#limerence

Michael had a favorite route in his delivery. A perfect, little neighborhood with matching picket fences and delicately arranged landscaping. That quaint suburbia dream was peaceful, the yards were well kept, and the customers paid well, but that wasn’t what made him guard this route with his life. No… it was you, a beautiful housewife. You were magnificent. Truly, his dream girl… a shame you had a husband.

Now Michael had always been a smooth operator before getting to know you. Yet you knocked his socks off with how you never indulged his flirtatious commentary. Why didn’t you like him? He knew he was a decent looking guy with a head full of brown curls all the lonely ladies wanted to run their hands through. Did you not like his rich brown eyes or his dimples? What was there not to like?!

Michael openly pined for you so much so, that the neighborhood busy buddies began to squawk and screech to one another about it.

Michael overheard one of the busy buddies’ conversations that day. and it seems it was an open discussion on how you were often flirted with. “Of course that dreamboat who brings our milk falls for her. I swear she has every man on the block wrapped around her pinky. Have you seen her husband? How greedy can one girl be?”

Michael paused. He didn’t know you had a husband… he’s never seen the man when he came by. Yet that didn’t deter him from you. No. If anything, it made him ever more determined to steal you away. Sure, he didn’t make as much as your bank branch manager husband, but he made more than the average salary of most families! Michael could be a good provider too plus he’d be home more often so you’d never get lonely!

Despite how obvious it was that you were a happy housewife, Michael believed you were a lonely housewife just like your neighbors. You were often cooped up at home and your only interactions were with him or the occasional neighborly encounter. How could you not be lonely and depressed when you hardly had any interaction? Michael would be sure to amp up his efforts to peacock himself to you.

He’d give you extra bottles of milk, take your trash cans out and bring them back, and he’d even fetch your mail for you. See? He could make your life easier! Leave your workaholic husband for him!

You've never dealt with him like this before, what do you do? Leave him alone? Wake him? 

You knew it wasn't particularly safe to wake a person in a nightmare, much less a night terror, but you couldn't do nothing. He looked afraid. With caution so as not to abruptly wake him, you untangle yourself from his side embrace, peeling away from the arm that encompasses you. But it has the opposite effect. Almost like your withdraw of contact jolts him awake, inadvertently giving you quite the fright also.

He sits up fully and suddenly, eyes wild as they flicker around his room. It's almost like he's trying to find his bearings and understand his environment. The place belongs to him though, he shouldn't have to do that. But it's then he remembers where he is, the feel of your body aiding the reminder of where he is. 

"You okay?" you whisper, voice spiking with alert as you watch over him.

He swallows thickly and gives you a sharp nod, though it was fairly deceptive. It didn't feel genuine. His eyes close as he exhales, the noise jagged and uneven as he runs a hand down his face. You reach for him as you sit up, placing your hand over his fleshed arm to offer some reassurance.

"Sorry," he mutters, head shaking faintly.

You sit beside him and twist, legs crossed and body now sideways as you face him head on — vigilant gaze focused on him. Ever so slowly, his head turns inwards, vacant eyes meeting yours as they grow from their fixed, shocked state and into something far more gentle. His brows curl up ever so slightly in the centre, his expression growing sort of pliable when he realises he doesn't have to go through the aftermath of a nightmare alone. He looks almost relieved.

"Don't be sorry," you brush down his arm and you reach for his hand. You didn't have to think about it, you just did it. Like it was an instinct you didn't know you had, to reach for his hand.

Bucky glances down to your hand and back up to your face. You didn't feel the urge to rip it away, nor did you feel the need to pretend it was an accident — you let it sit there, fingers entwined with his as you try you best to provide him something grounding. And in turn, he studies you, like you him. You notice his pupils dilate a flicker, though it's hard to make out; the room is relatively dark. It could just be the light, or lack thereof.

