body, you let out a slight huff of annoyance, earning a chuckle against your collarbone which rumbled through his chest and into your body. He lifted his head slightly as his fingers wove through the ball chain of your ID tags as he seemed to notice them for the first time.
“I always wondered if you ladies had these.”
You bit your lip to smother your grin as he never hesitated to say what was on his mind, a constant stream of commentary on the world around him, and rather than annoying, you found it utterly adorable.
“Are you laughin’ at me, doll?” He smirked and gave a gentle tug, pulling a genuine laugh from you, to which he responded with a brilliant grin. “Alright then, I’ll give you something to laugh about.” He bowed his head to drag the flat of his tongue across your nipple, your resulting whimper bouncing off the walls as he resumed his teasing of your opposite breast.
“B…Bucky…” Your eyes shot wide as his plush lips sealed around that tender peak, applying a positively euphoric suction that had you burying your fingers in his hair and pressing your body closer to his mouth in silent demand.
With careful precision, his knee slid its way between your thighs, applying coaxing pressure to each in turn until you provided enough room for him to settle between them. The feeling of his hard length slotting against your core with only the thin barrier of your underwear separating your intimate flesh had your jaw dropping open in a silent ‘oh’ – a revelation unto itself despite all the experiences you had enjoyed with him thus far. Undulating your hips against his experimentally, you shuddered at the ragged, abbreviated groan he pressed against your sternum, caught in the midst of traversing your chest. Thoroughly encouraged, you repeated the action, savagely gnawing on your lip as he bit off a curse before his mouth reached its destination and laved at your neglected nipple.
Nestling tighter against you, Bucky began to roll his hips against you in earnest, obliterating your ability to think and scheme against him at the blinding pleasure his combined actions induced. You could feel the smug angle of his lips against your abdomen as his mouth was trailing lower on your body, his fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear to peel it from your body. Shifting back to free the interfering item from your legs, he gazed down at you with almost black eyes, his pupils having nearly devoured his irises in his arousal, before stretching forward onto his stomach.
Blinking rapidly, you raised up on your elbows to watch him hoist one of your legs over a strong shoulder and then the other, shuffling embarrassingly close to the apex of your thighs.
“Bucky?” You squeaked hesitantly.
He raised an eyebrow up at you, his pink tongue darting out the wet his lips, nearly matching the flush that had painted its way across his cheeks and down his neck. “Yes, doll?”
“What…” You swallowed thickly as your throat clenched erratically.
“Making good on a promise.” He replied seriously before stretching forward to deliver a thorough kiss to your folds that fairly sucked the air from your lungs, an odd whistling sound echoing through you as you savagely burrowed your fingers into the bedding.
When his tongue narrowed in on that sensitive bundle of nerves, it was your turn to bite off a curse, slumping back onto the pillows as he hummed against you in what was surely mock sympathy as he most certainly did not let up, his efforts only doubling. As your hips began to jerk and writhe, he slung a heavy forearm across your pelvis to pin you in place, only shifting closer and tracing his forefinger around your entrance teasingly. It was all you could do not to kick and wail as you felt yourself becoming embarrassingly slick, the noises he was making growing ever so obscene and filling the hotel room.
“Fuck!” You whined against your palm as his finger finally sunk into your wet heat, its passage remarkably eased by your arousal, hips bucking hard enough to jar his arm slightly.
“Damn you’re delicious, doll.” He growled against you, lips smacking loudly as he began to suck at your pearl, finger working you open enough to add a second before beginning a demanding rhythm.
“Oh…oh...god…” You cried out in agony, too far gone to remember your desire to be quiet, feeling the tension of pending release growing ever closer under his amorous onslaught.
“I know, I know…” He soothed, only quickening his pace, hooking his fingers towards the front of your body, sending your back into a dramatic curve from the mattress, a tortured moan ripping from your throat. “Oh, I have to see that again.” He rasped and sought that precise spot with a ruthless single-minded precision until he was rewarded with not only the same reaction, but your strangled cry as your orgasm slammed into you with breath-taking force.
As you returned to earth from your visit to the celestial plane, the first sensation you became aware of was tender, damp kisses being pressed to your inner thigh as Bucky murmured soft words of encouragement to you.
“There’s my gorgeous girl, holy hell that was incredible, did you enjoy that half as much as I did?”
You managed a wordless noise in the affirmative that summoned him to your side, his lips feathering kisses up your jaw to your ear, the tickle of his moustache making you laugh breathlessly.
“Good?” He murmured and you nodded quickly, turning to look at his still-expectant face.
“Yes.” You cobbled together a verbal response, and he blessed you with a warm smile which you leaned in to press your lips against in gratitude.
“Good.” He swiped his tongue along your lips before suddenly slipping from the bed, making you raise your head in confusion.
Stalking over to find your utility bag amongst the sea of discard items and clothing, he proudly retrieved the three condoms that had announced your hopes and intentions for you by appearing in the rowboat, unceremoniously shucking off his boxers as he made his way back to you. You had held his length before, stroked it to completion, but that paled in comparison to seeing the full expanse of him in the light of day.
“My gorgeous doll, you might not say a lot, but you sure don’t mind looking at what you like.” He smirked unabashedly as he set two of the paper packets on the night table beside you, unwrapping the third to unroll the protective latex onto his cock.
Rather than letting his teasing words dissuade you, though they did cause your teeth to sink into your lower lip, you chose to allow your eyes to linger on his actions, rather fascinated by the whole process. By the male anatomy as well. Task managed, he was climbing over you once more, blocking the golden light of afternoon that was filtering in through the windows with his body, warmth radiating from his skin. He settled easily between your legs once more, still parted from his early activities as you really had not summoned the wherewithal to move yet, and stroked his length through the lingering slick gathered along your folds.
A broken sigh fell from his lips before they clashed with yours, not quite aligned, but the sentiment was still there, body shuddering as you slid your arms around him to cling to his shoulders. It was difficult to tell just whom Bucky was teasing as he continued to rut against you, the tip of his cock brushing against your overly-sensitive bundle of nerves, both of you huffing through your nostrils until at last he began to sink into you.
Tearing your lips from his, you sucked in gasping breaths at the feel of the foreign intrusion, appreciating the fact that his pace seemed to slow in response to that. Appreciating the pause he afforded you when his pelvis slotted snuggly against yours once he was seated fully inside you. Cracking open your clenched eyes, you gulped tightly as they were immediately met by Bucky’s, crowned by a furrowed brow, but flicking over your features studiously as if awaiting your instruction.
“I’m ok.” You breathed and he nodded, immediately seizing your lips in a kiss once more as he rocked forward, earning a ragged moan as your fingertips dug into the skin of his back.
His familiarity with this sort of activity had always been apparent, but was exceptionally obvious now as he slowly began the rhythmic push and pull to drive you both towards climax. The sheer intimacy of it was too much and yet it was not nearly enough, your body craving ever more, ever faster, with increasing desperation. The rare moments that Bucky’s lips were not on yours, they were filling the room with choked-off moans or statements of the filthiest order.
“God doll, you feel so fucking good around me.”
“So tight. I can feel how wet you are too, even with this rubber on.”
“You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t ya? You’re gripping on me like a…fuck I can’t think when you do that…”
His ability to even speak while experiencing such mind-numbing pleasure, rambling though it was, was fairly awe-inspiring. Your responses were limited to moans and whimpers and cries of his name as his supposition was correct – your orgasm was indeed imminent. All it took was the solicitous stroking of his forefinger against the apex of your pleasure to send you flying over the cliff into paradise, clinging to his body as you cried out in ecstasy.
A string of rasped curses mixed in with several sighs of your name heralded his release as Bucky finished not long after, rocking against you sloppily before sinking down onto your chest with a comforting heaviness. Stroking his back tenderly as he nestled into your neck, you grinned stupidly at the ceiling as you felt quite pleased with your choices.
The pair of you made good use of the rest of the condoms you had brought, with a short break for a meal Bucky procured while you took a bath. He returned with a bottle of brandy as well, finding you still in the bathtub. A lot of water ended up on the floor, a pile of water-logged towels your testament to the attempted clean-up. Eating in bed, you shared stories of your childhoods – Bucky’s about growing up on the shores of Lake Michigan, yours of the small two-storey house with its screen door and front porch from which you had watched your brother play with the neighbourhood boys.
You fell asleep in one another’s arms after the final condom was disposed of, the sun long set, but awoke sometime in the night to the unsettling sound of an air raid siren. Not as common in 1943, yet being as close as you were to Canary Wharves, the Luftwaffe still made the occasional bomb run. Startled to find the bed empty, you sat up sharply to see Bucky sitting in front of the window, completely naked, intermittently illuminated by the flashes of distant explosions and anti-aircraft fire.
“Sorry doll, didn’t mean to wake ya.” He muttered and you shook your head, sliding to the end of the bed.
“You ok?” You tilted your head, blinking into a particularly bright flash.
“Hmmm…” He replied noncommittally, turning back to the scene before him with a frown. “I’ve dropped a lot of those. Done a lot of killing.”
Swallowing tightly, you slid to your feet despite the way your heart was pounding in your throat, padding across the carpet towards him.
“Done your job, Bucky. Done what was asked of you.” You assured him, coming to stand behind him, setting your hands on his shoulders.
