“I was in the middle of getting myself off.” 

After hearing Steve knock, he watched you shuffle to the door trying to put clothes on, trying to pretend you weren't leaking with him still. 

As he hid in the doorway of your closet, in the dark trying to tuck himself back together, he heard your voice trail off, and bit back a growl in distaste. He didn't like Steve knowing you that intimately. “Like. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.”

He heard the silence and then Steve's voice. “Oh.” A few other murmured words, and he heard you again. 

Cleary, this time. “You don’t want to supervise?” The thought of Steve touching you like that in any way, shape, or form, made him want to snap his neck like a twig. 

You.

Steve's shadow and neighbor. Steve's friend.

He remembered your scent first. The strongest sense tied to memory. Peonies and musk and vanilla bypassed his thalamus and landed straight into his hippocampus and amygdala, burrowing deep there. 

As he walked the halls of the exhibit, more and more pieces came back, slow and disjointed, like shards of painted glass scattered across the floor of his mind.

He passed the stand of pictures of him and Steve, the Howling Commandos, and what seemed to be his own fucking funeral. Bits and pieces battled for space in his brain he didn't have yet, giving way to a pounding sensation on the inside of his skull, sudden enough it made his vision blur for a few seconds.

Like some version of him was trying to break out. 

His hand came up instinctively, fingers pressing against his temple as the museum hallway tilted slightly beneath his feet.

The exhibit around him blurred into color and glass and distant voices as another memory tried to surface, clawing its way up through the conditioning Hydra had hammered into his skull.

He staggered sideways, gripping the edge of a display case to steady himself. The metal fingers of his prosthetic curled against the glass with a faint screech that made a nearby tourist glance over.

Bucky pushed away immediately.

The air inside the museum suddenly felt wrong — too clean, too loud, too full of ghosts trying to claw their way back into his head.

He turned sharply and walked toward the side corridor he’d noticed earlier when he came in. A service hallway.

His footsteps echoed off concrete instead of polished marble now, each step sending another dull pulse through his skull. The headache hadn’t eased — if anything, it throbbed harder the farther he moved from the exhibit.

Like his mind was angry at him for walking away before the picture was finished.

He pushed the door under the glowing red "EXIT" sign, and as soon as the sun hit him, the overhead of the exhibit faded away and the busy noise of D.C. filled his ears, he could feel oxygen in his lungs again. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

As he breathed deep, he noticed an unmarked black car parked there. All tinted windows. 

Bucky's heart raced again and his body tensed automatically. Predator instincts snapping into place before conscious thought could catch up.

Did they find me? Already? 

His brain was going a million miles a minute and overheating. 

He looked around, planning a getaway, looking for traps, snipers, and before he could get much further than that, the door opened, and out of the car you stepped. 

He didn't recognize you, per se. But his body somehow… knew. 

There was a manila envelope tucked under one arm, thick with papers and creased from being held too tightly. Your clothes were practical — thick, dark leggings, what looked like running shoes, a jacket zipped halfway up over a hoodie, and sunglasses.

Sunglasses that did nothing to hide the purple blooming on the apple of your cheek. 

His fingers flexed as his stomach twisted at the sight, a little part of him knowing that was probably his doing. A small, ugly thought flickered through his mind.

You stopped a few feet from the car, studying him like you’d been doing it for a long time already.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the tension in his body, the uncertainty and distrust flashing in his eyes. 

When he spoke, his voice came out rough, shaking at the beginning of the sentence, from not being used. "Who did that to you?"

The question seemed to surprise him almost as much as it did you.

He studied you for another second, like he was trying to fit you into the fractured spaces in his mind.

“That,” you said quietly, “is a long story.” You walked to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and threw the envelope on the seat, tuning back to him. "You coming?"

Washington faded in the rearview mirror in slow increments — traffic thinning, buildings lowering, glass and steel turning into brick and then eventually trees. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windshield in long, warm streaks that flickered across the dashboard as the road curved deeper into Virginia.

Bucky.

It felt so weird he had a name now. 