It's quiet for a minute or two, like there's no need to say anything; the contact of skin and sparing, fleeting moments of eye contact enough to convey what you each wanted to say, only wordlessly. But it's when you spot his focus cast down to your mouth do you realise that he was trying to convey something similar to you — his expression mirroring the one you've unknowingly been giving him. As if it was a signal you had inadvertently been giving.

He itches in slowly, lips almost lingering as he meets yours, a way half hesitant, half certain. Quite like he wasn't all that sure of himself. But there was no reason for him to feel that way, not when you lean into the kiss, and especially not when you melt into it as immediately as you do. It's like your mouth jells with his, lips melting together as you return the kiss he was trying to pursue.

Your head follows his, moving with him as he itches back; like he was trying to be gentlemanly and cut the kiss short, only you wanted no part of that. It was almost like that wasn't enough for you, that little peck, so you chase it, keeping your lips fused to his as he initiates his pull away.

Your eager, he notices, and it fuels him: that sudden and apparent need you display. It makes it easier to show what he wants as all he has to do is return what you give. He slips his fleshed hand out from yours and weaves it up to the side of your neck, palm laid against it and thumb pressed under your jaw as he uses his hold to direct you; bring you in so as to deepen the kiss. Like he's keen to keep you in place now that he knows you feel a way close to how he does. 

It was so simple, the touch to your neck, but it evoked a feeling far greater within you. You respond to it, to him, with an airy breath, the noise muffling into his mouth the next moment his lips encapsulate yours. You do it again, not on purpose, but in a way purely coincidental, like you had no control over the hums that roll from your throat and down the back of his. It was almost desperate, sound unintentionally egging him on — giving him further confirmation that you were into it just as much as him.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he shifts his weight and turns further inwards; lower half twisting and body pointing your way so he can get his hands on you easily — either one settling somewhere between your hips and waist. It's noted, the urgently firm grip he has on you, and it's almost like it's an instruction, a silent direction.

Reading between the lines, you untuck your legs and lift yourself, pushing upwards until you're standing on your knees. You momentarily break from the kiss as you begin to situate yourself on his thighs, movement slow, sort of like you're crawling on top of him. His neck is ever so slightly craned back, keen eyes focused on you with your slight height advantage above. Peering down to him, you meet his eyes and hold it, focusing on him as you lower down onto his lap — wistful gaze glued to his.

There's no rush to rejoin lips in this moment. It's like you're both appreciating the spell of glory from kiss before: savouring the uneven breaths you each chase to catch and the heavy lidded expression you both share. His fingers paw at your waist for a moment before the feel of him disappears on either side of you. Though it's not long-lived, not when you feel him slip under your tee and fuse with your skin beneath.

Your lips part so subtly that it could be missed. But that doesn't happen, not with Bucky. It was glaringly obvious to him and you notice just how much, when his eyes drop from yours and to your lips. Though they only observe for so long before they shoot right back up, meeting your gaze, sort of like he missed it. And it's then you see his pupils dilate, it wasn't as deceptive as the one you thought you saw earlier on. This time it was real, black inners of his eyes swallowing the surrounding shades of blue you soon found yourself to involuntarily seek.

You rush back to his lips in a way similar to him, as if you were both itching to pick up from where you left off — lips opening as you both make urgent effort to deepen the kiss, to continue from your last stopping point. Reaching for his neck, you place your palms on either side, thumbs over his ears as your fingers graze into his hair, nails skimming his scalp in a way that makes him melt into you that much more. He hums, the dulcet sound pleased and almost, very bizarrely, sort of whiny.

His hands spread out wide across the lower of your back, fingers hooking onto your skin as he paws at you, desperation clear in the way he tugs you in. Quite like he's eager to feel as much of you as possible, enthralled by the foreign feel of his skin on yours. The placement of his hands glide up, settling in the middle of your back, around the area of where your bra clasp should be. And the thought that nix covers you but his ratty old top sends his mind into a tizzy. Beneath his clothes you wear, is nothing. Nothing separating your skin from the t-shirt that belongs to him. 