“If there’s any balance to all this, my ticket was punched a long time ago.” He muttered sullenly and it was your turn to frown.
Bending down to press a kiss to the crown of his head, you stepped in front of him to block his view, perhaps, hopefully, to block his darker thoughts as you shifted to sit on his thighs.
“Whatcha doin’ doll?” He quirked an eyebrow, mouth falling open in a silent moan as your fingers slid between your bodies to gently stroke his length.
“Lightening up.” You replied, invoking the words of your dead brother’s inscription.
It was impossible to think of a more important piece of advice or a more importance source in that moment. A young man who would never get the chance to spend one more time in his lover’s arms, who knew you better than anyone in the entire world. And you were most certainly going to follow it. You had to be up in less than three hours, to catch the first train to High Wycombe, and you would not pass up this moment with Bucky. The future was unknowable, your brother’s death had certainly taught you that.
Bucky’s fingers curled into your hips as his mouth descended onto yours greedily, clearly in agreement with your plan, despite the lack of remaining condoms. Shuffling closer, you guided his now fully hard cock into your body, your soft noises of pleasure colliding with his in the space between your parted lips. Working together, with plenty of guidance from his firm grip, you began to rocking your hips, using his shoulders for leverage. His head fell back to stare up at you in awe, jaw slack, adam’s apple bobbing viciously.
“Christ, I love you…” His face betrayed such vulnerability, lips trembling slightly, that you quickly lifted your hands to cradle his cheeks, even as your lashes grew suddenly damp.
“I love you too, John. So much.” You replied thickly, rather resenting the dramatic wobble in your voice.
The tiniest of smiles pulled at his lips before his face grew serious once more and he lunged forward to kiss you hungrily, hands anchoring your shoulders so he might thrust up into your body with a sudden need. It was all you could do to hang on, though pleasure itself still managed to sweep you away, leaving you only with the vague recognition of him half pulling out mid-release.
It was terribly difficult to leave him in that comfortable, if messy, bed a few hours later. He did not make it easy either, impossible to untangle from your body like an unwieldy piece of seaweed. Yet somehow you managed to make your trains and arrive at your desk at the appointed hour. Focusing on the task at hand with the pleasurable ache between your legs was altogether another challenge, forcing you to sit on first one hip and then the other.
You had just returned after the lunch break when your phone rang, your greeting barely out of your mouth before Bucky’s question came down the line.
“Did you know you know where they played yesterday’s match?” He asked flatly and it took you several seconds to comprehend that he was speaking in code and just what he was getting at.
You swallowed painfully. “Yes, I did sir.”
Of course you did, you were in the room on Thursday night when they had chosen Bremen as the target for yesterday’s mission.
“A lot of our best players struck out, you know. Buck included.”
He sounded utterly unlike himself, cold and distant, not the man you had left just hours ago in that hotel room in London. All the same, your heart broke for him, and for yourself too. You liked Major Cleven – this war was nothing but cruel.
“I’m so sorry B-Major Egan.” You corrected yourself quickly, eyeing Myrtle across the room.
“Well I hope you all pick a better field for tomorrow’s match because I’m pitching.”
You opened your mouth to reply as your heart dropped through the floor, but the sound of the handset slamming into the cradle resounded over the line before it went dead, giving you no opportunity to speak. To wish him luck or, heaven forfend, goodbye. You hung up your phone with a slightly shaking hand as a deep sense of dread threaded its way through your stomach.
-------------------------
Read Part Five - "I Trusted You!"
"Trust" Series Masterlist
Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot, @darylas
THE DATE!! ITS HAPPENING EVERYBODY STAY FUCKING CALM ‼️‼️‼️
this early dancing (1/2) | sirius black x reader
Sirius turned the camera on your faces. You rested your cheek against his arm and smiled shyly, happy to see his handsome grin.
“Stop hiding. We need a good one to look back on,” he said seriously.
“We take photos all the time,” you argued.
“Indulge me.”
summary blindly in love with your best friend Sirius you find yourself sharing a room with him on a group holiday to the seaside. it wasn’t ever going to go any other way [11k]
warnings fluff, smut, marauders era, mutual pining, idiots in love, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem!reader
With your head sticking out the window of James Potter's people carrier you felt like you were flying, face tilted up to the sun to soak in the seaside warmth. You couldn't be far from the Potter cottage now, having played passenger as peacefully as you were able to for hours now whilst the boys took turns driving.
"Moons," Sirius said from behind the wheel. Remus lifted his eyes from the book he was fighting to read in annoyance - you hadn't left him alone since the trip had begun, and only with your head out the window had he managed to return to his well worn novel.
"What?"
"Pull her back in, would you?" he requested, nodding his head towards you. Remus' warm hand grabbed blindly at the short sleeve of your t-shirt until you conceded and sat flat again.
"Pull her?" James muttered from the front seat, tired from driving the first half of the road trip. "I barely know 'er."
"That 'barely' works," Lily complained from his side, though she wiped the hair from his forehead tenderly.
Marlene booed from behind Remus, which had her seat mates Dorcas and Mary laughing jovially. Emmeline took no notice of any of it at Remus' other side, also reading.
"I don't care how you do it, get her down," Sirius said in concern.
"She's down," you assured him.
"Lovely Y/N will live to see another day," Mary agreed, low voice soft and lilting.
You blushed from all the attention and shimmied down.
"She's embarrassed!" Marlene cooed, reaching over to pinch your shoulders.
Sirius peaked in the rear view mirror and grinned. "Don't be embarrassed, but please leave the dog like activity to me."
"If that's a sex joke, I don't get it," Emmeline said.
"And who does that surprise?" Remus muttered.
You laughed behind your hand, boiling now from the heat. You couldn't help from fidgeting, pulling the fabric of your shirt away from your sticky chest, concerned you looked a sight. Not that the other members of your troupe looked any better; Remus fought a good fight but ultimately didn't look as unbothered by the heat as he acted. James was openly complaining about the sun from the front seat, arguing that he should be allowed to sleep in the relative darkness of the back.
"Too bad, Pots," Marlene said, pressed up against Mary and Dorcas. Only the cool safety allowed them to maintain friendly contact without melting, you knew, and felt very jealous.
"We earned these seats fair and square," agreed Dorcas, legs thrown over your seat, sandal clad toes poking in between you and Remus.
"You cheated! No way can somebody win rock paper scissors 23 times in a row," James said conspiringly.
"Prove it."
You quite fancied that she'd cheated too, though you knew better than to give James any fuel for his fire. Sirius, despite the many years of friendship, had not learned this lesson yet, and so he said, "She definitely did."
"Thank you! Thank you, Pads," he leaned over Lily's arm to grasp his best friend's arm, "my bro."
"Ew, ew, ew! They're getting gooey!"
"They can't help their love," Mary said to Dorcas, patting her arm. "Don't give them too much shit for it."
Sirius leaned his head down to kiss James hand and almost crashed into an oncoming car.
"Lily! Tell your boyfriend's boyfriend to keep his eyes on the road!" Dorcas roared, sandals twitching.
You leaned forward to press your hand at the back of Sirius' neck. "Watch the road, loverboy."
"You got it, sweetheart," he said, eyes obediently on the journey ahead.
Determined to ignore the pleasure that shot through you at the sincere pet name you ran your fingers through the raven hairs at the back of his neck and noted how it was damp with sweat. You pulled the bobble from your wrist and pushed up onto your feet as tall as you could manage, neck craned against the roof of the van to pull his hair back from his face delicately until it was in a moderately neat ponytail at the back of his head. You made quick work of the bobble and tucked the piece you'd missed behind his ear.
"Thank you," he said warmly. Then, "Put your belt on, idiot."
You scratched the skin behind his ear lightly in acknowledgement, a silent you're welcome between you both, and sat back down.
James soon fell asleep against Lily's shoulder. She held his face to her chest tightly and kissed his forehead. You made yourself look away to study the book in Remus' hands.
Remus said something to you and you missed it, attention monopolised by Sirius' soft singing along to the radio. "Hmm?" you asked him, blinking.
"How's your car sickness?" he asked.
You smiled dismissively at your friend's concern. "Fine. Better if I don’t look down for a while.”
He nodded. You went back to your silence and found your stomach turning quickly after that, punished for trying to read while the van rocked. You pushed your face out the window again, eyes on the quick-approaching sea. It was a stunning blue, sunlight blinding you as it bounced off the waves. You squinted and held your hand up uselessly.
"Here," Sirius said, hand reaching back. He was offering his sunglasses to you through the gap.
"Thank you," you said. His finger danced a quick line over your hand, his own silent you’re welcome, and then he was back to driving.
You loved most about your friendship with Sirius the things you didn't have to say. You weren't sure when the scratching had begun, only that it had, and that the slither of intimacy drove you insane.
Pushing his sunglasses up your nose you turned back to the view. The lenses helped dull the bright light of the waves nicely but they did nothing for your best friend; Sirius was as golden as ever. You found him difficult to look at, sometimes.
"How far are we now?" Lily asked quietly, hand in James' hair.
"Not far," Sirius murmured, voice sending tingles through your chest, "and then our summer can really begin."
You gulped a breath of fresh air and willed the nausea away, not fully confident it was car sickness after all. Remus nudged you with his elbow. "You want a polo?"
You laughed weakly. "No."
"Might make you less ill."
