wienerbarnes - Tumblr blog

wienerbarnes · 2 years

Text

unattainable

dbf!bucky barnes x fem!reader

the reader and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.

warnings: SMUT (unprotected vaginal sex, cunnilingus, dirty talk, degradation & praise kink), age gap (19-early 20s x late 30s early 40s), inappropriate relationships, cheating, hurt/comfort, toxic relationships, gratuitous smut

this came out a lot softer than intended, whoops

You’ve had a rough fucking day. And that’s to put it lightly.

You woke up after sleeping through your alarm, twice, making you miss an online morning class and wildly late for another. The local brewery was all out of your usual order- which was the only thing that would’ve brought you peace. To make matters even worse, your phone died when you needed it most, and when your boyfriend; who you’ve been dating for over a year- handed you his cellphone to use instead, you were slapped in the face by sexually charged text messages between him and one of your closest friends. And all of that is just a brief summary.

Really, the last thing you needed was a stack of work given to you by your employer to do on your time off, but of course, that’s what you were given.

You’re sat at your kitchen island, home alone; your parents excusing themselves for a much needed date night, clad in nothing but panties and a shirt you had gotten at a concert years before, which was the only size they had left— a size too large for your frame.

The sound of the front door opening collides with your incessant tapping of keys, making you almost jump out of your skin. A relief washes over you when you see a familiar face, dressed for the fall weather and dropping a plastic bag by your side.

“Your dad home?” Bucky asks, almost grunting.

“No,” You say, turning to face him, “What’s in the bag?”

“Bread.” He says, opening it and showing you the round object wrapped in tinfoil. Bucky’s always been a good cook; at least when it comes to dough and grain. Your mother always insists he brings over extras when he bakes, and he always obliges, basking in her admiration for his skills.

When you reach to unwrap it, he slaps your hand away, making you yelp. “Hands off. This is for dinner.”

“Asshole,” You mumble, rubbing your now slightly irritated hand. You’re not usually like this— usually happy to see him, happy to see a warm, non familial face around the house to bring you conversation. But with a day like today, all chivalry is out the window.

“Hey,” He says, eyebrows raised. Despite his surprise, his voice remains calm. “What’s with the attitude?”

“I just don’t like getting slapped, surprisingly.”

“Don’t be a brat.” He says, voice stern and stabbing. He’s got his glare set on you, towering; it almost scares you, almost makes your heart drop to your stomach.

You don’t respond, instead opting to avert your gaze, placing your attention to the work on your computer and the splitting ache in your head and heart.

“Hey,” Bucky says, voice calmer, “What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing,” You breathe, barely audible.

Your reply makes Bucky tsk, shaking his head with a click of his tongue. “You’re lying. Talk to me.”

You swallow, harsh and rough in your throat. You can barely help the way your lip quivers. Every piece of text on your computer is nothing but a blur, a mindless space of pixels that’s clouding your head. You’re almost staring past it, but desperate for a way to not look at him— because you know if you do, it will just make everything worse.

“I’m just having a bad day.” Your voice is soft. Fragile. Barely there.

You feel his hand rubbing your arm, trying to bring you as much comfort as he can. He can’t take your stress away, he knows that, but he just wants to put it to rest for now.

“What happened, hun?”

The nickname strikes through your chest, but simultaneously covering you in warmth. “I just…” You can barely speak without choking, “It’s just one of those days where everything goes fucking wrong. I wake up too late, I miss my classes, get berated by teachers who don’t understand that I can’t control how my body works— and then I can’t even get food in my stomach, let alone a fucking coffee. My parents wouldn’t call me back all day, wouldn’t even lend me a text, and Chase can’t be there for me because he’s too busy sending photos of his dick to other girls!”

“Hold on,” Bucky jets, tightening his grip on your arm, “What was that last part?”

“Chase?” You ask, eyes watery. Bucky nods. “I- He’s- He was texting- sexting my friend, Chloe.”

Bucky’s eyebrows tighten in a furrow, thumb stroking your bare skin. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

“No, I just…” You breathe in, trying to catch your breath from the four mile sprint of a monologue you just did, “I haven’t had time for him lately, y’know? I’ve been busy with my job, and-and school, we haven’t done anything in weeks, and y’know- he has needs. I don’t- blame him, I wasn’t- I wasn’t there.”

“What?” Bucky bellows, voice rising. You jump at the loudness, before he brings you back down with his grip. “Is that what he told you?”

You nod. Bucky sighs.

“Listen, I’m… I’m gonna give you some advice.” He says. “Take it from me. I’m a lot older than you, and I’ve had a fair share of weak moments- but never, ever would I think it’s okay to go behind a woman’s back just because I’m not gettin’ any. That’s fucking cowardice. If a guy ever tells you it’s your fault he cheated on you, run in the other direction.”

“He didn’t cheat on me,” You hiccup, “They didn’t do anything, they-they were just texting.”

“Did he say that, too?”

You pause, staring at him- before nodding.

“That’s bullshit. He went behind your back with someone else. That’s cheatin’.”

You bite your lip, not hard enough to break skin, adverting your eyes from his gaze. You let the words sink in, let them fill you, let them sit in your body for now. He’s right, and you know he is, but it’s hard for you to admit to yourself. It’s how you’ve always been treated by men. It’s how you’ve always experienced love. It’s how everything has always been.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty little head, huh?”

You laugh, breathy and broken, “I’m just… I feel like a shitty girlfriend.”

“Don’t say that shit,” Bucky has your face in his hand, pulling your gaze back to his. He’s staring at you with those steel eyes, intense in gaze; like they’re reading your thoughts. “He has a right hand for a reason.”

That makes you laugh. The sound of your giggle makes him laugh, his dimpled smile covering his features.

“I’m serious, okay? Don’t do that for yourself. He’s the asshole.”

“Yeah,” You sniffle, “He is.”

Bucky’s eyes are still on you when you look away, taken over by a soft gleam he’s had for a while now.

“I shouldn’t be crying over a guy who thinks eating pussy is gross,” You laugh, wiping your slightly teared cheeks with your palms.

“What?” Bucky’s gawking, almost comedically, “Gross?”

“You don’t think it’s gross?”

“Far from it.”

You smile weakly, only one corner of your mouth turning upward. You attempt to move back to your work, before he grips your arm again, pulling your gaze back.

“You sounded surprised,” He notes, “Has every guy you’ve ever dated thought that?”

“Uh…” You chew on your bottom lip, staring down at your lap, “Yeah.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. Bucky’s seen you with a couple guys- seen the boys you bring home to meet your folks, boys who pull up in your driveway and great you with a rough kiss. The thought alone that you’ve just been taken without getting is enough to tighten his shoulders— a pretty little thing like you, perfect ass in tight panties— it’s insane to him. Insane that no ones taken advantage in the right way.

“So,” He tuts, “You’ve never had anyone eat you out before?”

The question surprises the shit out of you. Sure, you’ve had raunchy conversations with him— but they’ve all been shitty jokes followed by “if you tell your parents I joke with you like this, I’ll kill you”. He’s always been the soft, teddy bear next door with a potty mouth, careful to not overstep boundaries or get into you personally. He’s never even asked about the boys you’ve brought around, or pointed out the actors you ogle in movies. It’s always been behind a wall.

“No.”

He hums, deep in his throat, bringing one of his fingers to lift your chin. He’s got his gaze fixated on your mouth, nostrils flaring with his heavy breaths. “D’ya wanna know what it feels like?”

Your heart drops down into your stomach, falling into an ashy pit. Your breathing gets harder, thicker, your thighs clenching at the very suggestion— he’s always been the guy your friends have joked about being too hot for his own good, being a tease for remaining so forbidden. You’ve never said anything, never spoke a peep, knowing that if you admitted anything to yourself it would become real. He would become real. Instead of your dads friend who comes by with pastries, he’d turn into the man you stare at by swimming pools, praying he’s catching glimpses of how your ass looks in your swimsuit. And you had never been ready for that immature, young schoolgirl crush.

“What’re you saying?” Your voice is breathy, whispering. His free hand lays wait on your waste, itching to move down, tangled with the fabric of your shirt.

“Gonna ask you somethin’, and you can always say no, get up ‘n leave. Tell me to fuck off.” He says, still staring at your mouth, still holding onto you, “Can you get up ‘n bend over for me?”

Oh fuck. Suddenly every wall, every rule you’ve made with yourself, every illusion of unattainability comes crashing down, falling apart like bricks. If you weren’t clenching your thighs tight before, you are now.

You don’t even respond. With a heavy breath, you stand up, and he follows behind, moving back to give you room. You pause, letting yourself breathe— before placing your hands on the cold marble of the countertop, letting yourself bend down.

You can hear the shaky breath Bucky lets out, hear him fumbling to move behind you. The feeling of his hands on your hips almost makes you jolt. He moves you to where he wants you, before pulling you up, bracing your back flat against his chest.

“Listen to me,” He says, speaking into your ear, voice soft. “If you don’t want me to do this, just tell me, okay? Not doin’ anything you don’t want me to.”

You nod, but don’t move. With your silent consent, he pushes you back down, laying you flat against the island. He hooks a prosthetic finger into your panties, pulling them slowly down your legs, letting you step out of them.

“Mmm,” He hums, letting himself fall down to his knees. He’s staring up at your pussy, glistening with your arousal, profited by his very presence. He slides a finger through your drenched folds, making you twitch, rubbing your slit from top to bottom in an experimental test.

The first slide of his tongue in your folds is heavenly. It has you keening, legs trying to move away, but he keeps you there with a tight grip of his hands. He’s wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking lightly, finger teasing your hole with wide circles.

“Oh fuck,” You’re moaning, head falling forward and eyes rolling back. It’s different from anything else, better than anything else— and he’s got you stuck, manhandling you the way he wants you. The way he knows is best for you.

When he slides his fingers in, you clench hard, making him moan around your cunt. The vibrations send a jolt of pleasure up your spine, leaving you whining- whimpering against the granite.

With him switching from sucking your clit, to fucking your hole with his tongue— it’s not long before you feel the build up deep in your core, spinning wildly towards your finish. You’re grinding against his face, practically smothering him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, with the way he’s moaning, whining against your soaked pussy, you’d say he fucking loves it.

Then, you’re cumming, drenching his face with your wetness, his face buried deeper than you thought possible. It leaves your legs twitching.

As you come down, he goes up, fingers still sliding inside of your cunt as he pulls you back up towards him. With you leaning back against his chest, he leans down to your ear:

“You know why I’m doin’ this?” He asks, fingers still gliding inside of you, overstimulating you in the best way, “Cause you drive me fuckin’ crazy.”

You’re gasping, gripping his arms tight, his thumb flicking and rubbing your sensitive nub, fingers pounding away at that spongey spot deep inside your core.

“Every time I come in here,” He grunts, “You’re dressed like this. Tight ass in those fuckin’ panties, beautiful legs— you have no idea what you do to me. Your dad would kill me, if he knew what I was thinkin’, if he knew how I hard I fucked my fist thinkin’ about his sweet little girl. How bad I wanna stuff her cunt full, watch the way she cums— just wanna treat her right. Cause you deserve it, honey, you fuckin’ do. Tired of watching you get pushed around by little boys who don’t know nothin’ about making you happy. Just wanna see you happy, wanna see you satisfied. Wanna see you get what you need. What you deserve.”

“Please,” You beg, eye’s shut tight, “Buck, please fuck me, please.”

It has him gasping, breath fluttering. “I can’t, honey, this is about you.”

“Please.” You’re practically crying. “Please, I need your cock so fucking bad, please— I need you to fill me up, want you to fuck me so good, Bucky, please!”

“Fuck,” Bucky curses, grinding his already throbbing cock against your bare ass, “Fuck!”

You hear him fumbling with his belt, the clinking of metal filling up the murderous silence. He pulls up behind you, gripping your hips, before stopping—

“Fuck,” He stops, “Don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill,” You don’t have time for this. You’re practically dripping arousal onto the floor, clenching around nothing, cunt desperate for his cock. “You can cum inside me, you can do whatever you want, please just fuck me.”

You’re going to be the fucking death of him, he swears.

The first slide of his cock makes your body twitch. His cock stretches you almost to the point of pain, burying inside you to the hilt with a heavy moan. His balls are heavy against your ass, ready to burst, thrusting shallowly into your cunt out of desperation.

“Fuck,” He moans, “God, your pussy’s so fuckin’ good.”

“Please, move,” You whine, “Just fuck me.”

Bucky places his hand on the small of your back, softly pushing you down against the countertop. After he places himself just right, he starts snapping into you, deep and hard.

You’re reeling, moaning against the marble, the slapping of skin on skin filling up your ears. You can hear him moaning, grunting about how good you feel, precum dripping down in your inner walls.

“Oh god,” Bucky’s grunting, thrusts getting faster. “God, yeah, stay just like that for me. Let me fuck that pretty cunt, fuck, lemme fill you.”

“Yes, yes,” You’re moaning like you’re being paid, gripping the counter so hard your nails change color, “Please, please fuck me— fuck, harder, please, Bucky.”

The sound of your moans have him desperate. He feels feral, uncontrollable, unable to stop how recklessly he fucks you. He lifts your leg up, pulling his arm underneath it as leverage to fuck you deeper. You’re both colliding in a symphony of moans, the sounds of your pleasure so loud you know the neighbors can hear.

“This what you wanted?” Bucky slaps your ass, watching as the flesh jiggles underneath his thrusts, “This what you were begging for? A thick cock in your tight little pussy? Fuck, how shitty those boys fuckin’ treated you, leavin’ you this desperate for cock, practically fuckin’ drooling against the counter. Fuck, take it like that, honey, you’re takin’ it so fucking good for me.”

Your moans are practically incoherent at this point. You’re blabbering, unable to keep your mouth shut, desperately humping yourself back against him when he moves to rub at your clit.

“So fuckin’ cock hungry,” Bucky laughs, “What would daddy think of you?”

When you clench around him, he knows he’s got you with his words. “Yeah? What would daddy think about his sweet girl getting pounded in his own kitchen? Begging to be fucked by the only man who’s ever gonna fuckin’ treat her right?”

“I’m a- I’m a slut,” You moan, broken.

“Oh god, yeah you are.” Bucky pulls you up, putting your leg down and pressing you against him by your throat. “But you’re my fuckin’ slut. Don’t wanna see anymore boys around here— the only cock you’re gettin’ is mine, okay? Only cock that can make you feel this good.”

“I’m gonna cum again,” You whine, grabbing onto the hand thats wrapped around your throat. “I’m gonna cum, please.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” He moans, fucking you harder, faster, “Cum around this cock, baby, fuckin’ claim it. C’mon, be a good girl and cum.”

The orgasm rips through you hard, your moans turning into screams as he fucks you through it. You can barely make out his praise, the way he’s commending you for coming around him. The chord snap is almost painful, almost has you trying to run away from it, but the feeling of your orgasm running through your core is enough to have you crying.

“Oh god, here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” Bucky moans, eyes shut tight, panting breaths against your skin, “Gonna cum so fucking hard, I’m fuckin’ shaking,”

You’re begging him for it, pleading for him to cum inside you, fill you up—

With one hard thrust deep inside you, he lets out a loud yell, cum filling you up deep inside your body. He’s shivering, humping desperately against your ass as he rides it out, light moans escaping his lips.

The aftermath of it scares you. You can feel reality set in as he slides his cock out, cum dripping down your leg and onto the tiled floor.

Before you can let your thoughts sink in, he’s grabbing you by the chin, pulling you to face him. He captures your mouth in a kiss, tongue finding its way in your mouth, passion setting in heavier than anything else. You moan against his mouth, letting him groan, pulling you against him by your waist.

When he pulls away, he’s followed by a string of saliva— one of the many things connecting the both of you.

“If you ever need anythin’,” Bucky says, using his thumb to wipe up the spit on your chin, “Just ask me. I’ll give you everything.”

“Can you-“ You stutter, embarrassment flooding you at how exposed you are, “Can you help me clean up, please?”

He smiles at the politeness you still give him even after all of that. Bucky turns you around to face him, before sliding down to his knees on the floor.

“I didn’t mean like that!”

“Mmm,” He hums, grin plastered on his face, “But I prefer to do it this way.”

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

Note

so, we know that bucky has fairy's name tattooed and that fairy wanted to do the same, but did she actually do it?

permanent marker

18+

Content Warning: Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader, mature themes, fluff, sexual language, slight angst.

Series Masterlist

"This is nice," You breathe out with a content smile on your face.

Bucky's fingers continue rubbing your scalp as you rest against his chest, gently bobbing around in the pool on your big flamingo floatie. "We should do this more often," He mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder.

"But work," You groan, shaking your head. "Can't we just quit our jobs and live in your vacation home forever?"

"Financially? Sure," Bucky answers you with a shrug. "But my job isn't exactly the kind you can quit. And you worked too damn hard and racked up too much debt at law school to turn your back on it, now."

"Debt that you cleared before I even graduated," You grumble. "Still mad at you for that, by the way."

"Well, you can take it out on me tonight, over drinks at that fancy sky bar you like," He tells you. "The one with the live band."

"Ooh, yes please!" You exclaim, craning your neck back to look up at him. "Are we allowed to get drunk, or are we still flying home tomorrow?"

"We can stay another day," He says, moving his hands down from your hair to your shoulders which he gently rubs. "I'll talk to Stark for you."

"No, I'll call him," You say sternly. "I don't need you being rude to him."

"Rude?" Bucky repeats with a scoff as the floatie hits the edge of the pool. "I'm not rude. I'm firm."

"You're overly macho, and it irritates him," You tell him while he gets out of the pool and stands on the edge. Lifting up your arms, you wait for him to pick you up and place you on the ground before the two of you walk over to the sun loungers.

"I'm the perfect amount of macho," Bucky claims as you both sit down. "He needs to know he can't mess you around. That you have me looking out for you."

"Trust me, James, he knows," You grumble.

Looking down at the table between you, Bucky pouts and reaches out his hand. "C'mere, fairy. You're too far away."

You get up and walk over to his lounger, where he pulls you onto his lap. Your legs are on either side of his as you sit on his lower stomach. He picks up a black, felt-tip pen from the table before biting off the lid and pulling your body down, until you're lying down next to him.

"What're you doing?" You mumble, trying to look down at your collarbone on which he's writing. "Jamie, that's permanent marker!"

"Relax, fairy," He whispers soothingly as he concentrates. "It'll come off."

You huff, but let him continue. It doesn't take him long to finish his masterpiece, but you can't look down far enough to even see what it says. "What did you write?" You ask him, trying to see it but failing terribly.