And when you subconsciously wind yourself into him, your chest pushes up against the top of his; those bare nipples of yours somehow grazing him through his own top. In that very moment, he feels his desperate claw for control and composure slip away — you're making it so much harder for him to behave like a gentleman.

He retracts his hands from the skin of your back and lowers them, fingers itching under the hem of your top as he grabs a hold of it, lifting it upwards in the following motion. But you pull away slightly, breaking the kiss like you were irresolute of the idea. He stills, immediately picking up on the way you stiffen — noticing how your shoulders tense.

You lock eyes with his, gaze down and on him from your elevated position. He's patient, you notice, eyes filled with answers while yours are succumb with questions. They flicker across your face — gentle, wanting eyes sort of locked in an appreciative trance. He's not prying, he's not pressuring; simply checking, trying to portray a dozen words with just a look.

You can see what he fails to speak verbally. 

It had been a confusing seven hours, especially being so fresh out of a break up, that initially the idea of undressing in front of someone new —a friend— scared you. But seeing the way he stopped, you knew he was someone deserving of it, of seeing you like that. It felt like a low bar to have set for yourself, but it was more that that. It was a feeling. And so you give him a little nod, the motion so subtle it could've been missed. But it's noted — noted because he sees you, not because all he needs is the slightest confirmation to pursue something he wants.

He's slow and cautious as he lifts it, giving you enough time to back out or change your mind, but you never do, there's no reason for you to. That brief, fearful feeling is replaced with something else: certitude. Bucky resumes the tugging of your tee, dragging it up your back steadily until the fabric bunches in his grasp, and when reaches just beneath your armpits, you lift your arms — reaching upwards as he pulls it from you, discarding it aside.

His gaze stays on yours for a moment, adams apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, the act another attempt to compose himself. It's slow and controlled, his glance down. He takes his time, eyes travelling down your exposed neck and lingering around your collarbones until he eventually drifts down. Trickling down to your chest; gaze falling to where your tits sit.

You see the response in his face, his expression silently speaking the contents of his mind. It's gentle, like the slight centre curling of his brows. It's sort of appreciating, the way he looks across your chest; timely glances between either tit like he was trying to savour it. His eyes flicker up to yours for a very brief moment until they gradually flutter shut.

Placing his face between your breasts, he plants a soft kiss to the middle, kiss featherlight and tingle-inducing as he sears it to your goose-bumped skin. Your head tilts back slightly as a breathy sigh slips past your lips, the sound growing in pitch when he repeats the act. Only it wasn't in the same place as before, now it was marginally off to the side — to the edge of one of your tits. Your chest shudders against him and a little splutter-like noise escapes you. And it's then you put your fingers back in his hair, grip on the back of his head firming as you pull him in closer, the action an instinct for repetition.

His sprawled out hands on the middle of your back lower as he adjusts himself, holding you in place and to him as he repositions you both; guiding you down onto the bed. It's seamless, the little transition, body glued to his as you each lay diagonally across the mattress. Now, he's above you, weight anchored on forearms beside you with his lower half slot between your thighs — legs of your own encompassing him.

Lowering just a smidgen, he places a kiss to your lips, and another and another, the short string of kisses elongating with each one he sears. He plants another, but not to your lips this time, instead just below and to your chin. The pepper-like kisses cascade over it and resume in a patch off-centre from your throat, a cluster of white hot warmth forming beneath his lips.

He pulls back from your throat and brings his metal hand up and to your face just a few short inches from his. He's noticeably careful as he cups the side of your head, his hold on you dear and sincere as his thumb scatters across the part of your cheek where he can reach. It's timely, the back and forth motion. Movement unrushed and sort of appreciating; quite like that of his gaze as he scans yours below. Inspecting you like he had no control of where his sight lands.

Peeling himself from you, you halt him for a moment when he sees you smile. You often have that unknowing effect on him when you grace him with such thing. 

He loves it, and can't help but drop back in to kiss you again and again; doing so until he has to physically force himself from you. He was afraid that if he were to continue, he may never stop. He shakes his head at you as a soft, easy smile lines his own lips — the little act like a playful reprimand. 