You wondered exactly how much he remembered. You read the files as you gathered them before it all went to shit, you knew whatever twisted version you had of him, it wasn't the same one Steve tried to save. 

Bucky didn’t speak much.

He sat angled slightly toward the window, one arm resting loosely on the door, metal fingers flexing every so often like they had their own restless thoughts. His eyes moved constantly — mirrors, tree lines, passing cars.

You kept the drive steady, hands loose on the wheel, like this was just another quiet afternoon road trip instead of the first time you’d seen him since the causeway.

Eventually the paved highway gave way to a narrow two-lane road, then a gravel path that wound through thick woods. Tall trees leaned overhead, their branches forming a natural tunnel that swallowed the last hints of civilization behind you.

The cabin sat tucked beside a wide, slow river that caught the sunlight like glass. It wasn’t large, but it was well kept — simple wood siding, a small wraparound porch, wide windows facing the water.

You parked the car near the edge of the clearing and turned the engine off.

For a moment neither of you moved.

The sudden silence of the woods settled around the car — water moving gently over rocks, leaves rustling in a breeze that smelled like pine and river mist.

Bucky’s eyes swept the property. He narrowed his gaze at the lack of findings. His jaw tightened, “Too clean,” he muttered under his breath.

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you said as you opened your door and stepped out onto the gravel, “I vacuum.”

His boots crunched lightly against the gravel when he got out of the car, as he stood beside the door, scanning the cabin again with the same sharp caution he’d had since the alley behind the museum.

As you walked to the trunk to get your duffel bags, one of your belongings and the other of food, you decided you'd be the chatty one. As it's always been. 

You lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the surrounding forest.

“Off grid. No utilities tied to my name. No property record in any government database worth a damn. Bought it under three shell companies and a retired fisherman in Montana who thinks he owns a lake house he’s never seen.”

“Hydra doesn’t know it exists.” You tilted your head slightly. “And neither does SHIELD. That part made his eyes narrow a fraction. You pushed the trunk closed and started toward the cabin steps. “Just me.”

As he followed you in, his eyes took inventory of the inside of the cabin. Warm air spilled out — wood smoke, clean linen, something faintly herbal from the kitchen.

Simple furniture. Neat. A couch near the fireplace. A small table at the center, over a rug. A bookshelf. A kitchen tucked into the back corner with the smallest kitchen island known to man. 

"Bathroom's that way," you nodded your head to your left, dropping the duffel bags in the kitchen by the cabinets. "Bedroom's the door before."

No surveillance. No technology. Just quiet.

You put refrigerated things in the small fridge by the kitchen corner, and grabbed the duffel bag, handing it to him. "I figured you and Steve were the same size." He looked at you puzzled. "Got a few changed of clothes for you, washed away all his star splangled piousness."

Bucky didn't say anything, just stared at you like he was trying to grasp at a thread in his brain that kept slipping away. 

You looked back at him, and nervously chuckled. "Okay, tough crowd."

Bucky’s gaze drifted back toward the table. Toward the envelope. It sat there like it had weight far heavier than paper should.

You followed his line of sight. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, pushing away from the counter. “That.” You fidgeted with the corners of the envelope. “It’s everything I could find.”

He tilted his head, as if spurring you on to keep talking. You stepped back again, folding your arms loosely.

“On Bucky,” you continued. A small pause. “On the Winter Soldier.” Another pause. “On whoever the hell you decide you are when you’re done reading it.”

“HYDRA records. SHIELD files. Soviet archives. Mission logs.” Your mouth tilted faintly. “Some things even Natasha doesn’t know exist.”

The cabin creaked softly as the wind moved through the trees outside.

It took Bucky two full days to feel some semblance that his body belonged to him again. He didn't feel underwater — at least not fully — anymore. 

The envelope stayed unopened.

It sat on the small table near the couch like a quiet third presence in the room, its corners curling slightly from the humidity drifting in through the cracked windows. Every so often Bucky’s eyes would land on it, linger for a moment, and then move away again.

Instead, he watched you.