"I'm alright."
He huffed like he didn't believe you. You were amazed at his ability to keep his eyes on the page and unwrap a polo mint for you at the same time. He pressed it into your hand. "Eat that, dove."
You smiled gratefully. "Thank you."
"Welcome."
You sucked on the mint and twiddled your thumbs. You wished you would've put your camera around your wrist rather than in your suitcase. If anything you could've been taking sneaky pictures of the back row for you and Sirius to pick over later - you were sure Marlene was dating Dorcas. Sirius was sure it was Mary. James swore up and down it was Dorcas and Mary where Remus shrugged and said it was nobody's business. Lily definitely knew and wasn't telling. Alice probably knew because Lily knew, and Emmeline was about as oblivious to it all as she was everything else.
You didn't know who was snogging who but you knew for certain it wasn't you.
Sirius caught your eye in the rear view mirror. "What're you eating?"
You bit the polo between your teeth and bared it to him.
"Working?"
You nodded.
"Alright. Let me know if you want to pull over."
"Fuck off! If we stopped every time Y/N gets sick we'll never get there," Marlene protested, and then, "Hey! Stop fucking pinching me."
"Be nicer," Mary said softly.
"You first."
"We don't need to pull over. I'm fine."
"Better we pull over then have the car smell like sick all day," Dorcas argued.
"Guys," you were almost begging now, desperate for the attention to be on somebody else, "I won't be sick."
"You won't be," Remus said firmly.
"Aim for Moony's lap," Sirius advised.
-
No sooner had the people carrier pulled onto the Potter cottage driveway had you thrown the door open to keel over by the front garden grass. You were breathing heavily in an effort to overcome the sinking feeling, more than relieved to finally be on solid, unmoving ground. You could smell salt and clay on the breeze, the sun-warmed grass soft under your feet.
Sirius came up behind you, pushing his hand over the skin between your shoulder blades.
He didn't say anything. You'd played these parts before: disapparation made you feel sick, too, and the floo, and brooms and trains and planes - it all made you sick to your stomach. You could barely withstand a piggyback.
You swallowed a heave desperately.
"If you need to be sick, be sick," Sirius said gently.
You wanted to tell him to fuck off, suddenly and unfairly infuriated with him. His hand felt like a poker on your shoulders and you wanted to shrug out from underneath his touch. You recognised that was insane and not an appropriate reaction to your best friend comforting you and so you let him rub what was intended to be a soothing path up past your shoulders and then down to the bottom of your back.
You could hear Lily cheering about the sunset. You could see the pink purple sky out of the corner of your eye and worried you were missing an extraordinary picture.
"Alright?" Sirius asked, noticing your stillness.
You stood up, nodding. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and shook you about, squeezing. "God, I'm sorry. You really can't handle it, can you? Poor girl."
You relaxed under his arm and let him steer you to the cliffside overlooking the beach where everybody else had gathered. The sky was a shock of cherry pink at the horizon melting up into a deeper purple. You felt your lips part at the sight. No matter how many photographs you took of the sky on your shoddy camera, it never looked like the real thing.
You and Sirius looked at each other and grinned. Your eyes darted from eye to eye, pupils wobbling, and Sirius pulled his arm away, patting you on the shoulder.
"Where's your camera? That'll be a nice one to commemorate our first night here."
You retrieved your camera from the boot and noticed Alice and Frank's car pulling in.
"Perfect timing!" you called to them, grinning. "Group photo."
Your friend's all piled in for the photograph. The girl’s gathered in the middle, Alice with Frank on one end and Lily on the other. James was pressed tiredly to Lily's side whilst Sirius had wrapped his arm around the exhausted boy's shoulder. Remus was begrudgingly pulled into the throng of women in the middle.
"Alright, guys. Say cheese," you said, raising your camera.
"Hey! It has a timer, doesn't it?" Lily protested.
"Set it up on the birdbath, love!" James called.
You rolled your eyes but did as they asked. With the camera ticking you rushed over to Sirius' side, who pushed you in between him and James and stretched his hand back over your shoulder. He smelled familiarly of his cologne.
"Big smiles!" Lily said loudly.
You smiled wide. The camera flashed brightly and then everyone was laughing and rubbing their eyes.
"Merlin, that's bright," Emma whined.
Remus patted her shoulder in sympathy and then walked off, leaving her blindsided. James sat down heavily on the grass and complained he'd never drive again, and he certainly wouldn't be helping get the things from the car. Lily sat down with him in solidarity. They both laughed roaringly at everybody else's indignation and refused to move until everyone had put their things away. You stayed outside, trying to catch photographs of the sky while it still looked so lovely. When James and Lily weren't looking you took a quick photo of their dark outlines in the grass, both their hair splayed around them, heads inclined toward each other, hands twined.
You finally walked over to the car to gather your things, gravel crunching under your canvas shoes. They’d already been taken in. You frowned and let yourself into the cottage. All the lights were on and Remus was talking very crossly from the landing upstairs.
“This is a holiday,” he was saying pointedly, “I will not be sharing a room with you, Pads. I won’t sleep.”
“I know I’m handsome but you don’t have to stay up and watch me,” Sirius sniffed. You stopped halfway up the stairs to listen to them argue.
“You snore! You know you do!”
Sirius winced. “A good friend would pretend not to notice.”
“A good friend would release me. Please, Pads.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do!”
“Sleep on the sofa?”
“You’re being an absolute wan-“
“Room with me,” you said easily, ascending the last few steps.
Remus frowned. “I wouldn’t force him on you, Y/N.”
“I snore too,” you said, shrugging. “Won’t notice.”
Having a room to yourself had been the one game of rock paper scissors you’d managed to win between the girls with no partners (as far as you could tell).
Sirius was looking at you strangely. You backtracked. “I mean, if that’s alright. I can get changed in the bathroom and I’m an excellent roommate, and-“
“It's alright. It’s brilliant, actually. Thanks, sweetheart.”
You smiled brightly. “That’s okay. Wouldn’t want poor Remus to suffer you.”
Sirius frowned. “What’s with everyone’s vendetta against me? Am I such a terrible roommate?”
“Yes,” James called from the bottom of the stairs. “God awful.”
“Right,” Sirius said solemnly, pulling his wand from his back pocket. James cringed backwards.
“Let’s not make any hasty decisions.”
“Trust me, I’ve been thinking about this one.”
You pointed Sirius’ wand up at the rafters and giggled madly when they turned a fluorescent yellow. "What happened to our no magic holiday?"
James squawked. “That would’ve gone garishly with my lovely skin,” he said, preening like a bird. Lily rolled her eyes and patted one of his lovely brown shoulders in mock comfort. “There there, babe.”
Sirius was half pouting at you. “He deserved that one.”
“He didn’t. You’re all cranky from driving. You’ll be besties again at breakfast.”
“Make that brunch,” James called.
Marlene called down something in response that you missed as Sirius shut the door behind you. Your room was big enough to fit two single beds with room to waltz between them, soft white bedding atop raglan furnishings set in a neutral tan room with an en suite bathroom, it was nicer than your room at home. You set your wand and camera down on the nightstand and sank into the marsh softness of the mattress, sighing.
Sirius did the same in his respective bed.
“You okay?” you asked him, peering over your shoulder at his languid form. He stretched his hands over his head, shoulder muscles moving underneath his graphic t-shirt. You bit your lip and watched him indulgently.
“Tired. Are you still feeling poorly?”
You shook your head. Though he didn’t turn to look you assumed he’d sensed it, as words didn’t pass between you again for a while.
“You really don’t mind rooming with me?”
You fiddled with your bracelet. It was a simple chain, gold-plated with a small piece of green jade at the centre. Sirius had gifted it to you for your birthday and you hadn’t taken it off since.
“I don’t mind.”
“It’ll be fun,” he decided.
“Like a sleepover,” you agreed.
“Exactly.”
Where had this awkward space come from? You suspected you were imagining it, so afraid of revealing your fondness for him that you were now hesitating to talk to him. You didn’t trust yourself sometimes to idle in his company. How maddening that a confession rooted itself at the front of your mouth, always waiting for you to get too close, to feel too loved.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
He turned toward you so sharply you spooked yourself, scared you’d said it out loud.
“Picture?”
“What?”
“Let’s take a picture. Me and you.”
Your smile crept up slowly at the corners. You shuffled across the bed to make space for him and he filled it, strands of his hair tickling your face as he settled. He grabbed your camera from the bedside table and struggled through its workings until it was green and ready to go, moaning about how you could possibly get along with such muggle-like contraptions. You knew he was grumbling for the sake of it and that in reality he liked your magic camera just as much as you did. It was brilliant, really, you could take loads of photos before it got full and with a simple spell you could look through them projected onto the wall like a small television.
Sirius turned the camera on your faces. You rested your cheek against his arm and smiled shyly, happy to see his handsome grin. You thanked god that you could veto whichever pictures you wanted because as long as Sirius was pressed up at your side smelling like sweetness and himself so sharply it made your heart ache, smiling like he wanted to be nowhere else, you’d look like a lovesick fool in every photograph.
The flash blinded you.
“Is there a setting that doesn’t jeopardise our eyesight?” Sirius inquired.
You buried your face in his arm and giggled.
“Stop hiding. We need a good one to look back on,” he said seriously.
“We take photos all the time,” you argued.