You're turning him to mush. And he's allowing it.

Bucky peels away from you and situates himself on his knees between your thighs, sitting in place for a moment as his heavy eyes rake over your exposed chest below. He then reaches over his shoulders to grab a bunch-full of his tee, fingers locking on the fabric as he pulls it over his head — yanking it off to rest atop yours at his side. 

Your eyes drift over his bare upper body, lifted gaze surveying the sight of his sculpted torso. You've seen it once, maybe twice in accidental passing, but never have you see it up so close. His eyes sort of divert when he notices your gaze travel to his upper left arm, the scarred joining of metal and flesh sure to give you a fright. And he was waiting for it, anticipating an upturned nose or a grimace, but that never happens. You're not that kind of person, hence why he just bared his greatest pain to you. Yet the doubt lingers at the back of his mind.

Though it soon subsides when he sees you sit up.

It fascinates you, the mechanics of it all and you can't help but reach for it. You're hesitant of course, tentative in case it were to deter him — so you keep your eyes on his, meeting his gaze as you place your right middle finger over the fusion of raised skin. The tip cautiously traces it and your eyes falter from his eyeline, gaze dropping to the observational-like trance you have on his shoulder. You've never seen it as clearly as you are now.

He remains focused on you, chest sort of shuddering with the influx of air that flows through it. Each one increasing in pitch and depth, like every passing exhalation is a representation of his slipping control. Bucky picks up your hand from his shoulder, vibranium fingers momentarily entwining with yours as he brings it to his mouth, lips soft against your palm as further kisses persist.

And with his other hand, he's reaching for yours resting over his thigh. Scooping it up, he grabs a gentle hold of you and guides it upwards, directing you down the front of his pyjama pants. With his hand still encompassed around yours, he nudges you to his hard-on, chubbed up cock waiting most agonisingly behind his boxers.

"Feel how much I want you," he husks, voice low and uneven. The feel of your hand over his covered cock having such an effect on him. 

You involuntarily clamp down on the upper middle squish of your bottom lip, top teeth keeping a little bit of it in place as your chest heaves, air escaping forcibly through your nose. The feel of him is solid, cock thick as you brush against it through his briefs. Your eyes grow heavy with lust as you watch him adjust your hand in his —the one to his face— lips wrapping around each fingertip as he presses kisses into every single one. Movement unrushed, like he has all the time in the world.

And with the hand you have down the front of his pants, you pull it out, keeping your hold on him as you guide him over — directing him to the waistband of your pyjamas. You notice his brows pull down as a darkish hue spreads in his eyes, almost like he's grown entranced; captivated on you entirely.

You slip his hand down the front, quite similar to how he did, only with him, you direct him behind your underwear and to your cunt. His head tilts to the side, like it's grown too weighty to hold and he sighs, the sound ragged. Sort of gruff, like a groan. His middle fleshed finger extends downwards and dips between your wet folds, the act making you twitch and flutter against him.

"That's how much I want you," you repeat after him from before. Voice airy, just short of a whisper.

With his hand still down the front of your pyjamas, he urges you backwards, crawling atop as if to lay you down; resuming the position from before, just now with his hand tucked between your cunt and underwear. You adjust your hold in his hand and move upwards, fingers wrapping around the meat of his wrist as if to guide him. Wordlessly telling him what you wanted.

He swallows thickly, eyes briefly flickering across yours below as he lowers down to you, roughly capturing your lips again. Dogtags cold and flat against the centre of your clavicle. Your lips lock and his tongue slips between, the tip sort of circling yours. Not the slight bit invasive, more like it was an act of curiosity. And what had otherwise been quite contained, relatively clean kisses —well, not exactly— had now devolved into something not so. Teeth knocking clumsily. Sloppy and desperate.