Not in the way he used to — not from rooftops with the cold focus of a rifle scope — but with a quiet, almost instinctive attention. Like his body had decided something before his mind could catch up.

He followed you without realizing he was doing it.

When you moved around the small kitchen in the morning, he drifted closer under the pretense of getting water. When you stepped outside to the porch with a mug of coffee, he appeared a minute later, leaning against the railing like the river had been calling him there all along.

Sometimes he didn’t even seem aware of it.

You’d turn around and find him standing in the doorway watching you chop vegetables, or sitting on the edge of the couch while you flipped through one of the battered paperbacks on the shelf.

Whatever pieces of Bucky Barnes were trying to claw their way back had nothing stable to attach to yet.

Except you.

Which was… complicated.

You were standing by the kitchen counter when you finally said it.

“I’ve gotta head out tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving.” Not a question.

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off with one hand. “Couple days,” you said casually. “Maybe three.”

His shoulders squared slightly, tension threading through the relaxed posture he’d had moments earlier. “For what?”

You took a sip before answering. “Gotta check on a couple people.” His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Steve.” You gave a small nod.

“And Nat.” The reaction was tiny. So small most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Why?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Because they’re probably looking for both of us.” Another pause. “And because they’re my friends.”

That word hung in the air longer than the rest.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a long time after the sound of the car disappeared, staring out at the quiet river like he was waiting for something to change.

Eventually, he turned back inside, sitting at the table, staring at the envelope like it might catch fire if he didn't. 

He decided that was as good time as any. 

Minutes passed, then hours. Probably more. 

The files inside were organized by date, the only sort of thread he could actually follow. The beginning painted a picture he could barely remember. You even managed to find things that only someone who went digging for his little sister's diary could find, anecdotes of the type of childhood he could imagine he had, pictures of his childhood, his sisters, his parents. 

Then it got… darker. 

The experiment in Azzano, the rescue, his missions with Steve, all the way to his fall of the train. How he survived hypothermia, the operative report when they attached his arm. The first real wiping session. 

HYDRA mission reports.

Redacted SHIELD intel that you somehow got unredacted.

Grainy satellite photos. Black-and-white surveillance stills.

The Winter Soldier. Asset.

Target eliminated. Location secured. Memory wipe required.

Bucky read the words on the paper, old and new, until his eyes ached. The pounding headache came back, too many versions of himself stacked on top of each other, and he decided it was enough for the night. 

He looked through the bookcase, finding stacks of crossword puzzles, sudoku, a deck of cards, all on the second drawer below the books and board games. 

The New York Times wednesday crossword was the lucky one he picked. He laid on the couch with the newspaper in front of him, and by the end, there was only one clue that had him, well, puzzled. 

Ooh, la, la!

What the fuck kind of clue was that?

Four letters. 

He tilted his head one side, then the other, trying to crack his neck, and when he stretched, he buried his face in the cushion. 

It was peonies, and soft musk, and vanilla. It was your sweatshirt that you left over the arm of the couch. 

Before realization hit, a flash went by behind his eyelids, sending his heart straight to the pit of his stomach. 

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" It was your voice, distant, far away, but there. Yours. "No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!"

He heard himself then. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." A rush of heat trickling down his stomach like lava. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bucky opened his eyes and sucked in a breath like he had just come out from underwater, scared of his own mind.

He had a blurred visual of what accompaied the words, was that a memory? Was it a dream? Were those his intentions with you? Were you safe with him in this remote cabin?

His thoughts raced with speed one would get a felony charge for, and he looked around to see if he was still alone. He shuffled away from the sweatshirt like it was covered in cactus spines.

His hands dragged over his face, and he decided the coldest shower the safehouse could provide would fix whatever was wrong with his mind. “You’re fine,” he muttered to himself.

He walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror for longer than he'd like to admit, trying to find pieces of the James Barnes he read about. 

The shower didn't do much, but it did enough to soothe the tense muscles in his back and ease the throbbing ache in his skull. The instant ramen he made settled okay in his stomach. He settled on the old creaky bed and stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers to his questions until his eyes drifted closed. 