With a smirk, he takes his phone out and snaps a picture before showing it to you. There, on your collarbone, are his initials; J.B.B, with a tiny heart at the end. He points at his tattoo of your name and winks. "Now, we match."

The smile on your face is wide and unkillable, as you feel your stomach flip. "Cute."

"You're cute," He says while lightly flicking your nose, before patting your thigh. "Alright; you should go get ready. Xaviére's gonna be here any minute to take you out."

"Oh, shit!" You exclaim, jumping to your feet. "She's gonna kill me if I make her late to our nail appointment. I'll see you later?"

"Meet me at the bar," Bucky tells you, standing up. "Our reservation is for 8."

"I'll be there," You promise, leaning up to kiss his cheek as you buzz with excitement. "What color nails do you want me to get?"

Tilting his head, he contemplates it while wrapping his arms around you. "Blue. Get that swirly, pretty shit."

Laughing softly, you nod. "Sounds good. I'll see you later, bubba."

"Stay with Xavi, and don't talk to strangers," He tells you firmly, before kissing your forehead. "You know where my wallet is?"

You nod while walking backwards. "Yeah- in your black jacket, right?"

"Should be on the bed," He informs you. "I'll see you tonight. Have fun, baby."

"I will!" You promise, your body alight with anticipation for your plan.

Bucky's sitting alone at a table, looking through the wine menu as he awaits your arrival. Somewhere between the Malbec and Barolo, he hears familiar opening notes being played by the live band behind him on the stage. He narrows his eyes. Surely not? What a wild coincidence it must be that they're playing-

"Our song," You call, suddenly appearing before him with a grin. "What a wild coincidence."

While the band plays a rendition of Rosana's Si Tu No Estás Aqui, Bucky laughs in disbelief. "How much did you bribe them?"

You shrug, waving your hand flippantly. "Just flashed them my tits; nothing major."

He shakes his head, smiling as he watches one of the waiters come over to take your jacket. Slowly, you pull it off, revealing your low-cut dress and your freshly-inked collarbone. Bucky's heart skips a beat when he sees the letters J.B.B and a tiny love heart tattooed onto your skin in his handwriting, and he wonders whether he's dreaming.

"What?" he whispers, utterly shocked.

You laugh melodically before handing the waiter your jacket and sitting down, raising a brow at him. "Do you like it?"

"Mhm," You confirm. "Xaviére took me to her tattoo guy. The second I saw what you drew on me, I knew I wanted the real thing."

Still astonished, he scoffs. "Baby," He breathes out, holding his hands out to you. "Get the fuck over here. Now." Happily, you walk over to him and let him pull you onto his lap as he stares at the tattoo. "This- you just got this?"

With his arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, feeling his heart race. "Fuck. It looks- it's fucking perfect. You're perfect. I wasn't expecting you to actually get a tattoo for me."

"Not many people can say that they have a best friend who will fly them out to Argentina the second they complain about feeling overwhelmed," You say with a small smile.

"Fairy..." He whispers, tightening grip on you. He didn't need to say it to you, but he's been feeling overwhelmed, too. Almost a year has passed since his mother's death, and being alone with you is the only thing that brings him any solace anymore.

"Perfect," He repeats with a grin, in a slight daze. Trailing his hand up your thigh, he finds your hand and looks down at your nails. "They look pretty."

"I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you, and a materialistic gift wouldn't be enough," You explain, clinging onto him. "I wanted to prove how much you mean to me, and how much I want you in my life, forever."

The combination of your sweet words, the tattoo, and the song proves to be too much for him. It's a rare sight to see Bucky Barnes cry, even for you, but you know exactly what he needs as the tears spill out. You wrap your arms around him and pull him close to your chest, swaying him gently as you press a soft kiss to his head.

Sniffling, he hugs you tightly and mumbles against your chest, "I love you, fairy. So fucking much."

"I love you, Jamie," You whisper back. "Always, and no matter what."

"No matter what," He repeats. After a few moments, he lifts his head back up and looks up at you with glossy eyes. "Does it still hurt? Is it sore?"

Smiling, you shake your head and wipe his wet cheeks. "Not at all, bubba."

"Are you sure?" He asks. "Was the guy legit? Was his equipment clean? Did he touch-"

"It was all very professional, Buck," You assure him, placing your hands on his shoulders. "Don't you worry. Xaviére goes there all the time."

Nodding, he relaxes. "Alright. Good. God, I can't believe you did that to me."

You laugh heartily at that, squeezing his shoulder. "I told you I wanted one in Hawaii, when you showed me yours," You remind him. "I just never knew how I wanted it to look. If I wanted to get your first name, or Bucky, or both. And then you drew on me today, and it was perfect."

"You like them?" You ask brightly.

"You know I love everything about you," He mumbles, bringing your hand up to his lips and softly kissing the back of it. "You're absolutely gorgeous tonight, baby."

"Thank you, bubba," You reply shyly as your cheeks heat up. "You look very handsome."

"Yeah?" He asks with a smirk. "Good enough to eat?"

"Absolutely," You answer, before reaching forward and gently biting his cheek, leaving behind teeth marks as he sucks in air.

"That was sexy," Bucky comments lowly. "What else do you wanna bite?"

Snorting, you tilt your head. "Your dick," You quip sarcastically, expecting him to be disgusted - and utterly surprised when, instead, his eyes darken. Taken aback, you gasp. "Bucky, no!"

Biting his lip, he sits back. "Why not?"

"You like getting your dick bitten?" You ask him incredulously.

"If it was you," He says slyly. "Then, yeah."

Baffled, you blink at him slowly. "You... would want me... to bite your dick?"

Sighing, he pats your thigh. "I can't believe you'd give me a boner in front of all these nice people, fairy."

You jump off his lap immediately, glaring at him. "Gross. Uncalled for. Maniac," You list off.

He laughs heartily, not even bothering to try and hide his boner. "I'm sorry, baby, but you were the one dirty talking me."

"Dirty talki- no, James, I'm not doing this with you right now," You say sternly, before giving him a smile and stretching your hand out to him. "Come on. It's our song. Let's dance."

With a wink, he stands up and pulls you in closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Si tu no estás aqui," He sings along lowly. "Me quema el aire."

si tu no estas aqui, me quema el aire:

if you're not here, the air burns me

side blog for update notifications: @kinanabinksupdates

buy me a kofi <3

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

Text

— hate fuck —

synopsis: you’re annoyed when your vibrator dies, but bucky is more annoyed by your whining.

pairing: bucky barnes (roommate) x f!reader

word count: 3.0k

warnings: 18+ ONLY. enemies to lovers, roommate trope, grumpy bucky, dirty talk, pet-names, so much sexual tension, masturbation, oral, penetrative sex (protected), denied orgasm, multiple orgasms, praise kink, size kink

With an exasperated huff, you turn onto your back and stare up at the crumbling ceiling above you. For once, your upstairs neighbours are quiet. Not to mention the temperature in your bedroom is ideal; not hot enough to want to rip your clothes off and just cold enough to sleep with one leg out of the blanket.

All you wanted was a good night’s sleep because tomorrow was your first day off in weeks. Not to mention the fact that tomorrow was a Saturday. Getting the weekend off was unheard of and you wanted to capitalize on it.

Keep reading

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

Text

Looped (again)

Summary: Bucky is inadvertently trapped in a time loop without any memory of the last five years, including his relationship with you. But you would do anything, if it meant getting to stay by his side. (alternate to Looped where the reader loses their memory)

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~16k

Warnings: memory loss, angst, anxiety, Bucky in love

A/N: Companion piece to Looped! You can read this without reading Looped. This was a labor to write but so so fun. Please let me know what you think!

The first time you see Bucky, you think he is a person you would like to crack open. He is a story. He is the truth of the universe. He is the marrow of your bones.

Here is the person your soul has been calling to all your life.

He’s quiet and kind and believes that he is broken.

The first day you saw him, he had lifted his eyes from the floor to meet yours, only for a moment, and you had smiled.

You ask for nothing from him, watching and waiting for weeks until you happen to catch him wandering along alone one day and convince him to come outside with you, to walk with you.

To breathe in the new spring air and talk.

Something kinders inside you, tugs you by your heartstrings in his direction.

A silly little crush, because he’s beautiful and quiet and strange, like the first footprint on newly fallen snow.

This is a crush, you tell yourself, you crush on almost everyone.

But this crush, it's one that doesn’t go away and you always think back to that feeling, like you each held two ends of the same sting, like you both had been unconsciously tugging at it all your life.

You’re happy, burst through with pride and self-satisfaction, to find Bucky is drawn to you too, that he lets you draw him away from the stifling and sometimes sterile interior of the compound to take a walk and chat.

Or, rather, listen to you talk.

Bucky, those first few weeks, is silent as a tomb, only making passing comments that you suspect he only voices because they make you laugh. You have never seen a person look so warmed to garner a laugh from an offhand comment.

Like your laugh could sustain him.

But that is how you find out that Bucky is like a plant, that he absorbs until he’s full to bursting, until it's dangerous and rot might set in. Over time, you find ways to draw him out, to prod gently against bruised flesh until the words burst free from him. Gradually, he begins to talk with you, rather than letting you talk at him.

You do most of the talking that first day, but you don’t mind.

Because he smiles at you, when you haven’t seen him smile at anyone.

Because he offers you a hand so you can balance along the few stones that line the shore of the lake.

You’d gushed to Natasha that evening, who hadn’t said much at all, but instead smiled at you like she already knew a secret that you could not begin to guess at.

But you had gotten him that day, plucked him up like a forgotten stone in your path, considered him yours however he turned out to be yours. You knew that maybe he would only ever be your friend, that maybe he would only ever be a co-worker. But that was okay with you, because you got to know him, just a little bit.

Bucky was an added soul to your collection, a fragment of star dust that you would never let harm befall. Whether friend, or something more, or walking partner on quiet spring evenings.

He is yours, that you know.

But none of that matters.

What matters is that he smiles at you, always. What matters is that he seeks you out the next day and asks you what you’re reading.

You remember the desperation in his eyes when he realized he was late to therapy, that you had made him late. You’d thought he would be nervous, but all he had said was will you still be here in an hour?

What matters is that he not only asks you what you’re reading that day, but goes out of his way to find his own copy of your books.

Just so he can read them too, just so he can talk to you about something that is not himself.

He brings you colorful pens and sticky tabs and post-its that were probably stolen from someone’s office, when he notices your annotations in the margins of your book. You notice that he starts to do the same, careful chicken scrawl blacking out the sides of each page.

But you don’t care.

Because what matters is that he has chosen you too, exactly how you are.

What matters is that he suggests you start reading together, to save some paper, of course, when you’re reading the same thing. Why not read it together? From the very same pages?

What matters is that his thigh touches yours when he moves closer over a period of months that draws you together like there really was a string tied between you, that both of you were constantly tugging on.

Bucky even reads out loud for you, voice rumbling to a stop whenever anyone else enters the room, brows pulling together in irritation, like you were a bubble he lived inside and hated to see popped.

Bucky is like the silence of a forest in spring, quiet and watchful.

He’s gentle and kind like a burst of sunshine.

But his reading voice is strong as an oak, gruff and deep. Sometimes you worry he’ll just lull you to sleep.

He laughs softly, speaks slowly. He lets Sam rib him and Steve worry like the mother hen he is.

He is life and strength flitting between the branches of trees after a long winter, dappled sunlight on the edge of a sea.

The way he leaned close to you, carefully drifting closer over weeks until his thigh pressed against yours, made you want to know everything about him.

Maybe you’ve been in love with that quiet strength from the first time you met him, hesitant and unsure, newly healed mind sticky with memories like pine needles stuck together with sap.

The cracked pieces of his mind were healing slowly, and you refused to do anything that might hinder him in any way. You watched him struggle and suffer to get better, to sew himself back together.

You were happy to be there for it.

You love him all the same for it, maybe more.

It was never your goal to coax him into more than he was willing to give. You’d have been his friend for the rest of time if he let you, though you’d glowed with warmth that day at Coney Island when he kissed you.

Unexpected and terrifying.

And yet so welcome.

The fear had bled into something more potent, a determination to give all of yourself over to him while you could. When he realized that you were nothing and only loved you for your nearness and nothing else, you’d be happy to have gotten to push him out into the open world, so he could find the trueness of love that he most definitely deserved.

But fuck, are you glad to have him, to call him yours.

It's only after years of friendship that you find out that his arms are like the solidity of an ancient forest, that he tastes like honeydew in spring, that his skin is firm and soft under careful lips, that the give of his skin is like salt on your tongue.

Bucky finds safety with you, finds you tart and sweet in a way that you can’t understand, in a way that makes the tension drain from his face, his eyes go soft.

It almost embarrasses you, how much love he wears on his face.

Because you know he thinks he hides it well, that he wears a mask that conceals all he has ever felt, but you see it and you know.

Maybe you always knew you did not deserve all those moments, and so when Bucky loses his memories again, it feels like the universe laughing at you.

A grand practical joke years in the making, to rip the stitches out of your side and make you bleed, because despite telling yourself that when Bucky moved on from you, you would let it happen with grace -

You find out that that is not true.

You want to keep him.

You do not want to lose him. You want to sit in the rays of his sunshine for the rest of your life, you want to listen to the breathing of the quiet forest that lived inside him.

If the universe dared rip him from you, if it dared to rip and tear and take.

Well.

It would not do so without you ripping and tearing and taking back.

Normally, usually, when the team goes on a mission, you stay back at the compound, where you are in no danger of anything, securely tucked away in safety. You are not an Avenger, you’re only an intel analyst that, by a stroke of good fortune, ended up working for Stark.

But Natasha was gone, on a mission of her own, and you had volunteered yourself.

Bucky’s protest had been swift and immediate. A growled no that resonated deep inside you, that spoke of a fear that he would never dare voice. Steve hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, Bucky moving in front of you like if he could hide you, Steve would forget your offer.

“I’m trained,” had been your only refrain, a gentle reminder to him that you were not as breakable and fragile as Bucky sometimes liked to believe. You reached out, touched the inside of his wrist and watched his shoulders loosen, the tension in his neck soften into nothing.

The mission goes fine, as you had predicted.

Of course, until the very last moment where you decided to rifle through one last filing cabinet.

Bucky had turned, motioned you away from it, “I’ll do it, sweetheart. C’mere and download whatever is on here.” He had gestured to a computer screen that had just flared to life.

You switched places, your hand drawing away from the brass handle of the drawer you almost opened.

And so you had watched from across the room in horror as a nasty blue vapor blew into his face when he opened the drawer meant for you. He spluttered and wiped a hand across his nose and eyes, shaking his head to clear it away, stumbling away from the drawer.

But now, Bucky is staring at you on the jet back to the compound, his head at a ninety degree angle to keep you in his field of vision, watchful and serious, that little crease between his brows pinched tight just like it had been before the mission.

You reach up again now and smooth your fingers over it, begging silently for the stress to drain from his shoulders, but he remains painfully tense.

Before boarding the jet he’d been staring at you silently, brooding and moody and a little mad. You had only smoothed your thumb against the worried crease between his brows then too. “It’s going to be fine, Bucky.” He had nodded, eyes softening when you smiled at him.

It was a testament to his trust in you that he had not argued with you, that you knew what you could handle and that you knew he would have your back.

“Are you sure you didn’t breathe any of it in?” He asks now, reaching up to take your hand away from his face, to fold your fingers between his and squeeze tightly.

Your belly swoops with the dip of the jet, an uneasiness sitting at the back of your throat. “Bucky, I was on the other side of the room. We should be worried about you for now.”

The line on his forehead still doesn’t go away. “I know,” he says, finally glancing down and away from you, his eyes landing on your intertwined fingers. “I’m worried about you though, doll. I can’t help it.” His voice is quiet and solid, the last protector of some ancient forest, your self dedicated guard.

“We’re going to worry about you first,” you say firmly. “You are the one who breathed in that stuff. You’re going to the medbay as soon as we land.”

Bucky huffs out an irritated breath. “You need to be checked out first,” he says stubbornly. “You were in that room too-,”

“Bucky, honey, it went directly in your face,” you remind him gently, trying not to think about that terrifying blue neon vapor in his eyes, the panic that had immediately spiraled up from your gut. How he had waved you back, told you not to come near him, eyes pinching shut as he shook his head.

And then sneezed.

You aren’t sure you’d ever heard him sneeze before.

It wasn’t like Bucky got sick or had allergies.

The sneeze more than anything had brought worry to the forefront of your mind.

You know that Bucky is still a little bit mad at you for not listening to him when he warned you away from him. You’d leapt across the room despite his protests, cupped his jaw, turned his face so you could look into his eyes, read the dread written in his gaze.

“You are going to the medbay and you will get checked out,” you say again, firm in this.

“I feel fine,” he grumbles, eyes on your hands again. “It's you I’m worried about. Whatever it was probably won’t affect me because of the serum. Nothing does anymore. But you, sweetheart, even being in the room could be enough-,” He stops, glances away from you, a nerve jumping in his jaw as he clenches it.

You squeeze his fingers until he looks back at you, your spring storm, your quiet forest. “Bucky,” you start, leaning in until you can press your nose against his temple, inhale the scent of him, like worry and fear, but underneath that the scent of peach, the scent of you on his skin, the homey smell of him, of pine needles in rain. “What if it had been me?” You ask gently. “Put yourself in my shoes here. What if it had been blown in my face? What would you make me do?”

“Go to medical,” he answers. “I get it, sweetheart. I’ll go. You’re gettin’ checked out too though.”

“Fine. I can live with that. But you are going first.”

You lean your chin against his shoulder then, sighing when he leans against you, the tilt of his head a welcome weight against yours. “Me first,” he agrees, sounding reluctant.

The scent of him overwhelms you, like fresh spring air, rain scented and green.

You tell yourself everything will be okay.

When the jet lands, you herd Bucky to the medical wing of the compound, you hold his hand while his blood is drawn and taken away in vials that make you sick to look at.

He clutches your hand, tight but not too tight, thanking you in that strange way of his for staying with him and holding his hand. There’s still an unspoken fear in him that you understand without it being said, a mistrust of needles and prying fingers.

The worry drains away when he meets your gaze, his shoulders dropping, back softening against your hand when you tap your fingers along his spine.

“I know I could never dream up something like you, sweetheart,” he tells you, not looking at Helen as she sticks a bandaid against the inside of Bucky’s elbow. “You remind me that I’m okay. I always know that I’m real when I’m with you.”

You don’t know what to say when he tells you things like that, always random and always said softly, like he’s not sure it's the kind of thing he should say, the kind of thing he should get to feel.