You murmur against him, the sound like a moan when you feel his two middle fingers swirl around your entrance, the tips of each circling the wetness that resides there. But he doesn't dare dip them in, he waits. Potentially thinking rather sadistically about it, about how he wants the first thing inside you to be his dick. He wanted to know how you'd feel stretched and wrapped around his cock and his cock alone.

Bucky continues tracing the dip of your cunt, skirting through your arousal like it came in abundance. He had that effect on you, and now he's finally seeing the evidence.

Though there's only so much he can endure, especially with the way you're breathing into him and certainly not with the way your hips chase after his touch with those little shuddery rolls and winds. He simply cannot take it.

He drags his finger tips up through your cunt and pulls his hand out from behind your underwear as the kissing ceases. He brings his hand between you, holding it in the middle of either of your faces, letting it linger — almost like it was a test, an experiment. He just wanted to see what you would do.

To you, and to your sickened, slightly perverted mind, there was only one thing you could do. Only one thing you were sure made any sense to you at all: suck them. You lift yourself upwards slightly and wrap your lips around the ends of his two middle fingers, sucking off the arousal around his fingertips. Your mouthed hold on him loosens and the weight of his cleaned, wet fingers rests on the flat of your tongue — extended muscle laid so as to support them proudly. Like you were showing off the work of your mouth, kind of like one does with a cherry stem.

A sort of smile grows as he watches it play out, eyes studying your parted lips around his fingers while yours observe his: taking note of the glimmer of what you suspect to be pride, possibly… maybe. He audibly grins, a low, amused noise reverberating at the back of his throat as he retracts his fingers from your mouth, eyes cast down as he watches you give the tips a short string of finalising kisses.

He settles it to the side of your face, wet fingers skimming past your ear — grip settling on your head, like it was to keep you in place while still somehow direct you in to meet his lips. He's far more controlled this time, much more composed as he lowers his mouth down to yours. The taste of you from your tongue is almost immediate and he can't help but murmur a pleased groan into you. Sort of like all he needed to sustain himself was that little sample. It's the kind of thing an addict says after a bump. And he knew that was silly, even more drastic to think, especially never having tasted you before.

But he was trying to be realistic, make use of what he presumes to be limited time. Bucky's a man of endurance, but with the rate you've both been going, combined with these grossly fervid feelings he has for you, he finds himself struggling to be the object of stamina he was designed for.

The lust spreads within you from the inside out, starting in the pit of your stomach and blooming outwards; evidence for your internal struggle displayed with a whine and hasty, sudden, shudder-like roll of your hips. Cunt subconsciously grinding against him. The feel of his cock is still very apparent, even through the few layers of fabric you've been eager to shimmy yourself out of.

You place your hands either side of his neck and pull back, creating a bit of distance so you can speak.

"Do you have anything?" you question sort of ruefully, like you didn't want to ask incase it were to cut this fantasy short. You have this sort of regretful tinge in your eyes.

He hesitantly nods, afraid that you may think he's planned this, but really he just likes to be prepared. This was never actually supposed to happen; this or last night, or this morning really. None of it was planned.

Your eyes light up and you give him a quick smile. "Go get it."

The priorly ambivalent expression melts on his face when he hears your voice, it didn't seem that you thought that way at all. And for once, he was glad to be alone in a thought. He lifts himself off you, hands beside your head as he pushes away from you. He scooches to the edge of the mattress and stands up, making his way over to his dresser in the corner. He rummages around the top drawer for a moment, seemingly searching for the small cardboard box amongst his underwear.

And while he was searching his drawers, you adjust yourself within his bed, getting under the covers as you now lay lengthwise, right down the middle. Like you were anticipating it, you shimmy yourself out of both your pyjamas and your underwear, and kick them out from under the sheets; waiting for him to rejoin you again. 

He turns to face you from across the room, a metallic black wrapper held between his first two fingers — like he was displaying it, showcasing it. As if he was relieved to have found it. He makes his way back to you and sits at the edge of the mattress. Though with his back to you, you can't see him, only hear him, hear it: hear the noise of raggedly controlled breathing, hear the tear in the condom wrapper, hear the slight rubbery sound followed by a little snap-like click.