The chair was cold. Metal against his spine. His wrists locked down tight enough that he can feel his pulse fighting against the restraints. The room smells like antiseptic and something burned—wires, maybe, or skin. It’s dark and smells musty. Too old.

He can't move his head. 

He heard the whirring of the wiping machine, heard his own teeth grind together, and then dull footsteps walking in circles around him like a shark circling wounded prey. 

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car.

He felt flashes of memory crumbling down like weak concrete.

And the voice spoke again. 

"Soldat?"

He heard his voice with so little emotion it didn't even feel like him. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

And before he could remember what orders he was given, the nightmare changed. 

"I'll be good! I'll comply!" Suddenly he wasn't in a HYDRA base that smelled of rust and old water, no. He was somewhere much softer, much better taken care of, much more pleasant to be in. 

You. 

He saw himself blurred, almost like he was watching it happen but feeling it all the same, heard himself coax agreement out of you, and heard your voice, broken and wet and needy, say the words. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

Bucky woke up in a cold sweat, breathing like he just choked while running a marathon.

The room was dark, a bedside table clock telling him it was barely past 2am, and when he looked down he groaned in shame at the sight of the tent he was pitching in his pants, aching and leaking enough to wet a spot on the front of his pants.

He decided to toss. And turn. And toss again, trying to go back to sleep. 

He threw the covers off of him, walking to the kitchen and side eyeing the sweatshirt tossed on the couch like it might lunge at him. Tried to mush down the heat in the back of his throat with a glass of water, which proved unsuccessful.

He laid back in bed, covers over his legs and waist, and closed his eyes, wishing, hoping, praying he'd drift away into anywhere his shitty ability to maladaptive daydream would take him. 

Which was right back to you. 

The synapses in his brain just wouldn't stop. 

"You didn't show up for days." Your voice was distant, like a weird doppler effect was happening. You sounded sad, like you felt forgotten about. 

It kept coming to him in flashes, “You disappear,” you said, ticking it off on your fingers. “You come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.” This time he could almost feel the supple skin of your cheeks under the pads of his fingers. 

His hand twitched on the pillow above his head, and he sighed deeply. Each inch his hand moved lower, the clearer the picture got. 

When it tickled the skin on his stomach, he got a flash of you looking up at him. 

You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big. "Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?"

Bucky whined, hand going lower over the sweats and palming himself through it. 

He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "Please…"

He felt dirty, and like he was doing something he shouldn't. But no one would know. He was alone for miles and miles, and you were gone checking on your precious Steve.

He palmed himself harder and sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, his hand coming up slightly to go under the sweats and grip himself, his body jolting at the feeling of skin against skin. 

"Let your pretty girl see you…" Another strangled whine left his lips, like it hurt. Like it hurt to feel what he was feeling and be confused as to why, have no outlet for such emotion, not know what to do with the memories.

You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again. 

The moan that escaped his lips when he stroked himself at first was broken, like it knocked the wind out of him. He didn't mean to let it out but the imagery got clearer with each movement. 

"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'." I don't like leaving you.

He stroked again, each slick sound from him fucking his fist reminding him of how you sounded fucking yourself open onto him. 

"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear.

It hurt. It felt good. Tears rimmed his eyes in confusion and overstimulation of all his emotions hitting him at once. The more the knot in his core tightened at the thought of you, the less oxygen he felt existed. 

He stroked, up and down, swiping his thumb across the leaking tip of him, eyes shut tightly trying to remember the feel of your spongy walls wrapping around him, then clenching. 

He moaned your name and stroked faster, a flash of memory showing him how you begged him to let you be on top, metal hand glinting around your throat. 

He squeezed his hand around himself, and as soon as the image of you biting your lower lip and begging him to cum through teary eyes popped in his head, he was done for.

Like releasing a spring that was coiled too tight, the relief was immediate, making a shudder run through his body as hot spurts of cum painted his stomach and some of the sheets around him. 

The next time it happened, it was the wine.