Surprise makes you speechless and you can only pat his cheek, glad that it's only you and him and Helen, who politely ignores you for the moment.

Bucky takes your hand and stands, pushes you down in his seat, “Your turn,” he says firmly, dutifully and carefully rolling up your sleeve in gentle turns until it is above your elbow, before he cups his fingers against your wrist, that comforting gesture between you.

Your blood tests come back normal. Bucky’s come back as normal as they ever are for a hundred year old super soldier. You joke with the medical staff and laugh like you always do, though worry is burning a hole through your belly, through your bones. Bucky seems totally and completely fine.

Steve and Sam, Tony and Bruce, make an appearance to question you about what happened, take the collection tube with a sample of the vapor from you, the hard drive.

Testing the blue vapor will take a little more time to analyze. And the only thing you can do, it seems, is wait.

You are told to rest and watch over Bucky. You are told that there shouldn’t be any danger for the time being.

You want to keep the data, itching to begin sorting through it, to look for any danger lurking in the vapor.

But Bucky tugs on your hand, eager to be away from the sterile medical wing, and you follow easily, because you would follow him anywhere but especially to the safe, cozy nest that is your apartment, that is the circle of his arms.

He so frets over you that you have to remind him time and again that he is the one that has been compromised, that he is the one that needs nurtured and cared for.

Something in him always rebels against it, likes to be the cradler rather than the cradled, likes to be the protector rather than the protected. His agency isn’t compromised if he is those things, he is still in control, still Bucky.

But once you get your arms around him and get him to settle it's almost impossible to move again, he's so entranced by the act and art of being held, of being protected, that being held and protected did not mean that he was lost but found, that he belonged.

This night, he demands you stay together, every moment must be in the other’s presence. He’s watching you, watchful of every move you make, hovering like a new parent, like he’s waiting for you to collapse.

He grouses under his breath, as you have a quick dinner, that they should have done more for you. They should have made you stay in the med wing, they should have swabbed the inside of your nose, they should have run more tests on your blood.

“Bucky,” you chide. “What about you?”

“I don’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

And you know he really believes that, that the serum in his veins stubbornly protected him even when he had wished that it wouldn’t, even when he had begged for it to stop. And so he believes this time will be the same, that he is okay while everything he’s built crumbles around him.

You have no qualms about him keeping you close, have nothing to say about him tugging you into the shower with him and holding you close, hands soft against your skin, breathing in the scent of you. Being together means you can watch him too. You aren’t foolish enough to believe that the tear in the earth did not want to consume your happiness as much as anyone else's. You aren’t naive enough to believe that the universe did not like to see you ripped apart at the seams.

Bucky uses your peach body wash, like dousing himself in the scent of you could protect him from the claws of the future always scratching at his door. But you delight in the pine and rain scent of him, like a forest floor after a spring storm, strong and steady and silent. Like a tree that could never be felled. The scent of him is like home, like safety, and so you’re only a little annoyed at the peach smell that sometimes sticks to his skin.

You never feel safer than when Bucky takes you in his arms, than when he looks at you with such love and affection it feels like a river that will never run dry, will never stop providing to you.

When you’re both clean and soothed that the other is still whole and well, not drifting away like flotsam in the air, you towel off and make a cup of tea.

Bucky wears only a pair of briefs and you slip on your favorite t-shirt of his.

You let Bucky select a movie, patiently asking him if he’d let you rub moisturizer into his skin. He acquiesces, sighing falsely like it’s a great pain to be loved.

You sit behind him on your bed and touch the smooth skin of his back, pay special attention to the puckered skin that runs around his left shoulder, the scars that litter the rest of him like morbid confetti. You press your mouth to the base of his neck and squeeze his fingers when he reaches back to circle your wrist with his fingers.

And you wonder.

What would he be doing now if it had been you?

You have a sinking feeling that it was supposed to have been you.

You should have inhaled that noxious blue vapor.

It should have been you.

Bucky leans back into you, lets you circle your arms around his shoulders and neck, knocks his forehead softly against your jaw when you take a shaky breath, caught up in your own thoughts.

What would Bucky be doing now? If it were you and not him?

Probably exactly the same things you’ve done. Dinner and a shower. Comfort and a favorite movie. Bucky probably would have also made a bowl of popcorn and tucked you in safely next to him, curled around you like he could become the shell of your armor, like he would sacrifice himself to shield you from everything. He would have held you until you fell asleep and stayed up all night watching over you.

You flip the cap closed on the bottle of coconut scented moisturizer and set it on the bedside table, tucking your arms around his head, holding Bucky close instead when he turns in your arms, his head against your chest, solid arms folding around your back. “Lie down, Buck,” you say gently. “Please rest.”

And he would do anything for you, this you know, because that is the kind of person Bucky is, so he relaxes against you so that you can draw the comforter up over both of you, create a warm little nest, blocking out the light of the still flashing television screen, movie already forgotten, mugs of chamomile tea going cold.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” You whisper, lips brushing his forehead, fitting your arms around the shape of him.

Bucky doesn’t answer.

Instead he hooks his fingers against the curve of your knee and hitches your leg over him, entwining you fully together. You melt under him, slip closer than you deserve to be.

The scent of pine and rain draws over you, bringing you home, reminding you that all is okay and that you are safe, that Bucky is safe.

It reminds you that something like vapor…

was harmless.

The first time the loop resets, you find out what it is to have your heart broken.

You understand those stories suddenly, of people dying from a broken heart.

Bucky falls asleep that night and you do not. He falls asleep pressed against your chest, arms tight around you like he could fuse you together, like the pressure of your arms and weight of you beneath him reassured him that he was okay, that you were alive and well after the mission he had been so terrified of.

Somewhere near three in the morning, you brush the short locks of his hair back, kiss his forehead and gently wriggle out of the vise of his arms. It’s a testament to his trust in you that he does not wake up with the movement. You click the TV off and climb out of bed, not able to dispel the feeling that something was about to go horribly awry.

For a moment, you stand and stare at him, at his cheek squished against the pillow, the ever present line in his forehead gone, years taken away from him in sleep, like nothing bad had ever befallen him.

You lean down to whisper your love one more time, to kiss his cheek, the stubble beneath your lips like the rasp of a whisper against your skin.

The world is weighted in your hands and you are suddenly so sure that it's fragile, that it's so breakable and you are the one who’s about to crush it.

You pull away from him hard, stumbling backward, fear sloshing in your belly, a panic that you aren’t sure how to shove down creeping up the back of your throat.

Anxiety bites at your skin, every fear you harbored swimming up to rest in your mouth, make you dizzy with nausea.

What if it was poisonous? What if it was killing him?

You tug on a pair of sweatpants, tucking the sliver of Bucky’s dog tags inside your shirt before you sneak down to the analysts’ offices to grab your computer, hijack the drive with the data you and Bucky had collected and go back to the apartment to set up at your kitchen island.

So you can keep watching over Bucky, so you can stay close to him where you belong, while you begin sorting through the data for the answers to the questions burning at the back of your mind.

What the fuck did Bucky breathe in? What was the blue vapor?

Night turns to morning, the apartment slowly lightening as the sun rises in the east. The windows show well maintained lawns and the fluttering of emerald leaves. The sky is a bright azure blue, the color of Bucky’s eyes.

Your thoughts turn back to him, back to the way he did not care about himself, did not think to preserve himself, like your being okay would not be canceled out if he was not also okay.

The data yields nothing of interest, at least not yet, and you’re just thinking of getting up to stretch and make some breakfast when the bedroom door opens.

The first time the loop resets, you find out what it is to lose everything, to be lost at sea.

Bucky stands in the doorway, bleary eyed with a deep sleep. He looks so soft and warm, you immediately stand up. You want to tug him into you, press your nose to his neck and inhale the scent of pine and rain, peach and honey. You want to let him cradle you, comfort you that everything will be alright.

That he will be okay, that you will be okay.

The voice that meets you is quiet and gentle, hesitant. He says your name, but it's odd on his tongue, like he isn’t sure he should say it, like confusion is making a home inside his bones.

“Morning, Buck,” you coo, stepping around the table, waiting for him to hold out his hand to you so you can take it and let him tug you into his chest, “I was just about to make breakfast. How do you feel about pancakes?”

He stares at you, as though you’re a stranger, as though you are speaking a language he does not understand.

Bucky’s eyes flick down your form as you move closer, before darting away from you, pink tinging his neck and the edge of his jaw. “What are you doing here? Steve ask you to check on me?”

Confusion loops through you, makes you stop in your tracks. Steve? Why would you be here because Steve asked you to be?

“What do you mean, honey?”

At your words, Bucky goes a deeper shade of pink before his cheeks blanch white. “Why are you here?” He asks again, a curl of suspicion at the edge of his voice.

“I-,” you’re not entirely sure how to answer. An awkward silence descends between you.

A breath sticks in your lungs that you can’t seem to dispel when he says, “I think you should go.”

“Buck? Are you okay?,” you ask, shaking your head and moving closer to him. Only to stop when he backs away from you, like you were a predator about to strike.

You stop moving, watching him carefully, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s terrified, you realize. He’s terrified of you.

“No,” he echoes back to you. “You have to leave. I don’t understand what’s happening and that’s never good,” he says, self-deprecating as he’s always been. “I thought Shuri fixed me. But my memories…I went to sleep in that bed last night, in that room, but the sheets definitely weren’t purple.” They’re your lilac sheets of course, your fluffy duvet covers his bed, your cotton scented sheets, because Bucky is so irritatingly utilitarian about things sometimes, either a product of his generation or a subconscious by-product of what he thinks he deserves.

“There wasn’t a TV in that room. There are books and clothes that I don’t recognize and -,” he stops and swallows and takes a step back from you. You bought the TV together a few years ago, the books and clothes are yours and his jumbled together. “You need to leave. I don’t want to hurt you. Things go to shit when I don’t remember. People get hurt.”

Hurt you?

How could Bucky ever hurt you?

You can’t make the words make sense, none of what he’s saying makes any sense. He is not making any sense.

Your fingers feel brittle, your bones like they might crumble. The room is so cold but you don’t remember it being that way minutes before.

He trembles and leans against the wall, on the verge of a full blown panic attack. “I can’t remember getting any of that stuff.” Bucky reaches up and touches his hair, “I don’t remember getting my hair cut.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, “I can’t do this again,” he whispers. “I can’t forget again.”

You move slowly closer, edge around the table, trying not to spook him, stopping when you’re an arms length away. “What do you mean, Bucky? What do you mean you don’t remember?”

He swallows, eyes hooking on you suddenly, fastening onto his dog tags poking out of your shirt. “What the fuck is going on?” His voice is hoarse. “How did you get those?”

“Bucky-,” your voice is desperate and beseeching, even to your own ears. You reach up to fist your hand around the name plates.

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, shaking his head, sheepish. “I know we-,” he swallows and looks disappointed in himself. “Sorry, I thought I was better than this.”

Something is wrong. You choke on that knowledge, feeling like the threads of your life are being ripped from your fingers.

The floor is cold against your toes, like you’re slipping across broken ice.

Bucky doesn’t remember you.

Bucky doesn’t fucking remember you.

“What - what do you think happened?”

You try not to think of the vapor, try to chalk his behavior up to a dream he may have just woken up from, memories of another time at the forefront of his mind.

But you know.

The vapor that you’ve been trying to find information on for hours is showing itself to you in real time.

Gone, you think.

Erased.

The vapor took him from you, but not in the way you feared.

This is how you find out there are things much worse than death.

And it was your fault.

Bucky doesn’t remember you.

When you reach out to touch him, he jerks away violently, looking at your fingers like you would burn him. Your mind can’t make sense of him pulling away from you, and without meaning to, you reach out again, some part of your brain distantly thinking don’t! But you do and when your fingertips brush his arm softly, he flinches, his body wrenching away from your touch.

You recoil and back away, swallowing down the horror and pain.

And try to remind yourself that this is a man who has lost his memory more than once.

He doesn't seem to know you at all, and so he won’t trust you.

He’s afraid of you.

And that knowledge almost drowns you.

“Bucky-,”

“No,” he says, cutting you off. “I don’t…I don’t want you here.” He won’t look at you, hurt and embarrassment burns a hole into your stomach, acid dripping through your veins. Your heart gives a painful thump. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you….I’m sorry. For whatever brought you to me.”

He doesn’t realize it, but he’s mourning you. He is mourning your relationship. He is apologizing for being yours.

Crushing despair threats to pull you under the surface of your grief and confusion.

You swallow back the tears burning your throat and force yourself to nod. Like he did not just say something entirely earth-shattering. “I’m so sorry, Bucky,” and you are. For the rest of your life you will regret touching him in that moment, to have him fear your hand is worse than any tourture that could ever be dreamed up. “I shouldn’t-,” you stop and force yourself to snap out of it. This is not about you. “I can’t leave you like this though. Please let me call Steve. He’ll be able to explain to you and help you.”

He nods, looking relieved, something familiar to him, something he knows. A bit of tension drains out of his shoulders. “Yes. Steve.”

Steve, his touchstone to reality.

You back away slowly, move toward the table to grab your phone. Your hands are shaking and it takes you more than a few tries to find his contact and press call.

You remember those first days with Bucky as a friend, serene with slow building trust. You had chatted his ear off on walks around the grounds, held silence with him reverently over books.

He’d learned quickly, brought you a new pen to begin your joint venture through your first book together. The first time you had read from the same pages, instead of the same story from different books. It had required you share space and patience. And you had and it had been so easy.

Sometimes, you had read out loud, sometimes the book was held between the two of you, silence in reading, a code of taps that indicated when you were finished with the page and when you needed more time.

You’ve always understood each other, even in the very beginning.

Especially in the beginning.

For the first time, it feels like you aren’t even speaking the same language.

Now, you wait in the hall outside your own apartment, Bucky’s you suppose, it's always been his and not yours, pacing back and forth, up and down the hall. After hours or minutes or days, Steve emerges from the apartment and you stop.

“It’s the vapor, isn’t it?” You ask, fingers twisting together when Steve closes the door behind him.

Bucky is the kind of person you want to live inside of, warm and caring of those he loved and trusted. You cannot imagine your world without the warmth he offered you.

But hadn’t you always known that the love between you was meant to have an expiration date? Sure, you had not imagined it this way, but you had imagined it.

Imagined the day he thanked you for being his first love after finding himself again and said goodbye.

The day at Coney Island had been hot, the sun setting in the west, the darkening eastern horizon reflecting deep cerulean blue and cotton candy pink on the waves of the ocean. Bucky had been standing close to you, his head bent over yours. He’d been doing that a lot recently, standing so close you felt like you couldn’t breathe, almost afraid for what might happen if you let too much hope drip into your veins.

And then he had kissed you, so suddenly and without any fanfare.

And your soul had mourned, a warning echoing through you that you would break your heart on the shore of this moment.

The only thing you could do when he pulled back and looked into your eyes with a soft smile, was punch him.

A light knock, meant to chastise him more than anything. You were preparing to play the whole thing off as a joke, despite his lingering closeness, despite his flesh hand against your cheek and his left against the bear in your arms, the stupid toy he had won for you at one of the skill booths.

Of course, punching Bucky Barnes on the left arm no matter how light would end in disaster.

He’d been horrified and apologetic, embarrassed beyond belief, his cheeks pink while you searched for someone to give you ice, apologizing and explaining until you pressed a hand over his. “Bucky, was this supposed to be a date?”

“Supposed to be, yeah,” he had murmured. “Guess now I ruined everything.”

He hadn’t but you had been terrified, worried of the future when Bucky realized that you weren’t all that special, that you were only the first kind person to him after he’d found himself again, attached to you as he was while he healed.

He would realize eventually, surely he would.

But that day, you decided you didn’t care, you would take the time he would give you greedily and without restraint because you had loved him for so long, it didn’t matter if his love was fleeting.

Now, Steve looks at you with worry, despair.

“It looks that way.”

“No, Steve, maybe he’s having an episode, maybe-,”

“When’s the last time he regressed in his memory? Not since Shuri got to him and he came here from Wakanda.” Steve looks wrecked, “Not since the trigger words were removed. And not since he’s met you. This shouldn’t be possible anymore.”

“Steve-,”

“He doesn't remember anything from the last five years, Y/N. He thinks he just got here from Wakanda. Remembers everything before that. According to him he’s only been living here for a couple weeks. He says yesterday was the first time he talked to you, that you guys went on a walk together.”

You stare, and your knees wobble, and Steve puts a steadying hand on your shoulder. You can’t make yourself understand what any of it means.

“Maybe, until we figure out how much is what he breathed in and how much is just…Bucky, maybe it's best if you-,”

“Yeah, of course,” you squeak out, trying to cover the crack in your voice. “Best to keep him around things he always knows.”

And Bucky very clearly does not know you.

Not anymore.

Steve says your name, reaches out to you, but you step away, claw marks ripping up the inside of your lungs. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean-,”

But you can’t breathe and so you step away, again and again, until you’re moving away from him down the hall. Fleeing from Steve, but the look too in Bucky’s eyes, empty of the understanding that had always lived there.

Maybe you’d always known that you would lose Bucky, but you never thought it would be like this.

Eventually you stop running and close your eyes and feel the earth tilt, laugh, and spit you out into the cold alone. You lean against the cold wall and try not to feel so alone.

The second time the loop resets, it's better for Bucky.

It's worse for you, because you find out its a fucking loop.

You had avoided everyone at the compound for the rest of that first horrible day, throwing yourself into combing through the intel you had gathered, desperate for answers to your questions, ignoring Steve’s phone calls, sending him to voicemail time after time.

If you couldn’t be by Bucky’s side, then you would help him in other ways.

You would review data and intel until you passed out, until you went blind.

You go back to your old rooms where none of your things are, where you haven’t slept in years and everything is sterile. Where the mugs in the cabinets are plain white ceramic, where there are no books and sheets that do not hold the scent of you and Bucky.

You don’t see Bucky for the rest of that day and it breaks your heart. It makes you feel empty, like the center of your chest is a cavity that can’t be filled. You realize that you’ve been stupid all these years to believe you would ever be able to move on from a love like the one you feel for Bucky.

The next morning things become infinitely worse. You’re working on your laptop at your bare kitchen table when Steve knocks and enters without waiting for you to let him in, a haunted look in his eyes, “It's a loop.”

You close your eyes, exhausted. You haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. “What does that mean, Steve?” You snap.

“Have you slept?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve been going over the intel. Tell me what that means.”

Steve swallows and folds his hands together as he sits next to you at the table. “It means he’s not having some regressive episode. He…reset overnight. He thinks it's yesterday again. Asked him what he did yesterday, what day it was, and the only thing he would say is that he went on a walk with you around the compound.”