“Indulge me.”
The way he said it - you smiled with teeth and didn’t complain.
-
When you woke up Sirius was still asleep. You moved to lie on your side so you could watch him breathing, tracing the rising and falling line of his chest, the hair he'd left in your bobble the night before, his soft sleep shirt peeking out where the duvet had slipped in the night time.
You could hear the clinking of dishes and easy conversation echoing up the stairs, followed swiftly by the smell of frying bacon and eggs, the sweeter scent of pancakes hot on its tail.
Sirius made a sound in his sleep. You reached your hand out over the gap despite being yards too far to touch him, lining your hand up with his head and pretended you were smoothing the soft strands of ebony hair from his face, tucking it behind his ears. You'd kiss his forehead afterwards, breathe in the smell of his hair or tuck your face in the nook of his shoulder, slot yourself by his side like you belonged.
There was a sound of smashing glass and a shock of laughter that made you both flinch, rousing Sirius awake. You let your hand fall to hang over the side of the bed, fingers an inch from the hardwood floor.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and stretched, turning flat on his back. You copied him, pulling the blankets up over your nose.
"Y/N," he said softly, words warped by a yawn, "you awake?"
"Yes," you whispered, aiming for casualness and missing by a mile.
You turned your head and he was looking at you with a happy, tired smile. You smiled back and then realised he couldn't see it.
"Do you want to shower?" he asked you.
"I showered after you fell asleep."
He sat up and hunched over, hair falling in his face, necklace slipping out from under his shirt to dangle in the space between his chest and his legs. It was a chain with a thumbnail sized circle of silver hanging from it. You suspected it was engraved but had never had reason to get a good look, and were too shy to ask.
He scratched his face, his two days stubble. His hands looked funny without a ring or two, you'd never seen them early enough in the morning to catch him without them.
You pushed the duvet down and stared at the ceiling as he got to his feet and scrounged through his bags for clean clothes and his towel. You'd already shoved your toiletries in the bathroom last night.
"You want to go eat?"
You shook your head. "I'll wait for you."
"I'll be fast."
"Take as long as you want."
You should not have said that, you realised, twenty minutes later with a rumbling stomach and Sirius nowhere to be seen. You'd whipped up to get changed in case he'd been as quick as he promised, worried he'd walk in on you starkers. Lily had pronounced the first proper day had to be a beach day, so you'd put on a bikini top and simple white t-shirt with short sleeves and a pair of shorts over your bikini bottoms.
You picked at the seams of your crisp denim shorts and wondered if you should be wearing a skirt, no doubt like Lily and Alice would be. Marlene was likely naked or close to it, Mary would wear a sundress, Dorcas did as she liked and Emma might show up in a hazmat suit.
You pouted and leapt to your feet, rushing for your bag. You'd packed a beach cover up and so you might as well wear it rather than feel insecure in your shorts. You unbuttoned them and pulled them off, kicked them under your bed for now.
The bathroom door opened before you'd located the cover up. You looked up like a deer-in-headlights and Sirius was looking at you too, but he didn't look nearly so bashful. Obviously - there was no need. You were going to the beach and he was bound to see you in your bikini eventually, and still you felt naked as the day you were born.
You smiled fleetingly and crouched down to ruffle through your bags for the wrap skirt. It was plain and black, simple enough that you didn't feel as though it would garner much attention. You pulled it on and then found your sandals and put them on too.
Sirius hummed appraisingly. "You look nice."
"Thanks," you said warmly, cheeks heating, "you look nice too."
And he did, lean thighs showcased by a pair of dark swim shorts and a white cotton vest that hugged his chest keenly. You almost matched.
He'd tucked his necklace back under the fabric. Your bobble was loose around his wrist, hair curling and wet dripping on his maddening shoulders. He'd trimmed up his face but still had a shadow like he usually did. You wanted to run your hands over his face and feel the dark stubble under your fingers so instead you cleared your throat and whispered past him to the bathroom to freshen up.
You came out smelling much nicer and feeling cleaner, face all softened up by cleanser and moisturiser.
"You have sunscreen?" you asked him.
"Nah. Greek doesn't burn."
"Greek does get skin cancer," you said pointedly, pulling your shoulder purse open to check you had what you needed.
Sirius pushed the door open and held it for you, beaming down at you. "If I let you put it on me will you stop scowling?"
You relaxed your face. "I'm not scowling."
He'd tilted his head back and laughed at you all the way down the stairs.
James was at the stove, brown skin speckled by white powder. You laughed at the sheer amount of flour he'd managed to wipe up his own face.
He was on the defensive quickly. "Laugh it up! No pancakes for either of you," he said, pointing his spatula at you both. Sirius scoffed in indignation.
"Am I to be punished for everything she does?"
James nodded pensively. "Indeed."
Lily was sitting on the countertop near the sink. You sidled up to her side and opened a glass fronted cupboard to retrieve a glass to fill with water. She had a piece of toast in one hand and pushed your hair flat with the other.
"I love your skirt," she said.
Her's wasn't so different to your own, you thought, and then realised that was the joke. Her long legs were outfitted in a black wrap skirt that didn't so much hide her blue bikini as it accentuated it. She hadn't bothered with a shirt, which you applauded.
"Thanks, babe," she said.
"Such a pair of tits shouldn't ever be hidden. Ti's the true tragedy they must be encased at all," James agreed.
"What is this character you're doing?" Sirius spluttered. "You ridiculous man!"
"I doth not know what you mean."
You smiled to yourself and sat down next to Mary, who was looking pretty as a picture in her lilac sundress. She'd styled her twists into a half bun that showcased her pretty face, her dark skin glowing in the morning light. You felt a shoot of jealousy and then grimaced at yourself. There wasn't any need to be jealous - your friends were gorgeous and so were you.
Still, you found yourself ogling Mary's clear skin reverently.
"You're glowing," you complimented her, pulling a bowl of fresh fruit towards you, no doubt Mary's doing.
"Thank you! I got this new serum with almond oil that makes me really soft and dewy, and it smells really good too."
"Yeah?"
"Mm, from Boots. Oh, you want coffee?"
"No, thanks," you said at the same time as Sirius said, "You're a godsend, Mary."
Mary smiled brightly, lifting the pot of coffee towards his outstretched mug. "I know."
He sipped at his coffee with his hand on the back of your chair. You tried your best to ignore this and found yourself on ends anyways, wondering what the back of your head looked like.
He stole fruit from your plate and wouldn't back down, even when you started fighting back with your fork. You'd almost speared him when Marlene walked in with Dorcas looking dazed behind her, grinning. "We're ready."
"I'll grab Remus and then we'll go," James said, untying his apron. There was a naked square where it had been, and he looked down at it frowning. "After I change my shirt."
"Thanks for the pancakes," Emma called after him.
"You're welcome. At least somebody appreciates my efforts," James said from the bottom of the stairs.
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Get a load of him. Makes breakfast and now he's Saint Lucy."
You smiled up at him. "He can be whatever he wants if he's making pancakes every morning. Though Saint James has a terrible ring to it."
Sirius wiped the corner of your mouth with the tip of his index finger. "Wasn't he beheaded?"
You shrugged, biting back a laugh. You didn't know why you were smiling so wide but Sirius was, and his beatific grin was contagious.
"I hope you aren't planning to execute my boyfriend," Lily said, jumping down from the countertop. Her red, smooth hair moved in a sheet behind her.
"Don't think of it as an execution, Lils."
"An exoneration," you suggested.
"A freeing."
James pushed into the kitchen with a knackered looking Remus at his side. "I've saved you so many pancakes, Moony, you wouldn't believe it. You'll be fed for days."
"Thank you, James," Remus said, rubbing a hand through his depressed hair.
"Eat up, darling boy," Sirius said loudly, "you look as though you're on the edge of death."
"I might have slept too well," he admitted sheepishly.
Sirius looked at him then and all his care melted into outrage. "Your hubris befalls you."
"Did we all decide to speak like this today or did I miss the memo?" you asked, more to yourself than anyone else.
"T'was not a decision! T'was a calling from the heavens," James piped in, looking much cleaner in his new vest and open button-up.
"T'was a twottish calling," Marlene said, laughing. This sent peels of laughter through the room and after a good chuckle, eventually everyone was smiling and ready to walk down to the beach.
Why you'd all waited to go together was a mystery, it was hardly a five minute walk down the path from the cottage cliffside before you were breaking out onto a gorgeous white stretch of sand kissing clear blue waves.
Sirius and James had carried the picnic basket between them. Lily had the cooler. You'd deigned to carry the blankets and towels and refused anyone's help, almost tripping over a piece of driftwood. You let the linens fall into the soft sand and felt the grains of it sink into your open sandals, wiggling your toes.
Your camera bounced at your chest as you traipsed over to the cooler, searching for something cold to hold against your head. It had been noon by the time everyone was ready to head out and so the sun was already making itself known, beating down on your shoulders.
"It's gorgeous," Lily said brightly.
"We'll have a bonfire tonight," James said.
Marlene laid a towel out and put her stereo, her prized possession, down on it carefully. She clicked a button and set the volume low, and the beach was suddenly alive with the hum of The Rolling Stones.
You and Lily spread the biggest blanket out away from where James had begun forming a rock circle for the barbecue and sat down on it with matching peaceable expressions, soon joined by Emmeline and Remus. Mary, Dorcus and Marlene set their towels up at the edge of the blanket and were quick to begin sunbathing.