His pyjamas fall to the hardwood floor. The sound is slight, but you hear it. And it's then you see him twist to face you, body turning to you as he slips himself under the covers — almost crawling over you from underneath the covers. Joining you once again, his eyes dance over you below, gaze casting across that chest of yours he's yet to seriously appreciate. But when his sight flickers up to your face, he sees something far more tempting: a softened, easy smile. One that inexplicably told him that you felt comfortable, safe even. 

To have someone feel safe around him was the biggest feat of all. He liked that about you —rather he loved that about you— he loved that you've never once see him as the monster he believes himself to be.

Bucky situates himself above you, one hand sprawled beside you for balance while the other drops to his cock, grip enveloping the solid chub-on. He keeps his focus on you as he clumsily swirls the head of his dick around your entrance, collecting your arousal as lube for his rubberised cock.

It's heavy against you, you notice. The anticipation of him making you clamp around nothing. And it's noted, the way your quivering pussy kisses and pecks at his tip, it's hard not to. He eases himself inside you, directing his cock into you nice and slow; nothing hasty about it. Just pure patience — gently easing in as soft airy breaths roll from either of your mouths. A sort of lightness fills your eyes as he in turn fills you, a look of something he's never quite seen in the eyes of another. Love.

It was love. Your eyes full of it. Your cunt full of him.

Bucky keeps himself pressed in place, cock throbbing inside you. You bring your hands to his face, action quick and abrupt. You hold his head within your hands, grip firm and desperate as if to keep him in place. His forehead drops to yours, flesh fusing with yours like he was trying to read you — subconsciously absorb your thoughts and feelings. His eyes peer down to yours, though yours can barely focus on him; gaze lidded and fluttered by the way he fills you so perfectly. 

He moves carefully within you, the steady, repeated action controlled and concise as he pushes in just as much as he retracts. Like there was an effort to keep as much of himself buried inside you at any one time.

Your noses skim with the closeness, the tips squishing together as he reaches just shy of your lips. His mouth ghosts yours, lingering a few short centimetres from you as he swallows your jittery breaths — swallowing your ragged, uneven attempts of catching air. 

His winds into you grow, though it's slight. Just enough repetitions ensuing for it to be considered a pattern, but not nearly enough for it to be structured. Even with him only being inside you for these few short minutes, you can feel the difference compared to what you're used to — to what you've been getting over the last couple months. It wasn't a thought that persisted, rather floated around at the back of your mind; the notion that this is how it was meant to be. That this is how it was supposed to feel.

The back of your head tips into the mattress behind when you feel him reach just that bit deeper inside you. Neck lengthening, elongated and exposed for him. He moves with the subconscious repositioning; his mouth hovers above your chin as he nibbles at it, teeth sort of clamping on it — keeping you exactly where you are.

And from there, his mouth drifts over it and down the length of your throat. Motion unrushed as he peppers light, little kisses to your most sensitive parts. It's complementary, the way he dotes on you: mouth and hips attuning, each syncing in their actions. And while his lips move down the front of your neck, his cock behaves in a similar way; the head of him kissing at your insides. Each one grows closer together, repetition unfolding until a loose, steady pattern of thrusts form.

With the hands you have on the sides of his head, you adjust them, palms slipping across his hair and to the back of his head, grip firm and urgent as you pull him into you. You guide his face into the nape of your neck like it was an involuntary response, one you had no control over. As if you were seeking comfort, somehow needing him even closer. 

He's suffocating you nearly. He's close, so, so close: happy trail of his lower stomach fused with you, warm chest meshing to yours below. Like he's smothering you, crushing you with the weight of himself as if to consume your senses. Bucky's everywhere: hairy balls pushed between your wet inner thighs, teeth skimming at the sides of your neck, hands pawing your sides. It's all simultaneous, all of it being done in a way that makes you believe him to be a master multi-tasker.