And that’s how you discover that Bucky isn’t just reset five years into the past, he’s on some kind of self setting loop.

You try not to think about Bucky five years ago, that you had made such an impression on him that he used it as a marker for what he had done that day.

“Why is this happening, Steve? Is it going to reset everyday?”

Steve shakes his head and holds out a hand for you to take and squeeze. “Don’t know. I guess we have to wait until tomorrow and find out.” You briefly grasp his hand but let it go just as quickly, because it is not the hand you want comforting you.

“It should have been me,” you whisper, leaning over your keyboard, fingers cold where you grip the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “I was the one that was going to go through that cabinet and-,” you stop, your throat tight. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll fix it. I’ll let you know when I find something.”

Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, “You need to sleep.”

“Steve-,”

He stands, shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t look at you. “It wouldn’t have been any better if it were you. Don’t blame this on yourself. Like you said, we’ll figure this out.”

“You can’t honestly think that,” you say. “This is so much worse. This might retraumatize him and it's my fault because I-,”

“It isn’t,” he interrupts. “Bucky would torture himself out of his mind if it were you. Come say hello to him when you have a minute. I tried explaining to him about you but he seems to think I’m fucking with him. Doesn’t believe you guys could have gotten together.”

The knife in your heart sinks a little deeper.

You scoff instead of crying. “Can’t imagine why.” You look back at your computer screen. It’s not like you were ever any good for him anyways, not like you were meant to last forever. “I think it’s best not to confuse him. Just leave me out of it. He doesn’t know me anymore.”

“You’re an important part of his life-,”

“Now I am. I wasn’t then. Bucky five years ago is going to be confused by me. Stick to what he knows is solid, Steve. That’s not me.”

Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm, “You have never been confusing to Bucky. Trust me on that.” He lets go and moves toward the door, not looking back at you as he says, “Get some sleep. Bucky will kill me when he gets his memory back if I let you run yourself ragged.”

You feel empty, like there’s a shiver inside of you that’s threatening to crack open every insecurity you’ve ever had.

You want to cry but you’re so exhausted you can’t manage it.

Avoiding the rest of the inhabitants of the compound is easy. You spend several days combing through intel until you find the notes and research about the vapor and present it to the team, only staying in the conference room briefly enough to present it before hiding back in your room again.

Not being with Bucky is like losing a limb, everything is the same and yet nothing feels the same. You feel strange, unmoored and adrift and you don’t know how to reign in your emotions anymore, so you simply ignore them, going empty and blank instead.

You can’t be upset if you don’t feel anything.

You can’t be upset that the love of your life doesn’t know you anymore if you feel nothing.

But guilt eats at you, because you have abandoned him, and you know Bucky would never do that to you.

Steve is right, Bucky would torture himself just to stay by your side.

If it were you, he would never leave your side.

But you still can’t help but feel that your presence would only confuse him, would only make him hate you later. If, when, he got his memories back, he would hate you, for making the torture of not remembering so much worse.

So, you aren’t expecting to be sought out. Because the love of your life does not remember you, does not know you at all.

You expect the rest of the team to keep him away from you, so that you don’t accidentally do inadvertent damage to his psyche, to the hard won security of self he normally possesses.

You’re worried, worried about harming him, about the flinch away from your hand, about asking for too much and retraumatizing him. About asking for nothing and still hurting him.

Memory is not an easy subject with Bucky.

Memory and the Bucky from five years ago, is a landmine, an unnavigable sea of the unknown.

Likely explaining to him that he’s lost years of memories, relationships, would make him spiral.

And he had to do it every morning.

And it was your fault.

Better to keep the explanations to a minimum. If he did not know about you, he could not think he lost more than he had.

So you’re surprised when, a week after the looping begins, a week where you don’t sleep and hardly eat and spend all your time trying to find out if an antidote already existed, Bucky appears at your door with a stack of books.

“Bucky,” you whisper when you answer the door. “Hi-,”

“Can I come in?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. “Steve said I could find you here.”

You blink in surprise before opening the door wider. Annoyance at Steve for meddling scratching at your skin. “Sure, Buck.”

Bucky carefully sets the stack of books in his hands down on the kitchen table. Your throat tightens when you catch sight of a few of the titles. The books are all well-worn, beaten up, tabbed and scratched in over and over again.

They’re your favorites, books you and Bucky had returned to the worlds of over and over through the last few years.

“Have you been sleeping?” Bucky asks abruptly, his eyes fastened on you.

You don’t answer, straightening and making an effort to smile, to act normal. “I’ve been busy…the others explained to you?” You ask, tapping one nail against the top of your closed laptop.

“Yeah, they said you’re the one that figured out that the vapor is a redo on the Winter Soldier program.” He shoots you a rueful smile and sits at the table without waiting for an invitation. “A bad one apparently since it didn’t throw me far enough back into the past.”

You swallow and don’t answer, crossing your arms over your chest, realizing that you’re still wearing his shirt from that first night after the mission.

It hasn’t been washed and the scent of Bucky has almost entirely faded from it, but you can’t bring yourself not to wear it. You don’t want Bucky to notice, worried it might make him feel awkward.

You long to fist your hand around his dog tags, but you can’t, not without drawing more attention to them.

“Steve told me you’ve been avoiding me. I…he said it's been a week.” He looks at you with eyes you know so well but without memories to fill in the gaps of who you are. Before you can begin to answer, Bucky reaches out and catches at the edge of your sleeve. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to make you do that. For what it's worth,” his eyes flick over you, “God, I wish I could remember you. You seem so familiar, like I used to know you.”

Of course Bucky would blame you not being around on himself.

Your heart softens just a little.

You let him tug your arms out of their crossed position, shock pinching your lungs when he cups his fingers around your wrist.

The Bucky you had been tentative friends with five years ago would have never touched you like that.

“Sorry,” he says, letting go of you almost immediately and you have to wonder what expression has crossed your face. “Like I said, you feel like-,”

He ducks his head. “We are together aren’t we? Steve and Sam aren’t messing with me?” You still just stand there and stare and Bucky says softly, “Please say something.”

You sit down next to him, reaching out to run your finger down the stack of books. His scent washes over you, pine and rain, like the strength of a forest home.

But it only serves to make you mourn, because he is not imbued with the scent of peach and plum too, like he’s already lost all of you.

Your heart is in your throat, the edges of your vision a little blurred. “Yes. We are.”

“I figured I should come talk to you today because it seems like maybe you’re beating yourself up about all this. Steve said it's been a week, said you were the one who found the notes about what the vapor does,” he prods again.

You nod, “Turn back the clock, make you the winter soldier again. Guess they didn’t calculate right or it was old and they meant to administer it earlier or-,” Your chest is tight and so you stop talking, fingers worrying at the edge of your shirt instead. “Was there something you needed?”

“To talk to you,” he peers at you with a shrug. “You know me best now, according to everyone.” Bucky’s cheeks slowly turn pink, the blush of strawberry peeking in at the edge of his jaw. “Seems impossible.”

Did he think so? You suppose he would.

To you, Bucky has always been inevitable, the home at the end of your path, the safety of a forest.

You forgot that he had not felt the same way, that he’d come to you slowly.

You try not to let the hurt show on your face, smile at him despite the echoing chambers of your heart. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Maybe a little.”

Bucky is being shy with you, something he hasn’t been in years, not since that first day, and you realize with a jolt that he never gets to tomorrow. He never seeks you out in the common area and asks you what you’re reading. Never overwhelms you with the spring scent of rain.

But he’s brought you a stack of books now and it seems like it's happening again.

Like it's happening all over again.

“Did something happen between us?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just,” he shifts in his chair. “You haven’t come to see me. And I don’t know what happened that first day. Were we fighting? Did I…Was there-,”

“Oh, honey, no,” you cut him off, a little bit disturbed that he would think you would ignore him over something stupid when he’d lost his memory. “You just don’t know me right now. I’m a stranger right now. I didn’t want you to -,” you swallow. “I always want to be where you are. Just thought it was better that I wasn’t. For now.”

“But I do know you. Now. I know you now,” he says urgently. “Right? I’m supposed to know you.”

“Yes, you do. You’re supposed to.”

“I don’t want to abandon you,” he says and your heart does crack. It splits right up the middle, cleaved in two. “I’ve been feeling like I’m missing something all day. And now…I know it sounds crazy but…I know it's you I’ve been missing. I knew as soon as you opened the door.”

He swallows and before you can reply continues on, “All your stuff is in my apartment. Everywhere there are traces of you. Of a life we have together.” His eyes drift down, hooking on the dog tags that you promptly reach up and first your hand around.

You nod, unable to speak.

“I read all your notes, in these books. My notes. I found-,” he stops himself from continuing, licking his lips and looking at you with beseeching eyes. “Would you tell me about us?” He looks nervous as he flips open one of the books and presents it to you. “Today, god maybe every day who knows, I looked through some of the books and I don't know we seem to be…we seem to really-,” He stops and looks at you, afraid to speak the words.

“Love. I love you. You love me. You’ll see that that’s true when you remember.”

You hoped he would at least, if he did not end up hating you for that first day, for how you had hurt him, terrified him.

His shoulders loosen, he reaches out again to press his fingers to the inside of your wrist, unconsciously confirming his own words to you. Part of him remembers and knows exactly who you are. You remember Bucky when you first met him, those first few weeks together where he listened more than he ever talked.

Some part of him is comfortable enough now to speak openly and frequently with you, to touch you so easily. “Have you been sleeping?”

You remember his hand in yours that day, how he offered his hand to you in a very old world way so that you could hop from rock to rock on the shore of the lake that very first walk together.

Steve’s words come back to you.

You have never been confusing to Bucky.

Bucky says your name nervously when you don’t immediately answer him.

“Not much.” You point to your laptop, “Busy trying to help.

“C’mon, then,” he says, standing and tugging you up. “This can wait.”

“It can’t,” you say, fiercely holding onto the book he handed you. “It can’t wait. I want to tell you about us if you want to know.” And suddenly it's the only thing that’s important to you, making sure Bucky knows how loved he is, what your relationship is like, how you met and got together and found solace together. Because what if he never remembered? What if this was forever?

Your voice cracks with the possibility that everything you’d come to set the foundation of your reality on might be gone. “Tomorrow you’ll forget again and-,”

“Not until tomorrow morning. It’s only afternoon. C’mon. You can tell me while you try to sleep,” he smiles at you and holds out a hand, asking you to trust him in that ever subtle way of his.

And because you really, really would follow him anywhere, you take his hand. You trust the hand that has never led you astray.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper as you point to the bedroom door and Bucky leads you that way.

Bucky, more nervous than he otherwise would be, says “I can stay in the room at least. ‘Til ya fall asleep.”

“‘S okay,” you murmur, patting the space in the bed next to you when you lie down. “I don’t bite. I’ll keep my distance if it makes you uncomfortable-,”

Your throat closes up, but Bucky just lies down. For a moment, neither of you say anything. The pain in your throat eases when he doesn’t seem to feel uneasy, the line of his body loose, muscles soft.

“When we were friends, you stayed over with me a lot. You would stay on my couch. I had a dedicated basket with blankets and pillows and sheets for you. You refused to stay in my room, I think because you thought you might have nightmares and -,”

You stop and swallow.

Silence descends between you, both staring at the ceiling.

A few minutes pass before you turn your head, just so you can smell him better, rain on pine needles, the strength of a forest hidden in the bones of a man.

You jump when he folds his fingers between yours, and he almost pulls away, but you hold on tight.

“Tell me more,” he requests quietly.

You remember that feeling you had when you first saw Bucky, like there was a story living inside the shell of him, a shell to be carefully carved open. You thought you had, that you had split him open and learned the inside of his soul.

Now, you think maybe you haven’t.

At least not all the way.

Should you be afraid to tell him these things? These feelings spiraling out of you? You’ve been afraid before, of saying too much, revealing too much, and making him uncomfortable. But you can tell him now, because he won’t remember in the morning, because every sin you commit might be erased.

And it's not fair to him but you want to share anyway. You want to tell him every tiny feeling and thought you’ve ever had about him.

You want to tell him how steady he is, and how comforting that is to you. How serious and protective he is, and how it annoys you but also makes you feel so safe, cradled in giant hands that would never let you fall.

How he reminds you of sunshine even when he’s being a gloomy little cloud.

How you had wanted to kiss him for years, and when he finally kissed you, you thought there wasn’t enough time to make up for the lost moments.

How he tastes like sunshine and honeydew, how his skin was like salt on your tongue.

You want to tell him about the beach at Coney Island, the dark sand, the moon behind his head, how warm it had been and the pure happiness that had sung right through your bones, burst the seams of your heart.

You want to tell him of all those moments with him where joy he inspired had stolen your breath, made you laugh until you were sick.

Like the irritated pout on his lips the day he’d taken you on a picnic and the bottle of wine had cracked and soaked the sandwiches he carefully made with his own hands. How he’d been so stupidly upset because he’d planned the whole thing and it had gone to shit, how he’d wanted to ask you to be his with a basterized version of a promise ring - dog tags slipped around your neck.

For now, you settle for telling him about the first time he slept in your bed.

You press your forehead into his shoulder, Bucky dipping his own head so his nose is pressed against your temple.

“You only stayed with me here once we were together. You insisted that the couch was fine but you have a problem saying no to me. You were afraid but nothing happened. We laid like this,” you squeeze his hand and then let go, cupping your fingers around his wrist instead, feeling his heartbeat in his veins. “And talked for hours. Just talked. You fell asleep before me and you told me the next morning that you didn’t dream. You said it like it was something impossible.”

You can’t believe he’s lying there with you now, touching you. Bucky five years ago would have never been convinced to lie next to you like this, not after knowing you for mere hours. It soothes you, to know that some part of him knows you, that the soul did not as easily forget as the mind.

“How did we get together?” Bucky asks after a beat of silence.

You tell the story.

Of Coney Island and the unknowable date, the punch and the kiss. And Bucky is laughing, a quiet huff of breath against your cheek.

“You smell really nice,” he murmurs, shifting closer. “Like summer.”

A smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself, “It's nice to know you haven’t been lying about that all these years.”

“Yeah?”

“You not so subtly lean in anytime I use this body wash. Best random purchase I ever made.”

He huffs out a little laugh, his face is so close to yours, his breath warm on your cheek. “Tell me something else.”

“In my version of your tomorrow,” you whisper. “You come to me and ask me about what I’m reading. That’s how we get to know each other.”

Bucky is quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking slowly over the back of your hand, “I know it's probably strange for you to hear, doll, but I really do feel like I know you.” He swallows and looks away from you, his throat working with an emotion you can’t fathom. “Don’t think I’d be able to lie here like this with you otherwise.”

“Maybe memories can be stolen but souls can’t,” you tip your head up to meet his gaze. “If anyone is proof of that it's you. No one ever got to the soul of you.”

His eyes are wide as he stares at you, his breathing hitching as his eyes flick down to your lips. “God ‘m fuckin’ confused.”

You squeeze his hand, “I know. We’ll fix it.”

“Promise me somethin’?”

“What?”

“Don’t stay away anymore. This is the best I’ve felt all day. Like I can calm down. Like I’m…like I’m finally home.”

But he doesn’t know about how terrified he’d been of you that first day, doesn’t know how he’d flinched away from you.

But you nod anyway.

You could apologize for that for the rest of your life. Abandoning the love of your life when he was vulnerable was unforgivable.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Promise me.”

“I promise, Bucky.”

You feel his lips against your forehead.

Maybe everything will turn out fine.

You spend the day with Bucky, you tell him things he should never know.

Like how the first day he’d kissed you, you had walked the long length of the beach in the dark, moonlight on waves, water soaking your toes and feet and calves.

How you had gone home, thrown a sheet over the couch and laid there with him for hours. He’d tried to get you to go shower and sleep in your bed but you couldn’t because everything felt like a mirage, like it would disappear if you didn’t hold onto it tight enough.

“You smelled so good. Like sand and salt and sea. I didn’t want to let go of the moment and you let me hold on.”

Bucky presses a hand to your back, leans down and whispers, “I’m real.”

And he is.

And so are you.

But that forested strength might forget you.

He certainly would in the morning.

And so as you’re leaving his apartment that night after a midnight dinner and a longer than necessary cleanup effort - you slip his dog tags off and leave them on the kitchen counter.

You stare at your shared bedroom door, at the all pink cookware Bucky had not minded you purchasing in the least still drying on the counter, and think about how if you deserved them, he could give them back to you.

When he remembered.

If he remembered.

Maybe the universe was finally giving him the redo he’d always wanted.

You had never thought that you were the thing that wasn’t right, that didn’t belong.

You don’t leave Bucky again.

Every morning you find him, usually with Steve, just to be safe, and explain to him, again and again.

You smile at him, and make breakfast.

Something different and elaborate everyday, even though he doesn’t remember the previous day’s meal.

Everyday, you watch his shoulders loosen and drop when he sees you, tension fading. Like his soul really did recognize yours and know it was safe with you.

Still, you avoid touching him, going near him at all, even though you yearn for it, and let him come to you.

And he does, every day, he finds his way to you. He touches the small of your back, the skin of your wrist. He presses his forehead to yours, dares to hug you outright some days, sits with you on the couch with his thigh pressed to yours.

This morning, Bucky is flipping through one of your many books when Steve finally departs and you pour two cups of freshly made coffee.

Bruce had finished an analysis of the vapor early that morning, and your hand shakes as you pour. You and Steve had come straight from the debriefing to Bucky. You were already tired, not able to sleep past 3 am.

The good news had been that the vapor would dispel on its own, the bad news was that it could take months.

Months, Bucky might lose months of time.

He had already lost so much in his life, it didn’t seem fair.

And again, you feel an overwhelming sense of despair cast over you.

“Are you okay?” He asks you now, tentative, drifting closer to you, book held in his hands.

You take a careful breath and smile at him. “Yeah,” you say, wiping sweaty hands on your jeans. “C’mere and eat before this stuff gets cold.” You made chocolate chip pancakes, a favorite you had introduced him to.

“How many days have you been doing this?” Bucky asks, ignoring the plate of pancakes you set on the counter, ignoring the demanding way you point at the barstool, indicating he should sit. “You look exhausted.”

“Gee thanks.”

“How many?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “Eat.”

Bucky’s brow is furrowed as he stares at you. “How many?”

“Don’t be stubborn about this.”

And for a moment you forget, you forget what you’re arguing about because it's so normal. One of you being inexplicably hardheaded about something stupid.

The divot between his brows, the serious line of his shoulders, the laser focus of his eyes never wavering from you.