Marlene was likely going to burn herself to a crisp trying to tan. Lily pulled the brim of her sunhat down and began slathering sunscreen over her pale legs, her stomach and chest.
"James!" she called, "come do my back, please?"
He perked up like an excited puppy. "Oh, Lilykins, you charmer."
"If I'd asked anyone else you would've sulked all day."
"Yes I would've. Now stay still, I need to get your beauty mark."
"Mole."
"Mole, whatever. Most marks on you are pretty, I get confused."
You looked down and made yourself busy covering your skin similarly in sunscreen, bringing your knees up to massage the cream into your legs and feet. You'd just managed to get your arms when a shadow was towering over you.
"What, Sirius?" you asked.
He smiled impishly. "You gonna get my back too?"
The comment made you giggle nervously. "In the event the sun could even reach your back then sure, I'd get you."
He crouched down. "You haven't rubbed it in properly. Let me," and he was touching your face, mouth so close you felt his exhales on your eyelashes. He spread the sunscreen with his thumb in a broad swipe across your cheek. "You don't think you're going overboard?"
"There's nothing overboard about protection."
"No glove, no love," he agreed under his breath.
You batted his hands away. "Grow up. Go help James make his firepit."
"Yes ma'am."
-
Later, you were wading through the shallows, full of barbecued foods and sparkling cider and trying not to get pushed over. The others had insisted on playing chicken and you were watching from a distance. Lily and James were the winning team, closely followed by Lily and Sirius when James got sand in his eyes.
Emmeline from atop Remus' shoulders pouted and called for justice. "Lily is obviously too good. We're never gonna win."
"Fuck you, Em! I'm at least half the team,” Sirius said, offended.
Remus tightened his hands on Emma's calves, who was wobbling as she shook her head. "The common denominator is Lily."
Lily was calling and laughing. "Quite right!"
"Sweetheart, I know you don't like chicken, but it's for a better cause, Sirius said, turning his determined gaze on you.
"Wha-" He bent down, ushering Lily off his shoulders, and you understood what he meant. "Sirius, no."
"Come on! I'll do your dishes all week."
He usually did them anyway.
"It'll make me sick."
"It won't!"
You began protesting again and he trudged towards you, big hands on your arms. He looked particularly handsome, damp and sun-kissed, eyes big with happiness and smiling like you were something good. "Get on my shoulders, Y/N."
"Fine. Just one,” you gave in, pulling your shirt off. You tossed it in the direction of your towel and set your begrudging eyes on his legs, sulking.
"Good sport!" James cheered, flat on his back stoking the small fire.
Sirius led you out into the deeper water and knelt down so you could climb over his shoulders. Once seated he got to his feet, eliciting a terrified moan from you. You grasped onto his neck tightly with your face smashed into the back of his head.
His grip was unfailing on your thighs. "Relax… I won't let you fall."
You loosened your headlock incrementally.
"Good girl. How we feeling?"
You felt a shot of pleasure at his words, and then with horror recognised that your crotch was literally at his neck.
"Y/N?"
"Great. Good. Let's do this shit," you declared, hands precarious at his neck.
He laughed and turned you to face the others. "That's my girl."
-
Having defeated everyone who tried to beat you at chicken, you and Sirius were very obviously feeling closer to each other, and it was infuriating everybody.
"We get it! You're good at chicken! Shut the fuck up!" Remus complained, book flat on his chest to glare at Sirius, who had been lamenting your victory with his shoulder pressed to your shoulder.
"So bitter," Sirius said suavely, running his hand up Remus' sand crusted calf, "somebody sounds a little jealous, Remy-poo."
You crinkled your nose and shook the crisp packet in your hand, looking for a nice one. James leaned over your shoulder to grab a handful and you let him, smiling at your friend. He had Lily's head in his lap and looked as blissful as a man could look.
"I hope you aren't talking to me, Remus," you said, feigning hurt. Usually he could be tricked into being his softie self but he was really quite irritated by Sirius' gloating.
"Get fucked, Y/N."
You laid your head on Sirius' shoulder, your hand on his thigh. He dug through the crisps and offered you a flavorful looking one before stealing some for himself. You knew you were pushing it - this was bordering the platonic boundary - but, high on victory and your friendship, you couldn't help yourself from cuddling up to him.
He didn't seem to mind anyhow, making conversation overtop your head as easy as breathing. You stretched your arm out blindly searching for your camera until you found it, clipping the lense cover off. You clicked the camera on, zooming in on your leg against Sirius'.
"Nice legs."
"Testing," you told him, though you hadn't been.
You twisted around to take a photograph of Lily and James, who didn't protest, Remus with his head on Mary's thigh, who did. You got a wide shot of Frank, Alice, Dorcas, Marlene and Emma playing cards before zooming into Marlene, who was leaning back on one arm, a cigarette dangling between her teeth. She took a lazy drag and laid her hand of cards out flat. "Read 'em n weep, ladies."
Dorcas groaned. "Right, I'm done. Anyone else wanna watch a film?"
"My brains fried," Alice said, nodding.
"I want my pyjamas. And a shower. Not in that order," Lily said.
Soon everyone was getting to their feet and groaning. "I have sand in places sand shouldn't be," Emma said morosely, helping you gather the sheets.
"The boys'll stay for a kick about?" James said, looking between his mates.
"No cheating this time, Prongs," Remus started.
James held up his hands. "Scout's honour."
"You didn't get in scout's, mate. Brownie's honour, at best," Frank said.
A headlock ensued. Sirius jogged over to you with his rings in hand, "Have these for me?"
"Yeah, no problem."
"Sweet," he said, kissing you on the cheek. "Shan't be long. Quick, get back before the gnats come out!"
You looked at his rings in your hand, warm still, and felt heat rise to the tops of your ears. Lily threw an arm around your shoulder and you were off up the lane. Marl had already thrown the door open, letting in the summer breeze to break through the humid heat kept in the house while you were gone. Lily rushed upstairs to catch one of the showers, citing a deep rooted annoyance at the sand in her bikini top.
You went into the kitchen and put your purse and Sirius' rings down on the countertop and started putting things away, binning everyone's leftovers and setting the plates in the sink. You'd spelled away the crumbs and food and was about to get to the dishes, hot water running and sleeves pushed up when you realised you weren't wearing your bracelet.
Your heart skipped.
It took a moment to sink in. You looked at your blank wrist in bizarre confusion, turning your hand like it might be hiding. No such luck. You scoured your eyes over the kitchen and spotted no signs of it, hand moving up to push against your forehead.
You walked out the way you came and traced the hall, the porch. You ran up the stairs two at a time and burst into your room, nosing through your bags, then did the same in the bathroom. Your chest felt tight as you stood there, walls white and blinding.
You stumbled back into the bedroom and Sirius was in the doorway.
"What's wrong?" he asked instantly.
Your eyes darted to him and then back to your bedroom floor. "My bracelet. I can't find it."
"When'd you have it last?"
"This morning. Definitely before we went to the beach."
You paled.
"Doll, don't worry-" he started, worried by your expression. You moved past him before he could finish and fled down the stairs for your purse in the kitchen. You'd looked through it once, but it didn't make sense - maybe you'd taken it off to play chicken? Unlikely. You never took it off, not ever.
"D-" Sirius was again cut off by you, eyes widening as you tipped your purse out on the kitchen floor. You picked through the contents, despairing.
"It's not here," you murmured.
Sirius was by your side. "Have you summoned it?"
You shook your head, laughing bitterly, "I put anti-spellwork on it after James turned it into a snake."
Sirius laughed and then smarted, clearing his throat.
"Right. Sorry."
Your eyes filled with tears. You looked at the bright kitchen light and willed them away.
"Hey," he said softly, moving into your eyesight, "don't cry, bub. I'll get you a new one."
You blinked, moving your head left to right like the movement might stop the overwhelming emotion. "Sirius, I want that one."
He bit his lip, pulling his hair. "Alright. Get your shoes back on and we'll go look down on the beach, yeah?"
Sirius pulled his jacket on and pulled his wand out with a Lumos at the tip, eyes steadfast to the ground as you walked. "What's it look like?"
"Sirius-" you began, feeling a little hurt.
His smile came up on one side. "Kidding, kidding. Can't forget the damn thing if I tried. You've only worn it since we were seventeen."
You rolled your eyes, momentarily forgetting the task at hand. "You know any metal-detecting spells?"
"You'll be lucky, it's made of plastic."
You chuckled weakly.
He grabbed your shoulder, digging his thumb into your skin. "Hey, don't worry about it. We'll find it. And if we don't, I really will get you a new one."
"I - it's not like that. It's special. You gave it to me, you know? It's like," you cut yourself off.
"What?" he asked, grinning smugly.
You kicked sand under your shoe. You were almost at the beach now, the tide having moved far out. You only hoped your bracelet wasn't somewhere in the waves, never to be seen again.
"Y/N?"
"It's like my piece of you."
You peeked out the corner of your eye at his expression which had gone slack at your confession.
"Right. Right," he picked up his pace incrementally, "let's get digging. We'll shovel the whole beach if we have to."