You had gotten back already, and he was looking for something to drink in the fridge, though maybe a bottle of water and a flavor packet that you called Liquid I.V. would be nice, when he saw the bottle out of the corner of his eye. 

The label seemed familiar, familiar enough for a flash of a syringe and a needle to pass by his mind, no other context or explanation. 

When he took the half-sticking-out cork out, the smell of it flooded his nostrils, and another flash appeared. 

Your kiss. 

It was messy, urgent, nothing like the soft kiss he remembered before. This one he could almost taste, wine, lip balm, and, well, what he imagined you tasted like. 

Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“ 

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you. 

"S'tight, baby." 

He groaned in annoyance, his body responding to the memory faster than he could tell his own brain to repress it. 

He took a deep breath, then two, and when it became clear his dick was winning this one, he turned on the balls of his feet and bee lined for the bedroom, hoping to be done before you got out of the shower. 

He paused, however, by the couch. Looking at your sweatshirt, then the door, then the sweatshirt again, until he decided to stop fucking thinking and just grabbed it. 

This time, he did it with the fabric close to his face, where he could turn around and bury his face in it, feel how soft it was and imagine it was the skin between your breasts, imagine your sweet little whimpers in his ear, your hands tangled in his hair tugging it as he grazed the skin with his teeth. 

"If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"

He built rhythm easier this time, the images weren't fractured glass as much as they were reflections off of a river stream now, flowing and fleeting. 

"Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

There wasn't a headache anymore, just a throbbing need behind his ribs and low in his spine, shame and want blended so well together he didn't know which was which. 

"Please, don't stop."

His hand stroked faster, up and down his shaft, until it was weeping with need, precum coating his entire fist. Your voice in his head kept echoing, closer, and closer, bringing him to the edge of a precipice he had all intentions of falling from. 

"Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby."

He bit his own fist as he spilled onto his hand, trying to muffle any sounds coming out of his mouth, but it wasn't much avail. Blood rushing in his ears, he didn't hear you turn off the shower, or open the bathroom door.

You'd recognize his moans in any environment though.

The timbre of his voice when he was close, almost choking on his own groans trying to keep quiet, not knowing you were outside the door listening to it, unaware he was thinking of you. 

The cards were worn.

Soft at the edges, corners bent from too many hands, too many games that were meant to pass time instead of… whatever this was.

"Ha! That's four," You said, scooping the pair of cards from the coffee table and onto your pile. "Are you even trying? Your memory cannot be that bad."

The rain sounded heavy outside, thick drops of water crashing down on the roof, the wind making them thud against the window in harsh pitter-patter patterns that comforted the loneliest souls. 

He sat across from you, elbows resting on his knees, one hand resting on his chin and the other hanging from his lap, the deep crease between his brows making an appearance. His gaze wasn’t on the cards. 

You raised a brow, taking your glass of wine in your hand to take a sip. "Do I have something on my face?"

"You smelled like vanilla."

It was out of context, almost like he was just thinking out loud and not exactly planning on filling you in on what the conversation was in the first place. 

You raised your forearm to your nose, smelling the skin on your wrist, and furrowed your own brows, a chuckle escaping you. "It's the moisturizer, Bucky, I can—"

"And after it was peonies."

Oh?

Oh.

He… remembers. 

"I remembered those nights." Your blood ran cold, you could see his throat bob like he was swallowing words too thick for his tongue. "I remember—" He shut his eyes, both trying to recall and erase the memory of the very first night you were together. 

"Bucky—" You sat up on your knees, making the motion to get a couple inches closer to him, and he moved away the same distance. 

"You cried— fuck— you begged me to stop and I just—" His hands were up in the air, as if keeping space between you would make whatever he did to you less worse. 

"Bucky, please—"

"Why are you kind to me?" His question was almost demanding. Scolding. "After everything I did to you?" His eyes looked into yours, searching your face for answers to a question he didn't have the words to ask. "After I r—"

"Because I liked it." You blurted out. "A deep, twisted, dark part of me wouldn't let the rest of me hate you for it." You sighed, Bucky tilting his head as if nudging you to elaborate. 