It’s all so familiar and normal.

So, you reach across the counter and press a thumb over his brow.

He doesn’t flinch from your touch but you still jerk back, horrified at your mistake.

Bucky frowns but doesn’t comment on your actions.

“I’m not the one being stubborn,” he says, finally taking a seat at the counter, spinning the mug around so he can see the front, the Georgia peach mug you picked up for him in Savannah. His eyes turn toward you and you explain before he can even ask.

“A storm trapped me in Georgia and I had to stay in the airport overnight. You were so upset because it was hurricane season and you threatened to drive down and get me.” You reach out and touch his wrist, his nonreaction to your touch giving you a burst of confidence.

He doesn’t jump and you sigh, stepping around the island, closer to where he sits, taking strength in the shade of his forest. “I got you this as a funny consolation prize. You're obsessed with peach.”

“Noticed that in the shower this morning.”

“Used it too,” you note, leaning in.

But you miss the gentle scent of him in the mornings. Peach and honey, but rain and pine too, the lingering scent of sleepy cotton from the sheets.

Bucky takes a sip from the mug, and then says, “Tell me how many days.”

You let go of his wrist and take a seat next to him, watching as he frowns down at his own skin, the place you had been touching.

“I think we’re heading into week six,” you try to say casually, like you did not count each second. “Thirty-six days.”

Bucky’s mug clicks down hard against the counter and you cringe, trying not to meet his eyes you focus on spearing a bite of pancake. He says your name gently and you glance up. “I’m sorry,” he says, completely and utterly incomprehensible to you.

You pause, that ever present tightness forming at the back of your throat again. “Why are you sorry?”

“Can’t imagine doing this every day,” he says.

You laugh and don’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on his dog tags which now hang around his own neck. “Bucky, you are doing this everyday. And thanks to me, you can’t remember any of it.”

“But maybe it's worse to be the one that remembers.” He reaches out, touches the inside of your wrist gently. “Maybe it's so much worse. In this case.”

You let yourself be pulled toward him, and even Bucky seems surprised, engulfing you in a hug you didn’t know you needed. “Every day for thirty-six days? When I get my memory back, I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing for this.”

“It wasn’t every day and it isn’t your fault,” you murmur, tentatively lying your head against his shoulder, amazement coursing through the veins in your heart when Bucky sags into you, holds you tighter. “It's my fault and I left you at the beginning when you would have never done that to me.”

For a moment he doesn’t reply, but then he strokes a hand down your back and with infinite patience says, “I’m sure you had a reason.”

His belief in you chokes you, threatens to overwhelm you, because he has no reason to think that you were anything but selfish, that you had fled at the first sign of trouble. You circle your arms around him anyways, “I failed you Bucky. It should have been me. And the first day, I was confused and you were afraid of me and I reacted badly and I touched you when I shouldn’t have. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. You had to come find me after a week and you didn’t know that that had happened obviously and-,”

“And you were the one to find information about the vapor so quickly,” he says. “You’re running yourself ragged being here now. Don’t think I don’t know. I know tired when I see it. Are you sleeping?”

You want to cry, but the tears don’t come. “It’s hard to sleep without you now. I’m not used to it.”

You wonder if, when, Bucky remembers you would regret speaking these truths.

Of admitting constantly how much you loved him, how codependent you were, how much you relied on him.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight.

You don’t sleep without Bucky lying next to you.

And you wonder at all the sleepless nights he’d endured alone.

You wonder at the ocean of silent sheets he had lain in, all the terrible sleeps he must have had throughout the years.

In the mud during the war, on hard packed earth and concrete and stone, the desolate sleepless sleep in ice.

And then, when he finally got the chance, beds and sheets and blankets might have been harder for him to adjust to.

He hated the feeling of the cotton against his skin, hated the softness of the mattress, hated the detergent used, the smell of it reminding him of something long forgotten.

But it had changed that night with you.

That was the first night you felt safe, and you think it was the first time Bucky had felt that way too, at least in a long time.

You wonder how he sleeps without you now.

Bucky presses one hand to your cheek, turning your head so he can see your eyes. “I don’t sleep well without you either.”

You blink, not sure how he would know something like that.

Bucky doesn’t seem surprised, and you suppose that comes with years and years of living with uncertainty. “Do you remember-,”

“I don’t know. I just know I have a few strange memories.”

“Like what?” You whisper. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky slots his fingers between yours. “Just trust me when I say I know I sleep better with you.”

Something inside you breaks, shatters just a little bit, so you lean your head against his shoulder, feel him kiss the crown of your forehead. “How are you being so calm about this?”

“I’ve lost memories before. This is the easiest version of that. Steve is here. I know I can trust him to explain. And then I look at you and know I’m home. I’m safe, I never was before when I couldn’t remember.”

And it's your fault he has to do it again.

Bucky strokes your back gently and you hate yourself. Somehow you are the one being comforted despite being the one who remembers, the one who failed.

You pull away and touch his cheek, “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“Sometimes we dance in the kitchen when we cook, and you always pick Bryan Adams songs. It's not often I can convince you too so it's usually a one person show.” You say, remembering when he found the On a Day Like Today record at a flea market. You remember him listening to the whole thing lying on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. You’re pretty sure he’d fallen asleep that first listen. “And one of your favorites became When You’re Gone.”

Bucky looks at you with wide eyes. “Is this about to become morbid?”

You laugh and slide off your stool, stepping between his legs, Bucky just pulls you closer. “No. I was thinking about how there’s a part that makes a lot of sense to me lately. It goes like-,” And you start to open your mouth to sing but quickly snap your mouth shut. “You should just listen to it.”

“Sing it,” he requests, fingers looping around your wrist. “Please. I don’t know the song.”

You shake your head, “Just know I miss you a lot. I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” You try not to feel embarrassed about your words, about admitting something that should be obvious. “You should look at the records. They’re all yours.”

He frowns at you, like you’ve suggested something bizarre, “The records don’t tell me anything, sweetheart.” He gestures at the book he had been holding earlier, “Those do.”

“They’ll tell you something about yourself,” you say. “I watched you collect those for years. I watched you form a collection. I watched your music taste change.”

Bucky owned records of everything, from pop to old country classics and blues, rock to hip hop and alternative.

“You’re more interesting,” he says. “Yesterday, we went on a walk together. You talked so much, and my heart almost beat out of my chest when you came down the hallway and stopped in front of me.”

You stay quiet, still, waiting for more.

He’d never told you this before.

“Everyone else was avoiding me. Giving me space. But you didn’t, at least not forever.”

“I waited, you know,” you say. “As soon as you got here I wanted to know you. But I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know any of us.” If Bucky was sharing then so could you. You could tell him things that you wouldn’t have otherwise, because you have a feeling that the Bucky that did not have at least most of his memories shuttered away in a loop every morning would not be telling you this.

He was afraid of being too much, just like you always were.

“You did?” He tilts your chin up, so he can rest his forehead against yours. “Why the hell would you want that? To want to know me?”

“I just knew. You were meant to be mine somehow.”

“Somehow?”

“Anyway you would let me.”

His lips are so close to yours, and you wonder what memories he’s gathered and retained. “I thought the same thing yesterday,” he says. “That I would stay with you no matter what.” Bucky licks his lips, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “But I didn’t feel this pull yesterday. This connection. And now I do.”

“It's five years in the making, sweetheart,” you say. “I had a crush on you the moment I met you.”

“Crush huh? I think I know something about that.”

Something in you shines to know that he had a crush too.

“We don’t know if it’ll work and there’s not really a way to test it,” Banner says. “ Barnes’ system seems to be burning through the vapor quicker than it would a normal person, which is a plus. But since your memories seem to be coming back, you could just wait it out. Probably would only take a few more weeks.”

“But I could remember everything tomorrow if I take it?”

“That’s the hope.”

You don’t say anything, the hole is your chest crumbling into a crater. “How many days has it been?” Bucky asks.

No one answers, because he’s staring at you.

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Forty-nine today.” You cringe at the way your voice creaks.

You swallow, and try not to cry, exhaustion weighing you down, guilt and hatred and grief.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just stares at you from across the table. You watch half formed memories flicker through his eyes, a steely determination settling in. “I want to take it.”

Of course he did.

“Bucky-,”

“No. It's my decision. I won’t make you keep doing this.”

You huff out an annoyed breath. “I’ve been doing it and I’m fine. You should think about this a little.”

He stares at you, piercing and irritated. “You aren’t fine,” he snaps.

But Bucky has never really denied you anything, and apparently this version of him can’t either.

At least not immediately.

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes after a few tense moments, but he doesn’t look away from you as the team shuffles out of the room.

Eventually you glance away, not able to hold his gaze any longer.

You try to take a deep breath but your lungs just shudder and hitch painfully around the air. “Why don’t you want me to remember?” He asks eventually, sounding so hurt and soft it makes you want to cry.

“I do,” you say to the table. “I do want you to remember. That’s all I want.”

“Then what’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m worried about what you’ll think of me when you do remember everything. And maybe I’m selfish for that but I want to keep you for a little while longer.” You still can’t look at him but he becomes hard to ignore when he reaches across the table and takes your wrist between his fingers.

He never forgot that, never forgot that gesture between you so comforting and warm. Bucky’s thumb tracks back and forth over the thin skin of your wrist.

“It's my fault you lost your memory,” you continue, finally meeting his eyes, your story, your truth of the universe, the soul yours had been waiting for. “It should have been me. I wish it would have been me. And you will too when you remember. You’ll know exactly what was taken from you again. You’ll remember the first day you forgot-,”

That first day haunts you.

How he looked at you with mistrust and fear, uncertainty.

“I want you to remember, obviously I do. I’m just afraid. I don’t want to lose you. They don’t know what the antidote is going to do. What if you don’t remember anything?”

Your other questions go unspoken.

What if you had to start over? Should you? Would you have to tell him about how afraid of you he had been, how he’d told you to leave?

Would you have to tell him how you abandoned him for a week, telling yourself it was for his own good?

“I’m not-,”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please, Buck, you can’t know. Neither of us can. I want you to remember. But I want you to do it safely. At least this way we know you’re remembering everything.”

“This is safe,” he says. “You trust them, right? Steve does?”

You shake your head, “I trust them but it's not like this is a precise science, honey. It’s not like this has ever happened before and you’ve lost so much already-,”

“But look what I end up gaining, sweetheart. I get you. I get all this.” His fingers tighten on your skin and fear creeps into his voice. “Would you explain again? If I don’t?”

“Of course I would. No matter what, I would,” you whisper. “God, I’d do it forever. You’re it for me Bucky.”

You want to say, I worry that I’m not it for you. You deserve better.

He nods, staring at you in that very Bucky way, intense at all times. “And I won’t abandon you.”

“Okay,” you say, begging the universe to let it be true, that he would still love you after this failure, gripping his wrist in return. “Whatever you decide - I’m here.”

That night, you try desperately not to worry.

You try to be strong and not to show the fear that buzzes inside your chest.

Bucky had swallowed the antidote without the slightest reaction to it in the medical wing a few hours earlier.

“Wasn’t that gross?”

“I’ve had worse.”

You hadn’t wanted to know in that moment what was worse than the foul smelling concoction he had downed, and so you hadn’t asked.

You’re resigned to spending the night with him, and so you stand in your own living room feeling very much like a guest.

It’s your blankets folded over the end of the couch, mostly your mugs in the kitchen cabinets, a whole bookshelf filled with your collection from before you had met Bucky.

You stand in the center of the room and hug your arms around yourself, waiting for Bucky to finish up in the bathroom. Though you had cooked and Bucky had eaten, you had not been able to.

The nervous butterflies beating against the inside of your ribs would not let you.

You haven’t been back inside your bedroom since that first night and you’re terrified at the prospect, you can’t really even bring yourself to look at the door, the imprinted image of the way Bucky stared at you haunting you, the way he had backed into the wall beside the door.

The nerves swallow you so completely that you don’t realize Bucky has been trying to catch your attention, that the sweet smell of rain and pine and honey is drifting toward you on a cloud. “Sorry,” you say, trying to smile at him.

“‘S okay. You comin’?” He jerks his head toward the bedroom. “Think we both could use some proper sleep.”

Bucky drifts closer to you, approaching you slowly like you’re a wounded animal about to bolt. “I don’t know if that’s -,” you stop and swallow. “I think I should stay here. On the couch-,”

“Now c’mon doll. If it were me, would you let me stay on the couch?”

“No.”

“Right,” he holds out his hand, and you press your fingers around his wrist. “So come on.”

You allow yourself to be tugged into the bedroom. It's much neater than you left it, though all your things are still there. But you aren’t sure where you belong in that moment and so you just stay nervously by the door as Bucky turns down the sheets and duvet, lowers the lights.

He turns back to you and gestures you closer, “If you really don’t want to, you can stay on the-,”

“I want to, Bucky,” you murmur. “I just…you don’t remember but-,”

“Honey,” he says, “Whatever bad reaction we both had that first day, it's okay. We were both confused.”

Shock renders you silent for a moment. Did he remember? For a moment your mood lifts, your soul lightens. “How do you know what happened?”

“I don’t. But you’re like an open book, sweetheart. It isn’t hard to guess.”

“I hate you.”

He laughs and climbs into bed, looking at you patiently.

“Can I borrow a shirt from you?”

You’re already in your pajamas but you want to feel at home, and home is in bed in one of Bucky’s shirts.

“‘S all yours anyways.”

You pause, hearing the echo of something in his words, but quickly move on, grabbing a favorite of yours, one well worn and well loved, before turning your back and tugging your sweatshirt over your head to exchange it for something much better.

You’re wondering if maybe you should have gone into the bathroom to change so when you turn back you only giggle a little.

Bucky is staring pointedly at the ceiling, a pink tinge in his cheeks. Something about it warms the marrow of you, makes you want to curl inside the sunshine of him.

You cross to your side of the bed and slip in beside him.

You’re trying desperately not to look at Bucky where he reclines against the headboard, arms crossed behind his head, and so you notice almost immediately that something isn’t right.

Bucky has your pillows and you have his.

You start to ask and then think better of it.

You don’t want to embarrass him by pointing it out. You can feel the spill of nerves inside yourself as you consider why he might have switched them.

Like he might have preferred the scent of you. Been comforted by it.

You turn to your nightstand instead. It’s been cleared, your things stored in the drawer which you reach over and tug open, seeking the book you started months ago that’s hidden there.

“Doll,” Bucky says sharply, sitting up abruptly, but you’ve already opened it.

A stack of polaroids lie there atop the usual fare, along with a folded bunch of paper.

You lift the stack of photos, what looks like a pile of snapshots Bucky had taken of you with a vintage polaroid camera you’d gotten him one year for his birthday, photos you had never seen. But photos some version of this memory-less Bucky had apparently found somewhere and sorted through.

When you reach for the paper though, Bucky says, “Leave that. Please.”

“Why?”

“You’re only meant to read it if I don’t remember tomorrow.”

Your fingers hover over the innocently folded paper and you consider grabbing it anyways. But you pull back and turn to him.

Bucky is watching you carefully, eyes nervously darting down to the photos in your hands. “And I found those pictures…at some point and left myself a note to look at them first thing. I’ve…I didn’t tell you and Steve but I left myself a note each night, to explain, to tell myself to look at these pictures as proof and-,”

He continues talking and you want to be mad but you can’t. You want to be mad that he had let you worry every single morning that he would reject you, your belly in knots over it.

“It made it easier to stomach, going to sleep knowing I would lose everything, if I knew I had some control and that I was helping myself in the future, that I wouldn’t be as freaked out.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I don’t know. I thought you would think I didn’t trust you.”

“Did you not?”

“No, I think I just wanted something that I knew was mine.” His brow is furrowed tight and you know he’s nervous. “I wrote you a letter but the other part is all the letters I wrote to myself everyday. So you can see for yourself that I-,” he stops and glances away from you. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll see if you need to.”

You nod and decide not to push him about it, flipping through the photos, watching years flick past, pictures Bucky had never shown you. He takes them gently from your hands and carefully picks to one. “This one has been my favorite for every reset. I know, I told myself so.”

It would be funny, if it weren’t so fucking tragic.

The picture is of you before that horrific picnic date. You don’t remember a picture being taken, you aren’t sure who even took the photo considering Bucky is in the picture next to you. You’re walking to the car you had borrowed for that day, looking back over your shoulder with a smile, Bucky is watching you with a lovesick expression, one of hopeless, unending endearment.

“I have never seen myself look like that,” he says. “I can’t remember ever feeling the way I look in that picture. But god, I woke up this morning and read my own fucking letters to myself and looked at that picture and thought bullshit, no way. Not you. There’s no fucking way I got you. And then you walked in here with Steve and-,” he strokes his thumb over your face in the picture. “-and it was like the world stopped turning.”

He faces you, drops the photo and tucks your face between his hands, “I have never felt a love like this. It’s like I’ve always known you. I didn’t have to think about anything today because I knew that you knew me and I knew you. And whatever I said or did, you would understand.”

You don’t answer for a moment, pushing your cheek into the cool metal of his left hand. “I love you.” Your head spins with the admission, something you’ve told him a million times before. “You thought you couldn’t get me?”

The armor that Bucky wears always falls away when he’s with you and this moment is no different, you’ve always been the one to poke the bruised skin, to see the fleshy raw feelings he kept hidden. “No way in hell did I think I actually got that lucky. So you know when I tell you not to worry about whatever happens. Know that’s true. I fall in love with you every day. I know I’ve fallen in love with you every day.”

When you can’t find the words to reply, Bucky sighs, gathers the polaroids and sets them to the side before pulling you close, pulling you down against his chest. And when you turn your nose against his shirt, all you can smell is him, rain on pine.

“You don’t smell like peach,” you whisper.

“You get irritated when I smell too much like you,” he says.

It's something he shouldn’t remember and it makes you smile. “I like when you smell like me too.”

He rubs one hand down your back, seems soothed by your reaction to his admission. “Bucky,” you murmur against his chest, the first time you’ve been in your own bed in weeks.

“Yeah?”

“I hope I never have to read your letter. And I hope you know that you’re mine. I got you so long ago, I won’t give you up.”

He kisses the side of your head, and you feel like everything might be alright. “Never give me up, sweetheart. I know I belong to you.”

Just like last time, you wake before Bucky.

You wake with your nose nestled between his arm and his ribs. His chest is rising and falling slowly, sleep still drawn over his face. For a moment you consider getting up, slipping out to the living room.

But you don’t.

You’re so terrified of the last time.

So afraid that he won’t know you, that he will be fearful of you again.