And you did, looking through the hills of sand until the sky was darkening and the sun was a yellow beam across the ocean, a multicolour spectral that splashed up your skin and drenched you in pinks and orange.
Sirius was similarly sky stained and on his knees, digging around where you'd been sitting again.
"It's alright. Let's just go back."
Sirius shook his head. "I'm gonna find this bracelet, babe."
You hugged yourself.
"Seriously, Black, let's go home. It's pointless."
Sirius ignored you, crawling over to the firepit. "Oh," he said. And then, "Found it."
He held it up between pinched fingers. "Not so pointless, as it turns out."
You couldn't believe your luck - his luck - couldn't believe it was there to find. Sirius staggered to his feet, legs completely covered in sand. You almost threw yourself at him, pushing him back with the force of your hug, wrapping your arms around his waist and then pulling back to accept the bracelet. He wrapped his own arms around your neck, holding you.
You basically danced in his hold. You stole your arms back to put the bracelet back on.
"I have great taste," he said quietly, arms still at your neck.
You laughed, really laughed, felt your chest heave with the force of it, and then you lost any and all sense of reason, any self preservation, looking at Sirius' handsome face. He was looking down at you all homespun and glowing with the sunset at his back and you couldn’t have stopped yourself from kissing him if you tried.
It caught you both by surprise. He made a small sound in the back of his throat and stilled. You pulled away quickly, still laughing (albeit scared to death) and he brought one hand up to the back of your neck to bring you back in.
His kiss was warm. He tasted of fruit juice and…
"Have you been smoking?" you asked, mouth poised over his.
He stopped short, moving the hand that was cupping your neck to your cheek. His eyes were brilliant, pupils dilated.
"No?"
"I think you have. You know those things are going to kill y-"
He kissed you again. His lips were firm, pushing down with enough force to make you retreat a step. He followed, kissing and kissing. You broke it off to finish scolding him, heartbeat in your ears.
"You'll get cancer. Is that what you want?"
He shook his head in disbelief, hand smoothing the side of your face twice quick.
"Why are you so obsessed with my having cancer?"
"Because you purposefully take stupid risks and don't think about the consequences!"
"Fucking hell," he said, chuckling, eyebrows high.
His laugh was contagious - you were so tiffed with him and so happy about the bracelet and so hot where his arms were wrapped around you, burning at his bare hand on your face. You pecked the corner of his mouth and then the other. "Idiot," you breathed.
He caught you while your mouth was still open.
You realised suddenly that you were kissing your best friend, your favourite person in the world, who you'd been half in love with since you met and more and more every day.
He was kissing you back. He was leading.
His tongue was in your mouth.
You pulled away to question him, planning on asking him what he was even doing, why was he kissing you back? He should've pushed you away, and why was his hand at your lower back? Why was he touching the naked skin there like you were something precious?
He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead on yours.
"Is it bad that I kind of like you calling me names?"
"It's terrible," you said, pushing up, mouth a millimetre from yours. When he leaned down so that your lips were touching, you hesitated coyly. "Anything else you like I should know about?"
He pushed his fingertips into your waist and smiled when you squirmed.
"Quite like your bikini," he murmured, kissing you chastely, "worse," he moved down to kiss your jawline, "I like what's underneath it."
You laughed in surprise. "That's the best you could come up with?"
"Careful," he said, punctuating the warning with a nip.
His fingers found the bow tying your bikini top shut. He tugged at one of the ties gently. Maybe he was waiting for your permission, or protest, or something, but you could only stand with your chest heaving with excitement and trepidation both. Slowly, he drew the tie open. The seconds stretched, you could barely look at him where he was unblinking, unflinching. It sprung undone, and his hands moved to the one at your neck. He was even slower the second time around, gaze heavy-lidded. Your faces were close enough that you were breathing in the others exhale, stealing air from his parted lips.
The fabric was slipping away, and suddenly Sirius was pressing you flat to his chest, hugging you tight. You frowned in confusion as he manhandled you to be where he'd been standing seconds ago, bare chest against his shirt. Frank and Alice were at the edge of the sand, holding hands. Alice gave you a knowing look.
"Wh- hi, guys!" you shouted, maybe too loudly.
"Sorry, we were coming for a walk! Didn't realise you were already down here!" Frank called, laden with innuendo.
Sirius had turned his head to laugh but was covering your naked chest by standing in your path. "That's alright, Y/N here was just cold. In fact…" he slipped his jacket off, stuffing your discarded bikini top deep into the pocket. He wrapped it around your shoulders and zipped it up, hands uncharacteristically shaky.
He stepped away from you casually. "We came to find her bracelet."
"D'you find it?" Alice asked curiously.
You pushed the sleeve of your borrowed jacket down and held your wrist up, "Sirius found it."
"Brill," Frank said.
“Yeah, we were just leaving,” you said. “Ssssssso, we’ll get out of your hair.”
You laughed and nodded, agreeing with him as Sirius steered you towards the couple and then past them. "See you in a bit, lovebirds," Sirius shouted over his shoulder.
The walk up to the house was clearly nervous.
"Thanks," you told him, embarrassed, "not sure how many people I can deal with seeing my tits before it's a problem."
"Don't mention it," he said. He didn't sound quite like himself. You bumped his shoulder with yours.
"Is… is everything okay?"
He came into himself a bit then, as if he were shaking off a layer of dust. "Can't believe Longbottom cockblocked me," he said, and winced. "Not that-"
"Who said he did?" you asked lowly.
He looked sideways at you and then down at his shoes. He smiled.
-
Sirius held his index finger against his lips, opening the front door to the Potter beach cottage as quietly as he could. You nodded, a picture in his jacket. Each time he remembered you were wearing nothing underneath he had to take a moment for himself and breathe a ragged inhale. He flicked his eyes to the evening sky before pushing open the door.
The floorboards were thankfully silent. The stairs didn't groan. He was halfway up with you flush to his back when James said, "Sirius?" from his room.
Sirius opened his mouth, unsure whether to answer. You shook your head despairingly.
He shut his mouth. You both stood silent on the stairs, staring at each other with his heart in his throat. James didn't call again, and so you finished creeping up the staircase and then across the landing. He ushered you into the room first and then followed behind, shutting the door. He stood there for a moment, listening.
When he turned back you were cleaning up the contents of your purse from the floor hurriedly. He peered down at you, the big light stretching his shadow and leaving you in darkness. You zipped your purse shut. Looking up at him from this angle, he could see a triangle of your chest. He offered his hand and you took it. Pulled to your feet you wobbled, wavered, looking at him like you wanted to touch him and weren't sure you were allowed.
He rested his hands on your shoulders in what he hoped was a placating gesture. Your smile was sweet and soft as he traversed down your sternum to fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, pulling it down an inch and then up half, down another inch.
"Sirius…" you whispered, reproach in your gaze.
He tilted his chin up proudly. "Sweetheart."
"Are you gonna mess with me all night?" you said, words tinged with anxiety. He laughed at your neediness.
"Maybe I will… I've been known to play with my food."
"Gonna eat me?"
"Gonna try," he affirmed, pulling the zip down steady.
You went to take the jacket off and he stopped you.
"Keep it on, won't you?" It didn't sound much like a question.
He didn't think about it - didn't second guess himself. He spread his palm flat over your breast and took your beaded nipple into his mouth, mouthing your breast in a heavy kiss. Your hand went to his hair so gently he almost felt sorry for being rough. Almost.
He moved to your other breast and felt his chest burn when you giggled breathlessly. He learned the curve of your waist under his calloused hand, kneading your softness.
He took your nipple between his teeth very gently and tugged. Although you made no sound, your hold in his hair tightened which told him everything he needed to know, abandoning your hip to pay special attention to your tits. He smiled at the goosebumps spreading over your body.
You made a sound like a hiccup. His dick jumped where it tented his shorts.
Determined to catch any similar sounds he returned to your perfect mouth, guiding your face to his. He pressed his other hand against his cock and prayed you didn't look down just yet.
You were eager and attentive, trying to get as close to him as you could, hands roving his chest. He walked you backwards into his bed, didn't think about the sand covering you both until it was ruining his sheets. He broke the kiss to retrieve his wand and you chased him. He allowed you a quick peck and then pulled his wand from his pocket, expunging the sand, locking the door and muffling the room from between your legs. Then he set aside the damned thing and pressed his knee between your thighs, pushing your head down into his pillow.
And how many times had he envisioned this?
You, warm and ethereal, laid out in his bed.
Himself, breathing fast and desperate and willing to do anything you wanted.
You pushed your cheek into his pillow shyly and grinned, squinting from how wide you were smiling. He smiled back, not as wide or openly, but hopefully enough.
"You sure you wanna do this?" he asked you quietly, running his hand over your hair.
"Mmm… you'll have to be more specific," you whispered, words so quiet he had to lean down to hear them.
He kissed your cheek, lingered there.
"Gonna make me say it?" he said. He was going for sexy, obviously, but with you affection tinged every word, had them rolling off of his tongue pleased and covered in sweetness like dark honey.
"I might do," you whispered, tone taking on a similar fond-sticky quality.
He ran his knuckle down from your temple to your jawline and then back up, touch soft. He flitted underneath your eye before flattening his hand to push his fingers underneath your ear, pad of his thumb poised over the very top of your cheekbone. He marvelled at how his hand fit perfectly in the space there like it had been made to rest against your skin.