You looked everywhere but him, fidgeting with your hands on your lap. "I didn't even last that first night before I… felt things I couldn't name." You picked at the fabric of your pants. "I woke up the next morning feeling hollow that you left. Every night after that I waited for you to come back."

"Why would y—"

"I don't know." You interrupted him, looking into his eyes. "I can't explain why, but every night you didn't come I felt like jumping off of the tallest building I could find." You looked away again, chuckling at how idiotic you thought you sounded. 

"I sound stupid."

You pulled away to get up and walk away, getting as far as having to step over him to find somewhere to bury your shame. 

Bucky wouldn't let you, though. His hand reached up as you were walking over him, pulling you down.

Your knees hit the rug on each side of him with a soft thud, his hands cradling your face and looking for any sign of protest. 

He didn't find any. Would never find any. Not from you. 

You looked into his eyes, watching him watch you, and leaned in, kissing his lips softly.

So softly he'd have thought it was a dream. 

Your lips moved together as if it was the first kidd you'd shared. And technically, it was, no matter how much muscle memory he had of the Asset and you. 

He deepened the kiss and your hips twiched as his hands fell to rest at your side, grinding yourself onto his pelvis, making him groan into your mouth. 

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling it lightly and sighing into him. "I missed you." You breathed against his mouth before he pulled away to kiss down your neck. "Missed you so much I wanted to—"

"M'here." Muffled against your collarbone, hands going under the hem of your ribbed tank top, gripping your waist with a little more want. He reached up to tug the collar of the shirt to the side, giving him more space to lap and kiss at your clevage.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, his arms extending upwards to help you take it off for him. 

You touched the scars on his shoulder, and he watched you carefully. The sliver of humanity you saw in the Asset the first night he left you undress him coming out now, in full unadultered awe. 

Your lips kissed each old divot of skin, eyes closing at the memory as your hips ground deeper into him, until you felt his hard length straining against his jeans, the seam of it catching just right into your that you felt a zing straight to your clit. 

His hands travelled up your shirt, bringing the fabric up with them, until it was your turn to let him undress you, hair falling behind your back and over one shoulder. 

He looked at you like a man seeing the sun for the first time. 

His pupils were blown with desire and adrenaline flowing through his veins, mouth coming to claim yours in a kiss again. 

A big hand splayed against your back, his hips tilting so he could lay you down on the rug, your hair fanning out around you as he kissed down your jaw, your neck, your sternum.

His hand came to rest around your ribs, thumb dangerously close to the underside if your breast, and then daring to flick the hardened nipple there. 

"Buck—"

He sighed against your skin as he kissed the skin of your torso lower and lower, kissing down the skin of your stomach, "You don't know what it does to me hearing you say my name like this."

He kissed lower and butterflies bloomed in your stomach when his lips brushed the hem of your shorts, eyes flicking up to yours as if asking for permission, or wanting you to beg, he wasn't sure.

He just wanted to hear the sound of your voice for the rest of his life. 

His fingers hooked into the shorts and pulled them down your legs along with your panties, tossing them over the couch. 

Calloused palms rubbed up your legs, squeezing when he got to the top of your thighs, and you sighed as you let them fall open so he could settle his broad chest between your legs. 

He inhaled deeply when he got to be eye level with your core, memories floosing every groove of his brain. 

His tongue licked a long, flat strip up your core and your breath caught in a moan. "Missed your scent." He kissed your clit. "Missed your taste." He groaned. "Without even knowing I was missing it."

He devoured you like a man starved. 

Like he'd forget you all over again if he stopped lapping at your cunt for even a second. 

And the thought of forgetting your face, your sounds, your smell, your taste, the thought of forgetting you was more painful than anything he had endured. 

Bucky alternated between long, deep licks up your core, and quick flicks of his tongue around your clit before sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth, while his fingers played with your nipples. 

The feel of your thighs squeezing around his head every time you did that was more comforting than any soothing mechanism he'd ever tried. 

His hands pushed your legs open once again, wider, so he could lean down and thrust his tongue in and out of your drooling pussy, making you whine and buck your hips into his face. 