You think of the note, and wonder when he started writing to himself. Was it after that first night? Did it traumatize him just as much? Did he write of your abandonment?

You clutch him tighter, feel the rise of his breath in your fingers and press your face back to his ribs, the scent of the forest growing inside his bones invading your senses.

He’s warm, warmer than a normal person.

Cozy, like being inside on a wet autumn afternoon.

The pine and sunshine scent of him almost lulls you back to sleep, and you’ve been so tired you almost let it.

But then the arm lying against your spine flexes, the fingers against your hip curl into the fabric of your sweatpants.

You go painfully still, peeking up to watch his lashes flutter.

The world is silent and still, the only movement that of the flutter of new morning sunshine across the floorboards.

You swallow tightly as he blinks away sleep, head turning lazily to gaze down at you.

Fear chokes you as you wait for the dawning confusion, the horror, the hatred.

Something other than the love in his eyes.

But none of it comes, you’re boneless as he shifts and pushes you back into the pillows, not looking away from your eyes. He cups his fingers around your wrist, thumb soft against your forearm.

“I remember,” he murmurs. “Everything. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I missed you so bad. I’m sorry you had to do that all on your own-,”

Grief and relief overwhelm you in equal measure and you let out a strangled noise, gripping his shirt with your free hand.

“No,” you say, desperate and pleading. “Don’t you dare, Barnes. I’m the one who's sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Baby,” he says softly, nuzzling your cheek, ignoring your plea. “Thank you for taking care of me. You were so good. That first day? I know exactly what you’re thinking. I wasn’t afraid of you, I was afraid for you. To me I’d only just met you and I couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting you, not when you were so kind and gentle and understanding. I usually hurt people when I can’t remember and-,”

You kiss him, just to get him to shut up, sliding your hand to press against the back of his neck until he lets his weight sag against you. It’s the first time you’ve kissed him in fifty days, the taste of honeydew and summer on his lips, like home and firsts.

“But it's my fault,” you whisper when he pulls away, forcing you to breathe and meet his eyes when he pushes his forehead against yours.

“No. It’s just something that happened.”

You feel tears threaten to drip down your cheek, eyes blurry with salt. “I’m still sorry.”

“Okay, but you don’t have to be. You’re mine, sweetheart. How could you ever think I wouldn’t come back to you?”

You want to devour him in that moment, just so he would know how firmly embedded in your DNA he is, that you would never let him slip away.

But you settle for pulling him closer, kissing him harder, biting into the bittersweet sun that is Bucky Barnes.

You breathe him in for a moment and your heart stutters when he pulls away, and tugs off his dog tags. “You gave these back?”

“You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t know what it meant and I wasn’t sure you’d want me to have them anymore and-,”

He tucks them inside your fist, “I know what it means to see them on you. I knew that day I came and found you when you were hiding away. You made a promise, remember?”

“To never take them off.”

“Right,” he murmurs. “They’re yours. Not mine. Even if I hadn’t remembered anything I would have found my way back to you. I promise.”

“You really think so?” You whisper, eyes wide, watching him watch you with a softness that was too good for the world.

“I have the letters to prove it.”

#fics

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

Text

Hang the Moon

Me: This sounds like a great idea. Also me: I hate this trope. Why did I choose this trope? @sidepartskinnyjeans/@christywantspizza/@late-to-the-party-81: if you don't finish this........ headers by @maysdigitalarts//dividers by @firefly-graphics

ALSO ON Ao3 Length: 5.8k Warnings: miscommunication, arguing, masturbation, oral (f receiving). It was supposed to be a favor to Sarah - to let her brother’s army friend crash in the extra bedroom in your apartment until he got settled enough to get back on his own two feet after coming back from what sounded like a lifetime tour of duty in the Army. What had started as a harmless favor had ruined all your favor-ite things. Like coming home and taking off your bra and pants. Now you couldn’t do that because there was always a man sitting on your couch. Not just a normal man, but a very attractive man. A man with a square jaw and a butt chin, soft eyes and bulging muscles, and an infectious laugh and a dry, witty sense of humor that usually had you chuckling whether you wanted to or not.

On paper, he was perfect - not just as a man, but as a roommate. He was respectful; he was clean. He cooked, he paid his share of bills not just on time - but early. He didn’t bring friends or sexual conquests over. He got the mail; he kept the seat on the toilet down. He was helpful. He was beyond helpful. He was so fucking helpful that you felt like an unwelcome guest in our own house. You felt like you were living in a showroom display. It wasn’t like you lived in chaos or in mess, but Bucky took “no mess, no stress” to another level.

It was incredible. If a plate was left in the sink for more than three minutes, he would jog into the kitchen to stick it in the dishwasher. There were even times that he had taken a hot pan off the stove and hand-washed it before you had finished plating your meal. The man’s hands twitched as he waited for you to set an empty glass down; it was like he got off loading the dishwasher, and you hated it. It always made you feel like you weren’t doing enough and like you were doing something wrong.

Today was no different. Before running to the store for a couple of ingredients necessary for the dinner you’d planned, you’d gathered up all of the dirty clothes on your floor and tossed them into the washing machine. At the absolute most, you’d only been gone an hour or so. As per usual, you’d barely made it through the door, arms weighed down with groceries, plastic bags cutting into your skin when Bucky came rushing out of his room to help.

Alleviating your burden and grabbing an armful of bags, Bucky chastised you for not texting him and letting you know you were coming home with groceries. “I’d have come out and helped,” he insisted, setting the bags on the counter and starting to pull items out.

“Don’t worry about it. I can carry my own groceries.” You shrugged him off and put the milk away on the shelf on the inside of the refrigerator door.

“I know, but I like to help.” The refrigerator door had barely closed before he was yanking it back open to move the milk onto an interior shelf.

Rolling your eyes, you tried to ignore Bucky as he followed behind you, seemingly moving every item you touched. You’d just tossed a small produce bag of green onions into the crisper drawer when Bucky did what he did best: come along behind you and correct whatever you had done wrong and redo it in the Sergeant Barnes Approved Way™.

In this particular case, Bucky pulled the green onion bag out of the crisper drawer, removed the produce from the plastic bag, turned on the sink, and let the water run over them while he took a glass from the cabinet. Filling the cup with water, he set the root end of the green onions in the cup before putting it back in the fridge on a shelf, avoiding the crisper drawer where you had originally tossed them.

“Do you have to do that?” You huffed, frustrated as you dropped a sleeve of celery onto the counter.

“Do what?” he asked, shooing you out of the way to grab the celery.

Scratching your head and biting your tongue, you watched as he pulled the celery from the bag. He raised his eyebrows at you when you didn’t answer his question, unbothered enough to be interrupted in his celery cleaning. Standing in front of the sink, he separated the ribs of the plant and scrubbed the dirt away under the faucet before drying them carefully. Arranging them back into a bundle, he wrapped them in a damp paper towel before putting them in a long, glass container.

That was another thing. The man was anti-Ziploc bags. He hated them. Every square inch of cabinet space had been taken over by fancy, glass containers. No more throwing a sandwich in a ziplock bag for lunch. Nope, now you needed the world’s largest lunchbox to hold all of the stupid containers that Bucky demanded you use.

The man didn’t even like to throw out lunch meat containers; he sighed dramatically every time he put one in the recycling bin, reminding you that the best way to recycle was to reduce your plastic use in the first place. That was fine-and-fucking dandy, but the last time you got ham from the deli counter, it came in a plastic bag, and - wowzers, did Sargeant Barnes have a lot to say about that.

“Nevermind. You just - why don’t you just finish putting away the groceries since I clearly am not doing it right. I’m gonna go switch over the laundry.”

Shaking your head, you stormed down the hall, chewing on your bottom lip to keep from biting Bucky’s head off. It was never worth talking with him about it because he never seemed to understand that the possibility of him doing something wrong did, in fact, exist.

You knew that favors weren’t supposed to be easy, but - holy fucking shit - Sarah owed you. Living with this man was an exercise in patience, futility, and self-control. If there was one you wanted to do more than give him a piece of your mind, it was tap his sweet ass - but only if he kept his damn mouth shut - because if he tried to give you a helpful hint during sex, you’d probably have a coronary.

Wondering what the nicest way to tell him it was time for him to find his own place was without risking your friendship with Sarah, you threw open the lid of the washing machine and were surprised to see it empty.

“Oh, I switched it over already.” Bucky’s handsome face peeked out from the kitchen, and he shot a charming smile down the hallway at you like he had done a good thing.

You blinked in disbelief. Once. Twice. Three times.

“You did what?” Reaching for the dryer door, you yanked it open and tried to stop the tossing clothes inside from falling out into the floor. Grabbing the laundry basket off of the top of the machine, you were speechless when you saw your bras and lace underwear were in the basket, still damp from the wash.

“What the fuck, Bucky.” Your brows were knit together, and you took a deep breath to keep your anger at bay. You rifled through the basket, inspecting what was there, mortified that Bucky had not just touched your unmentionables, but that he had inspected them closely enough to decide whether or not they belonged in the dryer.

“What? I took the bras out. I was supposed to do that, right?” He was still hanging on the corner of the kitchen halfway, looking genuinely concerned that he had ruined something.

He hadn’t, but he didn’t know that.

“No. Yes. I mean, you don’t put molded cups in the dryer. It ruins the shape.” You were in disbelief that this man had put his paws all over your underclothes, and you tried to reconcile what you saw in the basket with the laundry you had started, hoping that he hadn’t actually ruined anything by putting it in the dryer.

“I wasn’t sure about the mesh ones or the - I dunno what they’re called - the bralettes? The ones that look like bathing suits? I wasn’t sure so I pulled those out, too.” He pantomimed the shape of a bra, his gaze darting between his chest and you standing by the dyer with your hand on your hip. His desperation for approval was written all over his face, and he started to blush as he snapped his hands down to his side so he’d stop cupping his imaginary breasts. “And your lace…things. Lace doesn’t go in the dryer, right?”

You shook your head to clear it and looked between the laundry basket full of your unmentionables and the eager, innocent idiot waiting for a verbal head pat at the end of the hall.

“Don’t touch my clothes.” You sputtered incredulously and started cursing him under your breath while you bent back to inspect the clothes that had made it into the dryer.

“I was just trying to help. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky’s hand came down on your shoulder. Shoving him away, you went back to digging around in the dryer.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad, doll. I’m sorry, I guess.”

Glaring over your shoulder at him, you started chewing on your lip again. “You guess? Maybe I don’t want your gross man hands touching my underwear. I was gone, like, five entire minutes. You couldn’t wait for me to switch it over? You didn’t even start your own laundry; you just messed with mine!”

Bucky’s face screwed up with surprise. “That’s what you’re mad about. Me touching your underwear?” Shocking, he had seen nothing wrong with what he had done until it had been pointed out to him. You had never met a man with so little self-awareness, and you wondered briefly it was an unintended side-effect of being in the military for so long.

“Yes!” You shook your head again, trying to get your thoughts in order. “No!”

Standing up straight, you dropped the laundry basket onto the group and held your hand to your forehead, pausing for a moment to sort your words before you continued.

“There are few circumstances in which a man should be seein’ my underwear, and doing my laundry isn’t - you aren’t entitled to my underwear -” You were sputtering, trying to find a way to say what you meant when you weren’t quite sure what you were trying to say.

“All I did was put your clothes in the dryer. It’s not like I went digging around for a pair of dirty undies to jack off with…”

Your mouth snapped shut, and you physically recoiled. “That’s very specific, Barnes.”

His face went flat, mouth pressed into a straight line. “I did not steal your underwear to masturbate with,” he deadpanned.

“Wow. I can sleep soundly tonight knowing the stranger across the hall isn’t stroking himself to sleep with one of my thongs.” Slamming the dryer closed and restarting the cycle, you hefted the laundry basket full of your underthings and brushed past Bucky, knocking your shoulder into him as you maneuvered down the hall, disappearing into your room.

Bucky was hot on your heels, following behind you with a look on his face that warned you that he had something to say and that he wasn’t going to let the conversation end without saying it. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to be a good roommate. Help out when I could. Make your life easier.”

Dropping the basket on your bed you spun on your heel. “But you’re not! You’re not making it easier!” You threw your hands up. “You make me feel like I’m doing it wrong in my own home! You’re always scurrying behind me, fixing shit and redoing it in a way that you like better. You make me feel like a damn child. And you always act like you’re so perfect when you’re not! You have no self-awareness and - clearly - you wouldn’t know a boundary if it smacked you in the face with its dick!”

Bucky looked at you confused, and you wondered if your hands would reach all the way around his throat.

“The celery! Why can’t it just live in a damn drawer for the next two hours until I use it for dinner? Why you gotta mess with it now?”

“I washed it so it would be ready for you. You won’t let me help you cook so I thought the least I could do was wash the celery.” He sounded so innocent and looked surprised that you did not find his efforts helpful.

“You always act like you’re the most perfect roommate, but you’re the worst roommate I’ve ever had, and I wish I would’ve told Sarah you couldn’t stay here!” You were frustrated and didn’t really care if you meant what you said or not at this point. He had followed you into your room after you had tried to end the conversation. His hurt feelings weren’t your problem.

Yet here you were, feeling about two seconds away from combusting, stomping your foot, throwing a tantrum like a hormonal teenage girl, while Bucky stood there looking offended and not upset at all as he schooled his expression into a flat, unreadable line.

“You think I’m the worst roommate ever? Don’t you think that’s a little much? I mean, did we not watch The Worst Roommate Ever on Netflix together last week? The first guy literally killed his roommate.” Leaning against your doorframe with his muscled arms over his chest, stretching the fabric taut, and his legs crossed at the ankles, with his thick thighs strained against his jeans, Bucky drove you even more up the wall with his calm demeanor.

“Yes! The worst! You never put your shoes in the basket. You always leave the top off the toothpaste, and god forbid your hoodies make it into your bedroom instead of living on the back of the couch.”

Bucky raised his fingers to interject, but you steamrolled over him.

“You’re always moving everything. I put my purse down, and you move it. I leave my keys on the counter, and you move them. I’m afraid to put my phone down because God knows, you’re gonna move that, too.”

“That’s not entirely accurate…”

“Shut up! I’m not done. You’re always coming behind me and cleaning up after me or fixing what I’ve done. I mean, I’m an entire grown-ass adult, and you just took over everything like you live here, and you’re always making me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do, doll…” Bucky’s voice was quiet as you seethed, and he stepped toward you as your rage turned into sadness. “...but I do live here…”

“And then you broke my coffee mug and acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a big deal, and now I don’t have a favorite coffee mug anymore.” Wiping your eyes, you felt foolish as Bucky’s strong hands rubbed up and down your arms and then wrapped around you.

Turning your head into the crook of his neck, you inhaled deeply and let the smell of him flood your senses. Your breath was shaky as you let it out, and it warmed your face as it bounced off his shirt back at you.

“I’m really sorry about your coffee mug. I didn’t know it wasn’t dishwasher safe. There wasn’t anything on it that said it wasn’t dishwasher safe.”

All you could do was sigh.

Bucky cleared his throat, and it rumbled in his chest. “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. It’s just - if I put my shoes in the basket, they’ll cover yours and you won't be able to find them. And the toothpaste? You always use the bathroom right after me in the morning so I leave the top, and you always steal my hoodies, so why not make them accessible?”

You laughed at that last part. It was true, but only partially so.

“I only steal your hoodies because you leave ‘em out all the time.” You huffed out another breath against his chest and lean your body against his.

“Listen, doll.” Bucky pulled you off his chest and held you at arm’s length. “You know I think you hung the moon, but you’re a mess. You lose your phone while holding it. If I didn’t come behind you and put stuff away in the right place, you’d be late for work every day.”

Your lip quivered, making you feel more like a child. “But I work from home half the time…”

Bucky nodded. “That’s my point.”

You glared at him. “You’re doing it again!”

Sighing, Bucky released you, scrubbed his hands up and down his face, and growled in frustration. “God! I’m sorry, okay! I can’t help it. I see you, and I wanna take care of you.”

He held up his hand to stop you from interrupting him.

“And I know you don’t need me to, okay, but- fuck! I like you, and every time I try to tell you, I chicken out, and I figured maybe you’d figure it out by now. But no, you think I’m being an asshole.”

You looked at him in surprise, hand to your heart, shocked by what he was saying.

Bucky paced in a tight circle, hands in his hair, holding it off of his face. “Fuck!” He cursed into the air and shot you an apologetic look. “This is a disaster.” Throwing his hand up in the air, Bucky gave up. “I’m going out. Enjoy your space that I keep ruining. Don’t wait up.”

The front door slamming signaled Bucky’s exit before you could make sense of what he was saying, let alone decide what to do with it. And although he had told you to not wait up, you did, and when the front door creaked open at 3am, you bolted upright on the couch, wearing the hoodie that he’d left out for you.

The two of you shared a look. You looked at him expectantly, and he looked at you with abject disappointment etched across his face. His whole body reacted to seeing you waiting for him. His shoulders slumped; he sighed and rubbed his brow.

“I told you not to wait up, doll. You should have been asleep hours ago.”

You patted the seat on the couch next to you and watched as Bucky kicked off his boots and left them beside the shoe basket. He wandered into the kitchen briefly to set down the bag he was carrying before coming over and sitting on the far side of the couch.

“I snoozed a little. It’s okay.” You shrugged, feigning an unbothered attitude.

“You’re going to be miserable tomorrow if -” Bucky paused mid-sentence as your eyebrow went up. Frowning, he looked down as he braced his hands on his lap. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

Your mouth opened wide as you nodded, and you covered your mouth as you yawned, hands hidden by the long sleeves of Bucky’s hoodie. “Yeah, but s’ok. I already called out for a mental health day. I wanted to talk to you no matter what.” Yawning again and slurring your words, you scooted across the couch until you were pressed against his side, lifting his arm to cuddle into the crook of his arm.

Bucky pulled back to look at you, concern on his face. “Why would you do that, doll? Are you okay?”

Your plan to play it cool and collected fell apart when he looked at you like that. The worry he held for you drew a V between his brows and lines across his forehead that you wanted to reach up and smooth away. You’d never been on the end of a look so full of fondness and selflessness. Bucky wasn't trying to control you; he just wanted you to be okay.

A breathy smile crossed your face, and you nodded as you reached up and caressed his face. He leaned into your touch, the stubble on his cheek teased and tickled your palm, and your lips darted from his eyes to his lips. You brushed your thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone before leaning in and kissing him. Though it took him a moment to register your lips on his, Bucky kissed you back, and you moaned into the kiss as he went in for another.