"You're very quiet," you murmured, pupils wobbling.
"'M thinking," he murmured in turn, punctuating with a broad sweep of his thumb.
"'Bout what?"
His other hand smoothed over the soft flesh of your abdomen sinking down, down to the elastic of your bikini bottoms. They were tied in the same fashion as your top had been, and he delighted in the slow unravelling of the bows at each hip.
"'Bout how I'm gonna make a mess of you," he said, drawing a line down your now-bared centre. Your chest moved up sharply and didn't come back down until he'd found your entrance, already leaking slick. He spread wet up your front, circling your clit until your breath caught.
"There you are," he said, laughing.
"It's not funny," you protested breathlessly.
He pushed down a tad roughly, listening intently for your quiet moans. "It feels funny."
"That's my line."
He rolled his eyes, edging your entrance with the tip of his fingers. "Tell me if this feels funny, sweetheart."
He pushed his index finger past little resistance, already coated in your arousal and working more out of your warmth. You shuddered underneath him, reaching out to grab his hand for some comfort. He took your wrist in his other hand and held it away from your cunt. He checked your face to see how you were taking and felt a smugness like no other at the evident pleasure smudging your features, lips parted delicately and eyes shuttering closed with each thrust inward. He increased the pace and added his second finger, scissoring them inside you to spread you open.
He didn't intend on making you cum yet, really, having wanted to get you properly ready by murmuring sweet nothings and worse, promising things he wasn't sure he could give but was determined to try. "How's that feel, baby?"
"Good," you said shyly.
"Good? Just good?"
"Feels really good," you confirmed, panting at his uptick in speed and renewed pressure on your little bundle of nerves.
"Gonna make you feel so good," he promised, "gonna get you all messy, get you ready for my cock. That okay?"
"Yep," you said tightly.
Your legs were twitching - not a full shake but enough to tell exactly how it was going to go. He took his fingers from your cunt and pulled back further to push your knees up, spreading you wide in front of him. He used his left hand to stimulate your swollen clit and his right to finger fuck you in quick bursts.
It was wonderful to watch, your face swimming in pleasure and your eyes getting all wet and glassy, too timid to meet his gaze.
"Hey, pretty girl," he said, forcing you to look at him, "hey, baby. You look so fucking cute, yeah? Don't you?"
Your eyebrows creased, distracted by his attentions on your sensitive cunt.
"Tell me how you look," he ordered.
"Sirius…"
"Go on, tell me how good you look. I'll reward you, I promise."
You shook your head.
"You won't?" he paused attending your clit and took big, slow strokes, curling his fingers to drag down your walls. Your thighs wobbled.
"Just tell me, baby," he said, voice faux pleading, "tell me all about how you look and I'll make you cum."
You whimpered at the unfairness of it all and he felt a little sorry for you, but not enough to let you out of the deal.
"I look… nice." You bought into his game.
He grinned proudly, pressing his thumb back against your clit as though he might begin again, but didn't.
"C'mon, you can do better than that."
"I look cute."
He nodded appraisingly and started slow circles. "And what else?"
You stuttered over your words, stubborn in your own diffidence but desperate. "I look pretty."
"Pretty," he hummed like he was chewing it over. "You're more than pretty. Gonna look so fucking beautiful all covered in my cum too, baby, I promise you."
He was trying to relax himself as much as he was you. Trying to convince himself that fucking his best friend that he loved, loved unthinkingly as the pumping of blood in his veins, the thrumming of his magic beneath his skin, was the right path. And what did people say? Sometimes the easiest path was the path of least resistance? He couldn't resist you, he knew that much. So, selfishly, he made you cum. Selfishly, he cooed as you moaned. Selfishly, he spread his hand across your trembling tummy. Maybe it was the wrong decision, but Sirius Black fancied himself a selfish man, and so he was going to fuck you silly, should you allow him.
You were recuperating, blinking bashfully, wetting your bitten lips. He leaned over you to push his hands behind your shoulders and lift you into a sitting position, stealing a quick kiss. When he broke it you looked dazed as ever.
"You okay?" he asked.
Your dazed expression cleared with his voice. You nodded, catching your breath with your hand pressed to your cunt. He laughed madly when you touched yourself and jumped, ticklish.
You glared at him.
"Don't be like that," he chastised, taking both of your hands into his, tugging your arms towards him.
You squeezed his fingers likely without thought and climbed up onto your knees, almost as tall as him, "I'm not being like anything," you said, climbing up into his lap, wet pussy sliding against his aching, clothed cock, knees either side of his thighs.
He pulled your arms around his neck to relieve his hands and push down his shorts, freeing his cock. He pumped, feeling your arms tighten as you spotted his length.
"Ah," you said weakly.
"You ready?" he asked, guiding his cock underneath you to tease your hole, gathering wetness to palm over his length.
You didn't answer, instead lowering yourself onto his cock slowly. He kissed your shoulder, tasted the salt of the sea on your skin as you stretched around him, gasps like a sweet song in his ears. Hands on your hips to alleviate the effort it took for you to hold yourself upright, he steered you up and down until you were confident enough to do it yourself. You were slow, and he wouldn't rush you, but fuck if he didn't want to lay you out flat and ruin you, pound into you until you were a wet-eyed mess. Still, you worked his cock, moaning as the stretch turned to indiscriminate pleasure.
He grabbed your neck, not rough enough to hurt but certainly not gently, straightening your head up to meet his gaze, though the sight of you watching his cock spread you open was tantalising, mouth a small o-shape.
"Taking me so well," he praised.
You tried not to show how his words affected you. He was determined to make you, fucking up into you as you came down, relishing in the startled delight clouding your face.
"How's my pretty girl feeling?" He followed your hips with his own, dragging his cock against your walls. "How's my pretty pussy, all full?"
You looked like you might burst into tears and dug your face into the side of his neck, tightening your arms. He took this in stride and kissed the top of your head before grabbing a hold of your hips and fucking fast into your heat, moaning at the feeling of your cunt contracting around his throbbing dick.
"Yeah, you know, don't you? This cunt," he said into your hair, "this cunt's all mine now."
You'd gone so quiet he worried for a split second he'd gone too far, until he felt your lips at his neck, mouthing. He didn't have to see you to know what you'd said soundlessly.
All yours.
His fault for goading you, he realised, groaning so raggedly he felt his chest burn. He fucked up into you until he thought even a muffliato wasn't enough enough cover the sounds you were making, unrestrained and half-sobbing in his lap.
He slowed, let you drop so you were seated with his cock inside you as deep as it could go, which was a different agony, and pulled your face from the crook of his neck.
"Awww," he sympathised, rolling his hips as he wiped the tears from your face. "You're okay."
You nodded, bringing a hand up to wipe your face yourself, hands half covered by the sleeve of his jacket.
"It's not too much, is it?" he asked, bringing his hand to the small of your back, pushing leather into your skin and leaning back to really focus on finding your sweet spot.
You pouted jokingly as if to say what do you think? and then laughed, the movement prompting little flecks of water to jump off of your lashes. It was a sight he thought he would remember for the rest of his life, your pleasure driven tears and your cock drunk laugh, tits half sheltered by his old leather jacket.
You took his leaning back as an opportunity, spreading your fingers against the trail of hair at the bottom of his stomach to encourage his back flat onto the mattress. He laid down curiously, head close enough to the edge of the bed that his hair draped over the end. You anchored yourself to his tummy and didn't ride him so much as you squirmed, the head of his cock rubbing against your sweet spot, goosebumps breaking out across your body. You whined, pleading sounds that had him probing your clit, searching for your second climax. You protested his actions, grabbing his wrist and holding it to his breastbone, leaning down so your cunt was flush with his crotch, pelvis' sliding into one another bruisingly as you grinded, faces inching closer and closer as the sensation weakened your resolve to be in charge. He felt his own resolve weakening in turn.
Escaping your clutches he pulled your chest flush to his with only the head of his dick inside you, to which you grumbled, rocking down. He frowned himself and wrapped one arm under your armpit and over your shoulder blades, the other across your back.
"Don't do me in," he blurted, steadying your movements.
You raised your eyebrows at his panic amusedly. "You gonna cum in me, lover?" you asked teasingly.
He kissed the skin left of your mouth, strokes haltingly slow. "Don't do me in," he restated, softer. "Please."
Your lips parted as he dug into your soft spot, mouthing your cheek before tucking you into his front, hugging you tenderly as he opened you up slowly with his cock. He sped up, testing what he could handle and savouring your keens.
The sound of your whimpering was his last straw, pulling out of you quickly, cock throbbing in his hand. You searched for his mouth and kissed him, once and then twice, chaste and slow and loving kisses that made him want to serve you up starlight on a silver platter.
Then you climbed off of him. He let you go reluctantly, watching as you settled in a W-shape near his pillows, breathing hard and neatening up his jacket so your tits were fully out.
"Do your worst," you told him.
He blinked, pushing up onto his elbows, cock twitching at the skin under his belly button.
"What?"
"'Gonna look beautiful covered in my cum,'" you quoted him, something bright in your eyes.
He crawled over to your quivering body, hand already milking his cock. He kneeled so he was hovering over you and you leaned back into his pillows, sweaty and rugged. He thought you looked the prettiest he'd ever seen you, hands tugging roughly at his cock, lubed by your slick.