The temperature of the cabin suddenly was a hundred degrees hotter, a sheen coat of sweat over your bare body making you glisten against the firelight. 

Your hands in his hair tugged, until his glistening face was flush with yours in a hungry kiss that had you tasting yourself.

Deft, manicured fingers worked on the buttons and zipper of his jeans, shoving them down awkwardly as your legs were wrapped around his waist, his cock springing free between the two of you. 

You gasped against his lips when it landed against your folds in a wet slap, leaking precum over your stomach, the patch glistening.

God, you missed him. 

His right hand reached for the length of him, lazily rubbing the tip between your folds, collecting slick, and then pumping it slowly to spread it.

He did that torturously slow, almost as if he was giving you time to back out. Decide you were right in the head and wanted nothing to do with him, actually. 

But instead you waited until his tip was notched by your entrance, and pulled him forward with your legs. his forarms bracing against the floow beside your head as his length impaled you on him, stretching you impossibly wide around his cock to the hilt.

The familiar sting made a loud, lewd moan escape your lips and stumble straight into his mouth, his lips open hovering over yours.

His metal hand cradled the top of your head, eyes locking with yours and noticing tears rim your waterline. 

Panic set in his gut mixing with the heat licking up his ribs, and you noticed the way his body stiffened. "I'm okay." You nodded. "Just—" The words getting caught in your throat as his flesh thumb traced your bottom lip. "Missed you. Need you."

You hand gave his ass cheek a firm squeeze, his eyes narrowing at you as his flesh hand reached to hike your ankle up around his waist higher, and he gave the first tentative thrust, eyes locked with yours. 

He pulled out more, and pushed his hips forward again, hitting the sweet spot inside of you that only he could reach. He leaned down, continuing his movements, and kissed down your chest, pulling a nipple into his mouth, swiling his tongue around it. 

The wet noises coming from where your bodies joined were louder than the rain outside now. Your moans getting gradually more high pitched and his groans getting deeper and deeper, as if it hurt to have you like this again. 

"You feel—" a particularly harsh thrust interrupted you. "oh my God! You feel so good, Bucky, please—"

"Dreamt of you—" Another groan. "Dreamt of you every day."

All of his sentences were punctuated by thrusts, the thick drag of his cock inside of you making your skin feel like it was on fire, sweat from you both dripping down onto the rug. 

"Fuck, Bucky—"

"Thought you were in my head." He confessed. "Until I smelled you again— fuck— on the Causeway—" Harsher thrusts, like he was losing himself in the feel of your cunt strangling him. "Knew you had to be real then." And then a needy, higher pitched moan from him. "Knew it had to be you."

You cupped your hands one each side of his face, making him let go of whatever patch of skin he was sucking on, a purple mark being left behind, and made him look at you.

Blue eyes lost is a black pool of lust and need and want. 

"Don't leave me." You pleaded, as he started thrusting hard enough to slap his pelvis against your clit with each thrust. "Please, don't ever leave me again."

He kissed your palm. "Not gonna." Muffled against your hand. "Never gonna let you go."

He strained his neck to capture your lips in a kiss again, feeling your gummy walls spasm around his length, pulsing like you wanted him to fill you up as your orgasm crashed over you and drowned you in him. 

"G'nna, cu-um…" His hips stuttered. "Need t— fuck—" You nodded against him, locking your legs behind his back, making him groan at the thought that you couldn't bear him gone as much as he couldn't bear to be away.

A symphony of passionate moans from you at the overstimulation of not even being over one orgasm and already feeling the coil in your stomach tighten again threw Bucky over the edge.

Hot, thick ropes of cum filled you, your eyes rolled back at the feeling of it, so much that it dripped out of you. 

He slowly stopped his movements, brushing your hair away from your face, kissing everywhere in your flushed chest and cheeks as he came down from his high. 

You tilted his head towards you again. "No more running."

"No more running." He agreed, kissing your palm in earnest.

me writing that smut scene with wet eyes and a wet pussy as always TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK PLEAK!!!!!