The kisses were slow and heady, heavy and mind-melting. Kissing Bucky felt other-worldly and intuitive and made you feel like you were floating. Your lips and hands instinctively knew where to go and how to touch him, and it seemed the same for him. Kissing someone had never been easier, and you broke away, the dizzy, tingly feeling stayed knotted in your stomach.

With big, wide eyes, you asked on a whisper, “Do you feel that too?”

Words not needed, Bucky nodded his head and pulled you back to him, slanting his mouth over yours and moaning into the kiss. You felt him everywhere. In the vibrations of his moans that rumbled against your lips. In the firm grip he held on your hip. In the warm press of his hard body against yours as his arms wrapped around your middle. In the way his hand settled between your shoulder blades, pulling you flush against his chest. You were lost in him until you weren’t.

As quickly as Bucky had been on you, he pulled away, his hands on your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length. He let out a long breath through rounded lips and shook his head to clear it.

Mistaking his pause for rejection, you got your feet quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand while apologizing up, down, left, and center for kissing him. “Sorry. I just - I just wanted to see - I dunno what I was - “

Saving you from yourself, Bucky snatched your hand as you passed by him, trying to retreat down the hall to your bedroom. Getting to his feet, Bucky jerked you back to him until you were standing in front of him, toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, eyes glued onto each other.

“Oh no you don’t,” he whispered huskily, running the back of his fingers across your cheek then tracing your lips lazily with his fingers. “You can’t kiss me like that then run away, sweet girl.” He chuckled to himself quietly, breath shooting through his nose. “If I wasn’t smitten before, I sure am now.”

The corner of his eyes crinkled as he lowered his head to look at you and smiled. It was your turn to look at him like he hung the moon, eyes wide and mouth slack. You hadn’t realized you had fisted your hands in his shirt and were clinging to him desperately.

“Are you gonna let me take care of you now, doll?”

All you could do was lick your lips and nod.

Bucky bent down and dropped a chaste kiss onto your mouth and began backing you down the hallway. One kiss turned into two, your arms went around his neck, and his hands sunk into the soft swell of your bottom.

“Yours or mine?” He managed to eek the words out between kisses then groaned as you spun and pushed him back against the wall. His body thudded as he collided with the wall, and you pulled back to strip off the hoodie you’d stolen from him.

“Mine. Your bed is small.” Your shirt came off with the sweatshirt in a tangled mess, and Bucky groaned low and bit his lip and fisted his hands at the sight of your lace covered breasts.

“But yours is always covered in shit,” he argued distractedly, seemingly short circuiting while trying to decide whether to reach for you or to take his own shirt off.

Making the decision for him, you tugged his shirt up his body until he pulled it over his head and dropped it onto the floor with yours. Leaning against him, pressing your torsos together, thrilling at the skin-on-skin contact, you hushed him. “Bed’s clean. I rage-cleaned. Come on.”

Grabbing him by the belt loop, you tugged on his jeans until he began following you toward your bedroom. Your door was closed, and Bucky crowded you against it, grinding his erection against your bottom. Struggling with the door handle, you pressed back against him, arching your back and wishing you were doing it without any clothes between your bodies. A tug on the clasp of your bra had you looking over your shoulder at him. Bucky grinned while unsnapping your bra. Faux surprise on your face, you let the garment fall away from your chest, and tossed it haphazardly towards the other clothes in the hall.

Slipping his hand between your body and the door, Bucky turned the knob, and the two of you stumbled into your room while laughing.

“Come here, sweetheart. I wanna get my hands on you.”

You slapped your hands over your mouth to hide the involuntary whimper that escaped. Bucky chuckled at you as he undid his pants. Your hands fell to your sides, and you licked your lips as your eyebrows went up. Bucky pulled down his boxers and his pants, and they dropped to the floor in one fell swoop.

“Oh boy.” Your eyes went straight to his hard cock as it bounced against his stomach. It was thick and angry looking, and a drop of precome clung to the tip and sparkled in the low light like a diamond hiding amongst the dark. Remembering your manners, you cleared your throat and moved to catch up with him, shimmying out of the sleep pants that you’d changed into.

“Is that a compliment?” he asked. His cock bobbed up and down as he approached you with a sinful smile.

“I think it was a cry for help,” you replied, making the sign of the cross and backing away from him.

Bucky laughed at you as your thighs hit the edge of the bed, and you bounced as you fell back onto it. “My people don’t do that, doll. Not sure how much it will help.” He bent down and kissed you briefly before urging you to lie back.

Legs dangling off the edge of the bed, you reclined back, bracing yourself on your elbows as Bucky dropped to his knees in front of you. He kissed both of your knees before parting them and working his way up the inside of your thighs. Again, his lips were warm, his stubble distracting, and the sweep of his hair silky against your tender skin made you shudder as he touched you.

As his hot breath hit the gusset of your lace underwear, you reached for him, trying to tug him up your body. “You don’t have to do that,” you told him.

Batting your hands away, Bucky hooked his fingers in the sides of your underwear and gave you a look that told you just how much he felt he did, indeed, need to taste you. You lifted your hips, and he pulled the lace off your body.

“I told you,” he said darkly, crumpling your underwear in his fist and bringing it up to his nose. “I am going to take care of you.” Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he inhaled the wet spot on your underwear before they popped back open. The cool rush of air as he breathed in followed by his hot exhale made you greedily clench around nothing and hold your breath as you waited.

You whimpered as he growled against the fabric. You were enthralled by him, transfixed as he wrapped the lace around his angry cock and began stroking himself. His free hand slid back up your thigh and onto your stomach, holding you steady as he lowered his mouth to you.

At the first touch of his tongue to your lips, you bucked and fell back against the bed, reaching blindly for him as you brought your legs up onto the edge of the mattress, spreading yourself for him. His tongue was hot and thick and wet, and he wasted no time in covering your cunt with his mouth. He sucked your clit, teasing it with his teeth before fucking you with his tongue.

Squirming on the bed, you grabbed greedy handfuls of comforter and bore down on him as Bucky hurtled you towards your orgasm. You’d never felt this close to coming so quickly before, and you lost any and all train of thought as Bucky reduced you to a babbling mess. He moaned and groaned as he ate you, sending shivers through your body, making you clench around nothing and your nipples pebble, waiting for their turn with his mouth.

Releasing your grip on the comforter only to bury your hands in his hair, you pulled him closer, mashing his face against your cunt. You rocked your hips against him, fucking yourself on his tongue and him with your slick as he pumped himself frantically with your lacey underwear wrapped around his thick shaft.

“Please. Please,” you begged. “I’m s’close. Please, Bucky.”

Bucky heard you and answered your desperate plea, sliding a finger into your warm, tight, cunt as he attached his lips around your clit. His blue eyes looked so bright and blue and innocent between your legs, and as he sucked and curled his finger inside of you, your body tightened around him, and you came with a long and low growl.

You floated above, watching your body shake as you tried to push his head away from your sensitive clit, hearing yourself crying out for him as he carried you through your orgasm. Bucky was focused solely on your pleasure, but his fist still flew over his erection as he forced you higher as you felt another orgasm growing inside you as he added a second finger, then a third and continued to stroke your sensitive G-spot.

“Give me one more, sweetheart. Come on.” Bucky popped off your cunt with a smack of his lips, and your body buckled at the snap.

“No, I can’t -”

Bucky stole the words out of your mouth as he bit into the tender flesh on your thigh. The sudden introduction of pain to the dizzying amounts of pleasure you were feeling scrambled your brain, and you lost contact with reality as you came harder than you had in your life.

“Fuck. That’s it. So gorgeous. Fuck. You’re making me come, too.” Bucky struggled with his own words as his body tensed and his cock spasmed in his hands. The sounds he made went straight to your clit and sent your legs shaking. You were only remotely aware of Bucky removing his fingers from you as he collapsed against the inside of your thigh, mouth hanging open as he panted.

Whimpering and quivering, your legs dangled off the side of the bed. You weren't sure when they’d fallen off the edge, but you couldn’t feel them. You only knew they were there because you felt them shaking and because you could feel the heat of Bucky's exhale on your skin as he huffed and puffed in his post-orgasmic high.

Kissing your thighs, Bucky rolled onto his feet and looked quizzically at the come-soaked wad of lace in his hands. He smiled at you sheepishly and held up your underwear like a prize. “I’m gonna go toss these in the wash. Don’t move.”

You gave him a thumbs up while still lying flat on your back, unable to move. By the time he returned with a damp washcloth and a cup of steaming tea for you, you’d mostly regained control of your senses, if not your limbs, but the smell of chamomile and peppermint helped perk you up.

Bucky handed you the washcloth first and blushed as he turned around to give you privacy as you wiped yourself clean, and then helped you scooch up the bed to sit against your pillows. You were sad to see that he had pulled his boxers back on, but as he handed you the mug of tea, you got to see the muscles in his thighs flex as he walked, and you figured that was enough to satisfy you.

“Careful now,” he warned you, making sure you had a good grip on the mug before letting it go. “We already have one wet spot on the bed. We don’t need another.” Bucky was grinning wide, proud of the mess he had made of you and the bed.

You glared at him over the edge of the mug before taking a tentative sip. Humming in approval, you sat back and nursed your tea while Bucky crawled into the other side of the bed next to you.

“Do you like the mug?” He asked quietly. His self-assured smile was gone, and he looked unsure of himself. “I got it tonight. I went for a walk to avoid you, but then I saw this, and I had to get it before coming home.”

Furrowing your brows, you looked at the mug. You hadn’t noticed anything special about it. It was large, white, and quite average-looking.

“It’s on the other side, doll.”

Turning the mug around in your hands, you broke into a warm smile. It was silly and sentimental, and you set the mug down on your bedside table to kiss Bucky. On the front of the mug were two cartoon teddy bears, each in overalls. One was atop a ladder, trying to hammer the moon into the sky while the other held the ladder steady.

“Does this mean you’re not kicking me out of bed?” Bucky asked as he broke the kiss.

Just as you had done on the sofa, you lifted his arm and nestled yourself against his side. “Nah,” you answered. “I happen to think you hung the moon, too.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment before bursting out laughing and separating.

“God, that was terrible,” you apologized, crawling out of bed and going to your dresser to find clothes. As you did, you kicked Bucky’s pants towards him. “Get dressed, Sergeant Barnes. I’m gonna let you buy me breakfast. Sex makes me hungry.”

Bucky jumped out of bed, rushing to smack your ass before you pulled clothes on. You yelped as his hand slapped against your ass as he swooped down to scoop his pants off the floor before dashing out of your room and into his. You could hear him in the other room, yelling at you.

“Is that because you don’t know where your wallet is?”

#fics

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

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Look at his HANDS

#fresh spoilers #steve kemp

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

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Sebastian Stan as Steve Kemp Fresh (2022) dir. Mimi Cave

#steve kemp #fresh spoilers

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

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Bucky Barnes | One Shot | Stay Quiet

Part two to Quiet Down

Pairing: Roommmate!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: Bucky seems to have wormed himself inside of you(r life) and at the most inconvenient of times.

Warnings: 18+. Smut.

Words: 2,1OO

You might be dead.

If the lightheaded bliss buzzing through your body, your blackened vision and exhaustion is anything to go by, you might just very well be dead. It’s the croak of your own moan that forms the only tether to reality and you only notice the incessant trembling of your body when you latch your fingers into Bucky’s shoulder even further.

A faint whisper echoes through your hollow head “There you go. Gonna make this one last a little longer.”

And boy does he.

Shaking, gasping and clenching as large waves of your scolding blood pump through your veins with your raging orgasm, you feel like the feeling might never stop. Not when he’s still thrusting into you, even when his own arms are close to giving out. Not when your warmth clenches around him like an iron fist with every pulse of pleasure and Bucky is still going, his thick length dragging in and out of you until you’re about to pass out.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.” His voice barely breaks through his whisper, his mouth frantic against your cheek as it takes all of his power to keep going.

Which is why you don’t know from where he summons the actual fucking power to snap your thighs further apart and brace himself on his knees to hit you even deeper. Like the aura of him is punching into your ribcage as his sweaty chest becomes heavier and heavier on top of yours, not one part of you not touching.

You can’t stop the fresh wave of slick pooling around Bucky’s throbbing cock when you imagine the tension in his sculpted ass, his back and shoulders rippling with muscles, as he rolls himself in and out of you like his life depends on it. In fact, you vaguely remember him telling you his life does depend on fucking you.

So you stay with him. Because that is the least you can give him in return for slipping into your room nearly every night without your other roommates finding out and managing to blow your mind twice as often. Desperately, your hands slide into his damp hair with trembling limbs as you heave for enough air to choke out his name, the light at the end of the tunnel you were just in finally coming into sight.

“ ‘S good, huh?” He grunts and attaches his forehead to yours. You can almost hear the lazy grin he gives you through his breathless words and you nod frantically, your fate of being thoroughly fucked into oblivion officially accepted by now.

“I know it’s a bit much, but I need another.” He sounds needy. He doesn’t often sound this needy.

“Please, baby.” Definitely needy.

But you couldn’t deny his request if your tried, because this might have been your second orgasm or your eighth, it doesn’t matter. You have yet to experience a feeling as good as being filled to the brim by Bucky, his sweat and breath and cologne all you can smell, his whispers and grunts all your can hear and him being all you can fucking feel.

Besides, the head of him prodding and slamming and pounding into your spot over and over is already making you see stars behind your lids and you’re not sure you could find it in yourself to even ask him to stop.

But he slows down. His thrusts become hesitant and you can feel Bucky losing focus, so you will your eyes to pry open, looking at a flushed soldier who’s determination is faltering. And just as you’re about to ask him if he’s okay, you hear your name coming from the hallway.

Carol.

But for the life of you, you can’t seem to figure out what she’s asking from you and the cocky head tilt from the man above you – still inside you – as he realises your struggle to comprehend anything other than his cock still buried to the very hilt and the stretch of him in your abused pussy, isn’t helping your ability to focus at all.

“Did you just wake up or something?” You finally piece the words together and you swallow hard, opening your mouth to let your brain improvise an answer. But just as you’re about to speak, Bucky gives one delicious roll of his hips into you, eyes shimmering with amusement as he watches you choke on a moan.

“Whatdoyouwant?” You don’t mean to sound snappy, but the man slowly retreating from you again just seems to bring that out in you – and you swear it drives him to push you further.

“Jeez, didn’t realise you’re not a morning person…” Is it morning already? “Was just wondering if you wanted to go for a walk.”

Another thrust has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and her question flies out of your head instantly. Throbbing around Bucky as he takes in your face while you try to remember her words, he buries his own face into your neck, a soft and deep chuckle vibrating against your skin as he moves inside of you again slowly. Dick.

“W-what?” You manage to ask, not sure why, since you want the conversation to stop.

“Girl, what are you doing?!”

You start to panic. But Bucky doesn’t seem to even notice anything else anymore since he has resorted to rolling his hips into you again, hitting your spot with every push as his lower arms lock in around your head to keep balance. He should have known he’d get lost in the game of teasing you.

“Bucky, shit.” You hiss, trying to stay alert, but the unfurling pleasure building up inside of you after the very brief break is coming back to you tenfold.

“I need to sleep some more.” You groan to Carol, trying to play off your pleasure as fatigue and Bucky’s warm chuckle creates a shudder down your spine. So you are listening…

“Careful, gorgeous. Stay quiet.” Bucky warns lowly and gives one particularly long thrust before burying himself into you for a lengthy, warm second. As you are about to release the unstoppable moan that he crushes out of you, his warm hand clasps over your mouth to stop it from happening.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You hear Carol’s hesitant voice on the other side of your door and you briefly think she might have figured it out. Not that either you or Bucky could give a fuck at the moment, but you rather it be private for a little while longer.

“Fucking hell, Carol.” Bucky grumbles to you quietly “Leave me and my girl alone, for God’s sake.”

Your girl?

That’s when his eyes fall on you and he removes his hand slowly, amusement back in his eyes as he watches your features contort with pleasure. He can tell it takes all of your energy to stay engaged in the conversation and it drives him to keep going. The hand moves from your mouth, drags down your sweaty chest, all the way down to connect with your pulsing clit where he drags two calloused fingers over the little button.

Smirking down at you with shimmering eyes as he drags his tongue over his lower lip, he raises his brows at your pending answer, his voice a soft murmur “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart, but Carol is waiting for an answer.”

“Yes!” You sputter out “I’ll talk to you later!”

It stays quiet for a while, hearing your heart pound against your flushed skin as even Bucky seems to nearly come to a halt. But when you hear Carol’s footsteps disappear with a few discontented grumbles, both you and Bucky let out a sigh of relief. That’s when soft, appreciative kisses are pressed all over your heated face by Bucky.

“Good job. Good girl.” He praises and keeps himself buried into you as his fingers drag and roll over your sensitive clit. The warmth you feel from his praises spreads a little further than just between your legs, but you’re far too occupied to think of that right now.

You let out a croaked whine at the stimulation and tighten your thighs around his hips, causing Bucky to shush you gently, his fingers not slowing down and still rubbing steady circles. The slow, yet steady pace makes a bubble of pleasure tighten in your abdomen and your breathing becomes heavy again.

“Deep breaths. I want you to milk my cock, okay? Want to come deep in your cunt and I want you to milk me for all that I have, yeah?” He’s breathless, the way he’s bottomed out inside of you so far as you quiver and clench around him tightly, making it hard for him to hold out much longer. But he wants to – hold out – hasn’t made you come enough times.

You’re lucky by now your body is trained to obey him, because you are not processing his words in your head anymore, the dull roar of your long awaited high making your brain go fuzzy. A metal thumb traces up the centre of your throat until it tips your chin up and you’re forced to open your eyes and connect them with Bucky’s.

“You there, gorgeous?” There is only a brief hint of mockery lacing his sweet tone and you let out a soft whine, bucking your hips against him softly as your glassy eyes flutter up at him “Yeah, there you are. All sweet and soft for me. All dumb and pretty when my cock is in your belly, aren’t you?”

Another soft whimper spills from your lips and the tightening in your body becomes nearly unbearable, your skin burning with heat and your limbs feeling numb, yet stiff with trembles. A soft peck to your cheek. Other cheek. Your lips, where you open up for him and he sweeps his tongue into your mouth with a deep, appreciative hum. Because he’s right, he’s right in your belly and it’s tightening with every draw of his skilled fingers and every rasp of his voice drawling out the filthiest words.

A deep moan rumbles through your chest and you can’t take it anymore, the fullness of him still buried inside of you even without the friction as he rolls his fingers over your clit and gradually picks up his steady pace. You tug at his hair, tightening around him and deciding to stop fighting to utter another word. If he wants you to ask permission, he shouldn’t have fucked you stupid.