His arm encompasses the back of you, hand spread wide so his fingers can latch onto your skin — grabbing fistfuls of you as he guides you up; lifting your body up and to his as he pushes away from the bed with his other, free hand. His dick remains fused within your walls, cock plugged inside you as he now sits crossed-legged, sitting where your ass was a moment ago. 

Now, you're sitting on top of him, your own legs circling around his hips. You're more eye level now than to how you were earlier, faces up close. His hand around the middle of your back lowers and drops to the small of it — his other hand joining the first. They knead around your waist until his grip later settles on your hips, placement like a silent direction as he winds you into him; grinding you on his cock you sit on.

"Good," you force out, word coming out choked between the strained breath you take. Your hands drift from their placement around the back of his head and move to his shoulders — arms enveloping him as you hold yourself close. 

"It's good?" he checks, words as soft as he eyes. 

You nod against him, forehead grazing his with the quickened needy motion. 

"I know," he returns, speaking it like a coo, like it was to soothe. 

His hands around your hips slip lower, both metal and fleshed fingers dropping to your ass. He scoops underneath and guides you into his hold, palms flat as he supports the cheeks of your ass within either hand. With his touch no longer there to guide you, you begin to move on your own; hips juttery and inconsistent as you wind over his cock — chasing after the feelings he's not able to direct.

Fingers paw at you, all ten of his fingers kneading at your ass within his lap. And it's then you adjust your own hold; moving one of your clawing hands from the back of his neck and instead, to his face. You cup your hand like a 'C' and bring it to rest over his chin. The grip of your thumb and fingers settles on either side; squishing in the hallows of his cheek as you pull him in. Making him meet your lips again. 

Though they don't connect, they merely touch. Mouths open as stuttery, deep exhales fall from either of you.

But you can't stay there for long, it begins to feel a bit too much. You pull yourself away, one arm remaining in place around the back of his neck while the other reaches behind you, hand spreading wide as it settles on the mattress. You're far more exposed now, torso elongated and back arched. 

His eyes fall over you with keen observation, gaze landing on your tits. It's a sight, truly. One he doesn't think he may ever move on from, recover from. The placement of his hands follow suit, grip now situating around the small of your back — like it was there to support you, hold you comfortably in such a position. Though you're barely straining, nor are you really holding yourself up; all your weight rests on the grip you have on the back of his neck. 

Bucky itches in, unable to stop himself from the temptation. And when he finds himself close enough, he's wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, tongue flat against the underside of your tit as he latches onto you. Entrapping it within in mouth. 

A feeling of weakness grows within you and the arm 'supporting you' becomes shaky — the feeling of his lips around your nipple making you struggle for balance. You sort of wobble, the fucking onto his cock ceasing also. Your hips stop with their winding, though Bucky doesn't seem to mind, not when you give him the response that you do.

And it's then you feel him shift, legs uncrossing as he pushes himself forward, subsequently laying you down also. His lips remain in place, as do his cock; body glued with yours like he couldn't let it up. You grow greedy and push yourself against him, lower half of your body chasing the absence of movement inside. He's still there, still plugged inside you, but it's not enough. Your hips wind and grind against him, urging him to give you something, but nope. He's far too focused on the feel of your nipple against his tongue. 

You rejoin your hands around either side of his head and pull, guiding him up. Like an effort of redirection, grip firm while somehow careful as you tug him up and away from your tits. He takes the hint, but as he pulls away —allowing you to guide him— he presses kisses up your sternum, trailing them up the length of your throat until he eventually meets your face again. 

His hips begin to roll into you again, pace slight and gradual as he builds up to the pattern from before. Bed frame creaking with the increase of movement. They're winds, motion sort of circular as he repeatedly sinks into you. And as if to further keep him there, keep him where you want him, you enwrap your legs around him, ankles crossing loosely under his ass. Hanging onto him essentially, gripping onto the caging of his body over yours. 