"You're beautiful," you whispered gingerly, eyes skipping up his chest to alight on his mouth, his nose, his eyes. You smiled, eyes heavy.
He came down your front, pearlescence dripping down the swollen curve of your breasts and gathering at the slade of your chest, white rivulets that shone in the golden sundown. He'd barely finished when he was kissing you passionately, trying to convey his thoughts with his rough hand on your silken face, his undue mouth, trying to push the depths of his devotion into his soothing fingertips beneath your eye.
He broke the kiss begrudgingly, struck with an idea.
"Where's your camera?" he asked, forehead resting on yours.
"Huh?"
"Let me take a picture of you like this."
You didn't need much convincing, a beatific beam dancing across your kiss red lips. He scrubbed his hand down your cheek before he hastily pulled his shorts up and retrieved the camera from where you pointed, messing with buttons he didn't hope to understand until the camera was blinking and aimed at your smiling face. He zoomed out just enough to catch his jacket and your messy chest in the photograph.
"Pretty," he said, more to himself than you. Your chest heaved with his praise. "Say cheese, lovely girl."
You shot up a peace sign and he chuckled so suddenly he thought he'd never breathe right again.
thank you for reading!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
read part two here
my masterlist
marauders tag list @marimorena06 @glimmering-darling-dolly @siriuslystfu @thatblackravenclaw @thatonecomfyjumper @lupinlust @touchdeprivedwh0re @vi0letblu3s @mooncalvin @gaysnowrose @thatonecomfyjumper @set-myself-on-fire @decafcoffew
this opened up a great big hole beneath me and devoured me, everything about it was perfect
Like he means it
Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader
Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.
Word Count: 13.6k
Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending
Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡
Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga
Masterlist
You hear the giggling before anything else.
It’s always the giggling.
And, as always, it grates on your nerves.
It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.
Then comes the keys.
The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.
Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.
Then the door opening.
More giggles.
His breathy chuckles.
Then the door closing.
Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.
You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.
Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.
And then, his bedroom door.
And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.
Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.
At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.
But then comes the moaning.
High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.
Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.
Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.
And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.
You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.
But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.
And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.
And that finally makes the tears flow.
They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.
You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.
They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.
The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.
Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.
Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.
Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.
Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.
You are alone in your grief.
The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.
Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.
However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.
Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.
And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.
Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.
The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.
The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.
And it makes you know.
He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.
Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.
Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.
Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.
Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.
If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.
Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.
You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.
It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.
Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.
So what is the point?
You don’t want to do another morning like this.
You can’t do another morning like this.
Not three times in a row.
Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.
Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.
The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.
And then, him standing there and watching you.
Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.
That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.
Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.
You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.
His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.
Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.
But you are certain, he won’t.
Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.
He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.
He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.
But tomorrow night, there will be another.
Tomorrow night will be the same.
And in the morning nothing will have happened.
Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.
You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.
Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.
You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.
The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.
Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.
The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.
The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.
The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.
The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.
And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.
Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.
You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.
The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.
Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.
No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.
You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.
You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.
But you keep walking.
Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.
It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.
You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.
The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.
You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.
You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.
You don’t look back.
Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.
It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.
Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.
“Y/n?”
You close your eyes.
“Y/n!”
Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.
You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.
But you can’t. You never can.
With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.
Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.
His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.
Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.
Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.
You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.
You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.
“Where are you going?”
The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.
As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.
You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.
“To Nat’s.”
It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.
“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.
“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.
Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.
All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?
But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.
So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.
“Go back to bed, Bucky.”
Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.
Not when you are already about to break.
“I- What?”
His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.
But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.
You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.
“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.
Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.
She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.
“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.
But Bucky doesn’t move.
His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.
And his eyes stay fixed on you.
Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.
And it makes your hands clammy.
The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.
He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.
“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”
You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.
“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”
“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.
“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.
But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.
“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.
And it’s cruel. So cruel.
Because you are in love with him.
And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.
“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”
You swallow down a choked breath.
Because this is making things so much worse.
That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.
Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.
But you are not broken. You are just in love.
“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even glance at her.
His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”
The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.
But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-
“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”
His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.
But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.
You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.
But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.
“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”
You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.
“No, you-”
He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.
Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.
“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”
Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.
You could run.
You should.
You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.
But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.
“Okay,” you say weakly.
Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.
And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.
Hating yourself for hoping.
Technically, you could just leave.
Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.
You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.
But you don’t.
You know you won’t.
Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.
And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.
Not Bucky.
Never Bucky.
You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.
You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.
How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.
And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.
So you stay.
With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.
But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.
You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.
Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.
Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.
He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.
And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.
Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.
Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.
The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.
Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.
His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.
Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.
His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.
His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.
Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.
“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”
His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.
You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.
“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”
It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.
And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.
He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.
“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”
You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.
You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.
The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.
Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.
“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.
“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.
He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.
“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”
His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.
And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.
He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.
Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.
But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.
His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.
But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.
You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.
So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.
“I-”
You try. You really try.
But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.
Because this time it’s her walking out.
She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.
Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.
Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.
But it’s not yours either.
She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.
She had the time for that.
Meanwhile, you can barely stand.
Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.
Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.
Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.
And Bucky is still looking at you.
Not at her.
You.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.
But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.
The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.
“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”
Your stomach lurches.
You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.
Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.
“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.
“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.
Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.
“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”
“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”
And then she’s gone.
But so are you.
You don’t even think about it. You just move.
Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.
It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.
Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.
You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.
You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.
His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.
“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.
“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.
And it’s not funny. Not even close.
His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.
You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.
Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.
“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.
“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.
His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.
But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.
And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.
“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.
You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.
His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”
You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.
Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.
And Bucky watches all of that.
His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.
“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.
You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”
Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.
“See, that’s bullshit.”
You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.
“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”
You want him to stop.
You want him to turn around.
You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.
But he won’t.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
And you break.
No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.
The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.
You feel so pathetic.
Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.
And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.
The second your breath hitches, he is moving.
Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.
You let him.
Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.
His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.
Like your pain is his own.
“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”
There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.
His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.
“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”
It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.
And it makes you cry harder.
Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.
Except it hasn’t.
It doesn’t.
Not in the way you want.
You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.
But you are not one of those girls.
You never will be.
And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.
So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.
It’s too hard. too cruel.
You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.
But it does.
Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.
So you cry harder.
Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.
Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.
“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”
But you can’t.
Because what the hell would you even say?
That you’re in love with him?
That you’ve been in love with him?
That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?
That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?
That you want him in a way he will never want you back?
You won’t.
So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.
“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.
He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.
His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.
Because none of this makes it any easier.
Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.
Because it’s him.
And that means it hurts.
You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.
But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.
He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.
Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.
He looks wrecked.
His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.
“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”
You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.
Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.
“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.
But you don’t.
Because somehow this makes it worse.
And you hate it.
You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.
Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.
Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.
But Bucky just shrugs.
It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.
Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.
Not with anyone. Not even with you.
You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.
And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.
You can barely breathe past it.
You don’t say anything.
And Bucky freezes.
His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.
There is something uncertain in there.
And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.
Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.
Like a switch has been flipped.
Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.
Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.
His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.
He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.
His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.
“Is that what this is about?”
It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.
You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.
“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.
“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.
Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”
It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.
“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.
“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.
You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.
“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.
But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.
He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.
“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.
It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.
It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.
“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”
And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.
Because you’re breaking his heart?
What does that even mean?
You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”
His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.
“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.
His eyes are pleading.
“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.
The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.
“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”
A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.
You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.
You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.
Your reaction must be answer enough.
Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.
A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.
The exact moment he realizes.
“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.
You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.
“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.
You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.
But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.
“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.
He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.
Bucky panics.
His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.
“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.
Not at you.
At himself.
“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”
It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.
And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.
“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”
He seems to hold back a scream.
Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.
You wish you could believe it.
“Bucky-” you croak out.
“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.
His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.
“Like it’s over.”
Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.
Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.
“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”
He cuts himself off, voice choking.
His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.
And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.
When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.
“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.
Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.
This thing between you.
Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.
It consumes him.
His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.
His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.
“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”
His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.
And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.
He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.
Bucky is crying.
It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.
You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.
But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.
And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.
But it doesn’t.
Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.
“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”
His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.
“I love you.”
Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.
He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.
Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.
“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.
But you don’t know how to.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.
Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.
You don’t and he steps closer again.
His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.
“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.
But what could you say?
Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.
But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.
“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.
Guilt.
It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”
You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.
And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.
“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”
Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”
“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”
Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.
“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”
Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.
Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”
It hurts.
It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.
You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.
But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.
That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.
Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.
It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?
But he still touched them.
Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.
While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.
And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.
But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.
He tried to fuck it away.
And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.
You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.
“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”
He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.
“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”
Your breath stalls.
Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”
He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.
Even if you know it might not be fair.
But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.
And he sees it.
You try to blink back another wave of tears.
His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.
“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.
“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”
You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.
And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.
But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.
The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.
The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.
But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.
Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?
You had no claim on him.
But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.
You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.
“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.
“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”
Your breath catches, body sways.
There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.
“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”
Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.
“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.
“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”
You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.
“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”
You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”
Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.
“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.
His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.
“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”
“Bucky-”
He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.
“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”
You nod.
He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.
He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”
Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.
You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.
“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”
You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.
Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”
You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.
Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.
And for a split second, Bucky freezes.
Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.
But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.
One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.
And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.
He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.
It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.
And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.
“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”
And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.
“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”
- Beau Taplin
OMG THIS
hextech mountain or.. something
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