So you let go.

Burning heat unfurls from between your legs and spreads all throughout your body, trembles and twitches making you convulse around him and head thrown back as you force out the cry that’s clawing up your throat. The groan of relief when you reach the very tip of your orgasm, has Bucky thrusting again, his fingers speeding up to make you pulsate and spasm around him wildly, clutching onto him for dear life as he somehow manages to make you drift through your orgasm for what feels like an hour.

That’s when Bucky finally allows himself to crash and he spills inside you with a deep growl, pressing his forehead to your chest as hot breaths glide over your sweaty, cooling skin. Carefully fucking his spent into you until he’s satisfied, he slowly pulls out of you with a hiss, wincing when you flinch slightly and rolling over to your side.

Panting up at the ceiling as both of you come down from hours upon hours of filthy sex, your frazzled brain gradually becomes clearer. A warm, clammy hand strokes your hair from you forehead and you huff with a smile, feeling his burning gaze on you.

“House is clear. We can take a shower.” He mumbles softly and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I won’t be able to walk for five to seven business days, so I’d have to pass.” You breathe out, shivering as the sweat dries on your skin.

Bucky chuckles deeply and nods slowly “I’ll carry you and get you some fresh sheets while you sit in the shower, okay?”

So you let him, scooping you up in his arms and letting the shower get to a nice temperature before he gently sits you down below it. As he grabs the towels for you to use after, you let a lazy smile crawl over your face.

“Your girl, huh?” You tease and you can barely see him smile through the condensation on the glass walls of the shower.

“I was hoping you didn’t hear that.” He grumbles, before peeking into the shower with a hint of delight in his eyes “Didn’t fuck you stupid enough apparently.”

“I was joking, Buck.” You wave him off, dragging the loofah over your sensitive skin.

“I wasn’t.”

#fics

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wienerbarnes · 2 years

Text

Heavy Tipper

Summary// Camgirl sites were nothing new to Bucky, but a familiar face has him tipping heavily and requesting a private chat.

Warnings// maybe angst?, fluff, smut, video call sex, some dirty talk, mutual masturbation, Camgirl work, some taunting, roadhead (aka m receiving oral while driving), oral (f receiving), overstimulation, kinda face riding?, couple bites, light choking kink (Bucky receiving), light aftercare, fluffy morning sex,

AU// DBF!Bucky x Camgirl!Reader

Note// this is filth and I’m not gonna say sorry for it. There’s around 4 smut scenes. Oops 😅

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Sure there was a twist of guilt in Bucky’s stomach when he had discovered your live cam show, one he had ignored when he clicked the icon and tipped- heavily.

But, the guilt had surpassed by the time he requested a private chat.

It wasn’t Bucky’s first time on a website like this one. Watching live camgirls to pass the time and relieve some stress was something he did more often than he wanted to admit.

The moment he saw a familiar face in a preview his mouth went dry. Fingers hovering over the mousepad of his laptop as he debated clicking the icon.

A part of him felt guilty watching someone he’d known for three years in such a vulnerable state over the internet. Especially since he was so close with your family that there wasn’t a family gathering he’d missed in that time.

Maybe that was why he kept clicking the tip button until you gave the camera a sweet smile and said goodbye, before he gladly paid the hundred and fifty dollars for a private video call.

The moment you’d accepted the request and saw the broad chest on your screen you knew something looked familiar. The flash of a dark metal left hand and the edge of a patterned throw blanket you recognized as one you’d gifted him on Christmas, making a smile crack across your features.

Bucky Barnes with his head just out of the frame, broad shoulders and thick arms hidden behind a long sleeved shirt.

The same sweet, handsome Bucky who lightly flirted with you every chance he had. The one who the closest you’d ever been to getting a glimpse of what he looked like naked was in his swim shorts in your backyard. Who was now paying to get off with you over a cam site.

He was so caught up in looking over the lingerie set that was different than the live show previously, that he’d forgotten you were there for only him and not a full audience. A soft laugh drawing his attention back. “Gonna let me see, stud?”

His heart plummeted to his stomach when the pet name dripped from your lips like honey. Something he’d heard from you multiple times over the three years he’d been friends with your dad. But- what hurt would it do if you did know it was him?

“Uh- yeah, yeah.” He stumbled over his words, making sure to keep his face out of the frame as he leaned forward to sit his laptop on the coffee table, lifting his hips enough to shove his sweatpants down.

You couldn’t stop the soft moan that left your throat when his hand wrapped around his thick shaft, mouth starting to water just at the sight. Tip an angry red and shiny with precum as he cleared his throat, a slight flick of his wrist twisting his hand up so he could run his thumb over his leaking slit. Spreading his precum to let his hand glide easier.

Bucky didn’t know where his usual confidence had went as he listened to the blatant filth you spoke. Everything stuck on his tongue as he watched your hands roam your soft skin. Legs spread wide so he could watch your fingers plunge into your cunt, wishing he could just bury his head between your soft thighs and never move.

“Need you to talk to me- what do you wanna do?” Your seductive tone tore through him, eyes hooded with lust as you looked at your screen. Taking in the way he tugged his cock, thighs tensing when he’d twist his hand just right.

“God, fuck- wanna stuff that mouth, pretty girl.” He grunted out, gritting his teeth to ground himself until you were finished.

A breathy moan sounded through his speakers, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Do ya’? Looks so heavy, stud. Don’ know if it’ll fit.”

“It’ll fit- pretty pussy looks so wet bet I could slip right it.” Bucky was almost choking on his words when your head tipped back in a drawn out moan.

Seeing him in a state like this one set your entire being on fire. Bionic left gently tugging his heavy sac as he furiously fisted over himself, your mind wandering of how his large hands would feel against your skin other than the touches that maybe lasted a little too long- but you still wished would last longer.

Or how those thick thighs would feel cushioned under you, his hips thrusting up into you as his long, thick fingers wrapped around your throat. Taking what he needed and more as he took you apart.

“S’close-“ you panted out, applying just the right amount of pressure to your clit to pull the coil in your core tight enough to snap. A breathless moan feeding into the mic and through his speakers.

“Look so handsome like this,” you breathed out, riding through the afterglow.

“S-shit- gonna make me fuckin’ come, sweet girl.” Bucky knew how pitiful the whine that pulled from his throat sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

He’d never imagined you’d say anything even bordering vulgar, yet here he was jerking off over a video call with you spilling dirty thoughts from your lips like it was a normal conversation. Talking him through a body tensing orgasm as his release coated his hand and clothed abdomen in thick spurts.

He cursed under his breath as he blinked his eyes open, seeing that you were sitting straighter in front of the camera with a proud smile.

“Hope to see you on here again, handsome.”

Bucky was going to try his hardest not to get too flustered over the belated birthday celebration at your dad’s. Having a beer with him in the kitchen when he heard the from door opened.

“Sorry, I’m late- happy late birthday, stud.” You chirped, gift bag in one hand as your free arm went around his neck for a hug.

“Thanks, sweets.” He chuckled, hand resting on your lower back as you pulled away. “We just ordered food. So, you’re not too late.”

“Perfect timing actually.” Your dad chimed, taking a long drink from his beer.

“This is for you.”

Bucky eyed the bag you held out for him before narrowing his eyes at you. “Thought we agreed on no gifts.”

“Like you can actually expect me not to bring you a birthday gift.”

Bucky’s close proximity was driving you nuts, especially after the night before.

His lingering touches and wandering eyes making your heart race over dinner, his breath fanning your jaw and lips nearly touching the shell of your ear when he leaned in to crack a joke.

As you stood at the sink washing the dishes, you could feel his body heat radiating into your back when he stood behind you. Towering over you as his heavy left hand landed on your waist and he leaned down to talk to you.

“Come out for a smoke with me?” He asked, a suggestive tone hidden in his voice.

“I don’t smoke, you know that.” You laughed lightly, turning to face him as his hand dropped back to his side. A smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“Keep me company.”

Nodding, you followed him towards the back patio. “I know you were the one in my private chat last night, Buck. The arm made it pretty obvious.” You said once you’d slid the patio door shut, Bucky glancing at you through his eyelashes as he lit his cigarette.

“You’re not mad?” He murmured, exhaling the grey smoke.

“Well… you single-handedly paid half of my rent last night, so.” You shrugged, hooking your fingers in his belt loops to tug him closer. Looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “How long have you been watching?”

“Last night was the first time.” He took another long drag from his cigarette, looking at the cherry at the end. “A part of me wants to feel bad, because of your dad. But… I can’t even force myself to. Like- I knew you were gorgeous, but goddamn you’re a fucking goddess.” He huffed out, heat burning your cheeks as you looked up at him.

“I mean… just look at you. So cute and precious, but you’ve got a filthy mouth on you, sweets.” Your stomach flipped at his words, large hands caressing your waist before slipping down to grip your backside. “I just wanna fucking ruin you.”

“Gonna tell me what you’re gonna do to me while we’re on my dad’s patio? During you’re birthday celebration?” You teased, slipping your fingers under the hem of his t-shirt to feel the taut muscles that laid under smooth skin. “Not something that someone would do to their best friend.”

He groaned quietly, leaning down to talk in your ear. “Don’t shame me for wanting to fuck you senseless. I’d make you forget your own name, pretty girl.”

You whimpered, quickly covering it with a light laugh. “Where was all that talk last night, stud? You were wrecked for me and I never even touched you.”

His grip tightened on your ass to pull you closer. “Keep running that mouth I’ll fulfill that promise of stuffing it.” His tone was low and sultry, plucking something deep in your core as arousal pooled in your underwear.

“You’re the one who paid for me to get you off. Bet you make the cutest faces when you come.” You tested, getting a huff in response.

“Let’s see if you can keep that attitude when I’m done.”

You were quick to gather your things and head to the door once Bucky had finished his cigarette. Poking your head in the living room door where you dad was watching the tv. “Buck is giving me a ride home. Saves me money on a cab.”

“Alright, hun. Be safe- drive safe.” He gave Bucky a pointed look as a heavy hand rested on your upper arm.

“Gotta be a responsible driver with such precious cargo.” He joked, pulling the front door open.

“Drive safe, I mean it!” Your dad called as you walked out, getting a thumbs up in response.

Anticipation bubbled in your stomach during the drive as you leaned your forearm on the armrest. Turned to face Bucky as your fingers danced along the seam of his jeans, gradually creeping closer to the hardened bulge until you caressed it through the straining fabric.

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened when you gave him a light squeeze, chest heaving as he tried to focus on the road. “You’re already rock hard. Bet I could get you off before we even get to your house.”

He let out a dark chuckle, right hand moving from the shifter to prod at his belt and unfasten his pants. “Better get to work then.” He murmured, holding the back of your head as you slipped his erection out of the front of his briefs.

Bucky had to will himself to keep his eyes open when your lips wrapped around him, choking back a groan and gripping your hair as your head bobbed.

The position wasn’t the most comfortable, but the rewarding sounds that filled the small space made every second worth it. His hips rolling up slightly to push further into your mouth, left hand gripping the steering wheel so tight it would be surprising if there weren’t dents where his fingers were.

Luckily there was a red light when the swirling pressure started to crest higher, Bucky’s hand urging you further down in him until your throat constricted around him and hot spurts of his release flooded your taste buds. A drawn out moan vibrating from his chest as his head rested back against the headrest, riding out the aftershocks with gentle rolls of his hips until you pulled away. Cock still twitching as he grabbed your chin in his hand, smashing his lips to yours.

You traced your fingertips over his softening cock as his tongue slipped into your mouth, moaning at the taste of himself lingering on your tongue.

“Told ya’.” You smiled against his lips, his fingers digging further into your cheeks.

“Sweets, your pretty cunt probably can’t take me. Stop being a brat.”

Once Bucky had finally pulled into his driveway, you could feel a nervous twist in your stomach. Not one that made you want to back out, but one that added to the excitement that had your heart pumping since the talk on your dad’s patio.

“You’re clean right?” You asked as you guided Bucky’s shirt up, backing him to the bed as he slipped it off over his head.

“Of course.” He nodded, discarding his jeans and boxers before a hand pressed to the center of his chest urged him onto the bed. Laying on his back, propped on his elbows as he watched you strip the rest of your clothing off and climb on top of him as gracefully as you could. Sitting on his lower abdomen.

Goosebumps broke out across your skin as his hands caressed your sides, ghosting over your breasts to cradle your jaw in his fingers. Pulling your lips down to his in a sweet, tender kiss. Your hands exploring the expanse of his thick chest, feeling every dip under your fingertips as a shiver rolled down his spine from the delicate touch.

A surprised squeak left your throat when he rolled to hover over you. Soft lips and scratchy facial hair tracing your skin as he kissed his way down your neck and chest, sinking his teeth into the top of your breast until you let out a squeal and tried to squirm away.

“Sorry,” Bucky chuckled, soothing over the fresh mark with his tongue before continuing his path down. Pressing your thighs further apart as your twisted his short hair between your fingers. Heart thumping in your chest as he moved your thighs to rest on his shoulders and teased everywhere besides where you needed him.

“James, don’t tease.” You groaned, trying to buck your hips to meet his mouth before his bionic left arm draped over your stomach to hold them down.

“M’not teasing, just appreciating.” He breathed out, grazing his teeth along your inner thigh until a needy whine poured from your lips and you squeezed his hair.

You swore you were already teetering on the edge, that the moment you felt his warm tongue against your throbbing clit you’d turn to putty in his hands.

And you weren’t completely wrong-

But, Bucky wasn’t stopping at just one. His mouth not lifting from your cunt as you tried to squirm from his hold, aftershocks never seeming to stop the twitches of your body.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to push him away or keep grinding your hips against his sinful mouth. Lust blown eyes locked on the fucked out look on your face as he nuzzled his face closer, gently shaking his head as your fingers pulled his hair to the point of pain that only made his cock twitch against the mattress.

Your thighs squeezing around his head as you screamed out his name, another body writhing orgasm surging through you as you absentmindedly rode his face. The groan that vibrated against your cunt only adding to the shocks of bliss.

“Fuck, Bucky…” you panted, throat scratchy from the countless highs he pulled from you in less than an hour as he finally lifted himself from between your thighs. Lips shiny with your arousal as he gave you a cocky grin.

“Even sweeter than I imagined.” He breathed out, fisting over himself to relieve some of the ache. “Need’a minute?”

You nodded softly, leaning up to latch your lips to the base of his throat. Hand holding the back of his neck as he let out a content sigh when your other went down to trace along the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock.

“Seeing you tug your cock last night was the best thing I’d seen all week, stud.” You teased, the throaty chuckle that sounded from him making you clench around nothing as his hand replaced yours. Swollen head slipping through your folds.

“Still got that attitude.”

You gasped out when he fully seated himself in your oversensitive walls in a fluid thrust, a guttural moan filling your ears as you tried to adjust to the sudden stretch in the brief time he gave before setting a ruthless pace.

“This cunt is heaven-“ he groaned, gripping your waist as he sat up more. Watching how you stretched around him. His pace bordering brutal as you screamed out for him, hands gripping and clawing at whatever smooth, sweat slicked skin they could reach. Supple flesh of your chest bouncing with each punishing snap of his hips.

Your mind was a floating mess, only able to focus on the delectable pleasure that coursed through you from how perfectly he was splitting you open. Your eyes peaking open to watch his blissed out features- jaw slack to let almost pornographic moans fall out and chest slick with sweat as he fucked into you.

The soft clink of his dog tags being drowned out by the salacious sound of skin slapping and the squelch of your cunt. Your shaky hand reaching up to hook your fingers in the chain, tugging him down to you for a sloppy kiss. Swallowing moans and sharing breaths as your hand slipped up to wrap around his neck and apply a little pressure to the sides.

It took Bucky off-guard, but only added to the building pleasure in his abdomen. Managing to move his fingers to your clit as he found the spot in your walls that pulled the most reactions and fucked into it.

Over and over until an orgasm hit him so hard he thought he was going to black out for a moment. Holding himself up on his left forearm as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you. Your teeth digging into his bottom lip and nails carving down his back as you rode through your own.

Taking a minute to gather his bearings and blink away the stars in his vision, Bucky slowly pulled away. Heart beating so hard and fast he thought it would pound out of his chest if he moved too fast.

The shocks of bliss were still wracking through you as he slipped from between your thighs. Smooth metal and warm flesh hands caressing over your form as you draped your forearm over your eyes.

“You okay? Need anything?” Bucky silky voice was barely audible over the dull ring in your ears as you shook your head. Relishing in the way he was making over you as you came down from the final mind blanking high.

Gently massaging your thighs as he looked you over, so gorgeous and fucked out. Skin radiant with the post orgasm glow as you laid bare in front of him.

“C’mon, pretty girl. A hot shower will help.” He cooed, carefully helping you up and out of bed. Biting back a chuckle as you stood on wobbly legs.

But even the deep ache in your abdomen didn’t stop your teasing tone. “Knew you looked handsome when you come.”

Your body was still sore as you shifted around in the comfortable bed, the shower from the first round not stopping another two before both of you tapped out from exhaustion.

Bucky’s bare form was pressed in close from behind as you looked over your shoulder. Being met with a kind smile and those enchanting blue eyes as he laid on his side, propped on his elbow.

“Watching me sleep like a creep?” You teased as he grazed his knuckles along your upper arm. Earning a quiet laugh from him.

“Wore me out last night. Don’t think I’ve gone three times in one night in years.” He hummed, pressing his fingertips under your jaw for you to tilt your head back before tilting his head and locking your lips with his for a brief kiss. “Be nice if we could do this again.”

“Maybe we can.” You mumbled, barely shifting your hips to press against his half-hard cock.

“I think I have one more in me- what about you?” He suggested, hand going to grip the outside of your thigh.

“You’re insatiable.”

“Can just slip in how we are right now.” Bucky breathed out, hand slipping up to grope at your chest and erection pressing into your ass.

“What are you waiting for then, lover boy?” You purred, feeling his hand go between you before his tip prodded your already slick folds.

It was more intimate than the night before- hips slowly rolling into you as he grunted quietly in your ear. Gradually urging your front to the mattress until his sturdy frame was waving over your, stomach brushing your back as he started to grind into your ass. Staying buried deep to keep his tip pressed into the sweet spot furthest in your walls until you reached a breathless orgasm.

“Feels s’perfect being inside you. Don’ want anyone else now.” You whined at the slip of words, hand reaching back to grip the supple flesh of his ass as he filled you with his spend again before pulling away. Fingers grazing along your spine and a tender kiss pressed to your shoulder.

“You wanna be mine, sweets?”

—————

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#fics

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