Your chest pushes outwards slightly as a result, like your body can't help but mould with his; attune with the movement of him. Your tits sandwich with Bucky's, nipples grazing with the motion — like his are with you.

Clawing at the hair at the back of his head, you hold him in place and meet his mouth. They skim, his lips and yours, but they don't yet connect. They linger, mouths open and softly agape while strained and spluttered breaths fall freely.

A bubbly, prickly warmth spreads inside you, blooming outwards from around your lower stomach; the fluttery feeling disperses within you and you feel yourself grow closer. It's teetering inside you and your ragged breathing becomes an outward expression of what's happening in your body. What he's doing to your body.

He nods against you, forehead pressed to yours. Your eyes flutter against him.

"Let go on me," he utters, words of encouragement more of a instruction than anything else.

Like it was all you needed, you do as requested. Your cunt sort of spasms against him, body jittering and chasing his thrusts like you had no control over yourself. Your body lifts and your hips roll, motion instinctive as you fuck yourself down onto the gently firm dicking he's giving you. 

He wants —needs— that image of you burned onto some form of physical media so he can play it over and over. 

And when you feel yourself begin to even out, your body melts — hands falling from behind his head as you drop them to rest either side of yours. You grow pliable and it's then he slips his hands into yours, weaving his fingers betwixt yours on the mattress. His palms push into yours as he directs his weight, supporting himself on the hands enveloped with yours. 

Distance grows between your faces, and you peer up at him. Open eyes wide and trusting as you observe him rock above you, dogtags swinging carefully in front of your face. Your gaze is smitten, pupils bloomed with adoration while you watch his contort with soft agony. 

With the way you're looking at him combined with the snug clamped wrapping your cunt has around his cock, he soon finds himself dangling at the abdominal inner cliff like you were a few moments before. He breathes in deep and holds it for a moment, dick throbbing and twitching inside you as the same gust of air comes out in a gravelly splutter. His eyes squeeze shut and his head hangs low, seemingly lost composure — strength inside him lost. And as he fills the inside of his condom with himself, his cum pooling at the excess at the tip, he melts into you. Quite similar to how you did him a couple minutes prior.

Bucky's eyes slowly open to see yours already focused on him, gaze ardent as you observe him from beneath; taking note of the exact moment he let go inside you. His pupils bloom while they flicker across yours, eyes smitten and searching. 

His hips involuntarily shudder into you while he begins to retracts himself, cock seemingly with a mind of his own. Bucky eases out of you, dick dragging through your warmth until he pulls out completely; semi-softened cock resting over your public bone. The grip he has on your hands loosens also, pressure residing as he adjusts his weight — supporting himself on one forearm beside you while the other reaches for the side of your face.

He runs his fingers past your ears and his hold settles on the side of your head, palm pressed flat against your cheek. His touch is careful, somehow needy and reassuring as he guides you into him; making you meet his lips for a number of times he's lost track of. It's slow and gentle, the kiss — short lived too.

Peeling himself from you, he repositions and drops his weight onto the space beside you, body limp and mush-like as he lays there. Similar to how you are. He reaches under the covers and tugs off the condom around his cock. He discards it and drops it onto the wrapper on his nightstand.

Other than that little creak in the bed slats and snap of the rubber, it's quiet. 

With you, it wasn't the silence of regret, it was that of processing. You couldn't tell what Bucky's was. You didn't know what he was feeling. But that feeling of guilt melts when you feel his body roll beside you and arms reach out for you. His grip settles around your middle as he tugs you into him, pulling your body across the crumpled sheets to meet his. 

His arms envelop your body in a secured, almost protective hold, hands settling on you like he didn't want to let it go. His chest is to your back, nose pressed to the back of your neck as his breathing grows relaxed and even. Tired. 

"I'll take you out for breakfast later," he starts, sleepy voice like a whisper against your skin. "How's that sound?"

You reach for one of his hands, the one between your tits, and slip your fingers into his; giving it a pulse-like squeeze. 

"Sounds good."

⎯ ☆ ⎯