#sin eater

When you were five and he was eleven, you would trail him around the house with your stuffed rabbit, and he'd make you plates of oreos and watch cartoons with you, telling Steve it was fine, that he could go off with your other cousins for the day. When you came to the beach house when you were ten, you were losing the last of your baby teeth, your smile considerably gappy, and Bucky had been sixteen, learning to drive. You had a crush on him then, but you kept it a secret, afraid that Steve would tell him if he found out.

That was the last time you saw him for a while, because your family moved across the country when your dad got a new job, and the conflicting schedules meant that you never could make it back to the beach house, though you tried to convince them to put you on a plane by yourself multiple times, longing for the sun and the sand and the water, and your brother's best friend who treated you like an interesting little thing, like you mattered. He and Steve still kept in touch, and planned to go to college together. You'd seen him once or twice, but it was always fleeting. You couldn't be upset—he was your brother's friend, after all, not yours. Once you went to university, your summers were taken up by all your new friends, evading the beach once more.

You were going to be entering your senior year this year, the last one, and finally, finally, the stars aligned and you and your parents, and all the other aunts and uncles and cousins, were headed to the same group of beach houses that you used to frequent. Steve had long since moved out, twenty-eight now and living a somewhat successful life as a journalist, but even he made the time to come to the beach for old times' sake. You were privately thrilled to learn that Bucky would be coming too, as per tradition.

Bucky remembered you as a little girl with smiling eyes, not this gorgeous creature you’d become in the twelve years since he'd properly seen you. You'd seen photos of him on social media, photos from college ragers with your brother, or nice ones with his parents, the kind that were taken at holidays or for big achievements, but you'd always remembered him with streaks of sun-bleached hair, so proud that he was starting to get a little stubble, that he was allowed to drive you down the road to the little ice cream stand, that you'd ride your bikes together, sometimes. Now, he was an adult, a man, all blue eyes and dark hair and kind smile, all height and muscle, all generosity and intelligence.

You had been a little worried that it would be awkward, that after not being in his presence for over ten years, you would struggle to reconnect, but you were joined at the hip for the majority of the first week, when he wasn't around Steve, that is, and you were surprised to find out that you got along so well as adults, too, not just as kids. The fact that he actually cared to know what you liked, what you were doing at school, who your friends were… it was refreshing. You sometimes felt like your friends cared about nothing more than the next cute boy or party. You'd tried to ask him about his job, something in law, but you went a little cross-eyed when he explained it to you, and he'd laughed and patted you on the head, saying it was okay if you didn't understand, that it just meant a lot that you listened and that you tried to make sense of it.

You had a boyfriend, but you didn't love him. Luke was… fine. But you were mostly dating him because the girls you were friends with were each dating a guy from the same friend group, and Luke had been one of them. He'd unfortunately never made you come, though, and he was more interested in illegal car races than you, unless he was horny or high. But he remembered your birthday, so he wasn't all bad.

All the other cousins had started families or gotten married. Steve was seeing a girl on and off, not ready to ask for something more serious, and Bucky had the excuse of being busy with his career. You had the excuse of approaching your last year of school. Bucky had tentatively suggested that if you didn't know what do to for a job right away, he was sure that he could get you a spot as an assistant at his law firm. It wouldn't be anything glamorous, but it would be something, and you'd have a chance to see a big city on a more intimate scale, if Bucky gave you the tour. He said his apartment lease would be up in the next year or so, anyway, so if you were serious about it, he'd look for one that you could both share, at least until you saved up enough for your own.

The summer had been full of ice cream trips, piggyback rides, and dips in the lake. You'd shrieked and smacked at Bucky's shoulders when he'd picked you up off of your towel and walked to the lake, afraid he was going to throw you in, but he'd just gently waded into the water until it was up to his waist, and then set you down. and the water was cool, but not too cool, and his smile was as warm as the sun, and he'd shyly said, "You should enjoy it today, because I think it's going to rain all weekend," and so you had, both of you floating in the water, occasionally splashing at each other. He'd even been so kind as to help retie your bikini top when it had come loose.

It was just the your family and Bucky, near the end of the summer, the rest of your cousins and aunts and uncles having gone back to their homes and lives. Your parents were going to dinner and a comedy show, and Steve had insisted that he was interested in the 'inner nuances of the last laugh' or something, leaving you and Bucky in the beach house, the clouds rolling in, the sky gray and looming close. He'd asked if you wanted the pineapple vodka soda you'd been partial to all week, and if you wanted to play a few boardgames, since he was pretty sure the power would end up going out at some point. It was more fun than a movie, anyway. You'd said yes, and had started putting away discarded towels and lawn chairs while he went inside, feeling the first fat wet droplets of rain on your skin as you did.

When you came back, you weren't expecting the living room to seem, well… was romantic the right word? You couldn't exactly think of another way to describe it.

The only actual light on was a lamp next to the couch, but the rest of the light came from the little tea candles placed carefully around the room, making it seem cozy and not at all like the middle of the summer time. The Monopoly board was right in the middle of the coffee table, and you could see Snakes and Ladders, as well as Sorry! stacked on the couch. He'd dragged a few pillows and blankets onto the floor, too. He came into the room behind you with two wine glasses.

The rain came pouring down after a huge boom cracked across the sky, halfway through Snakes and Ladders. It was coming in sheets, the pattering loud against the roof and the deck, and you untangled yourself from the blankets to stand at the back door to the porch. You were still holding your glass close to your chest as you watched, admiring the nature, the beauty of it, that tap tap tap of the rain dripping off the edges of the deck.

It came to you immediately, the idea to go out there. You loved the rain. It made you feel pure and clean. You set down your glass on the side table against the wall and flipped the lock before sliding the door open. "Hey, what are you—" Bucky asked behind you, but you ignored him, enchanted by the rain, and stepped out barefoot onto the deck.

You were immediately soaked to your skin, your hair clinging to your face, your clothes sticking to you with fervor, and you laughed, a soft girlish sound, tilting your face up and spinning in a slow circle with your arms outstretched, your eyes closing.

When you opened them again, Bucky was standing at the open door, leaning against the arch of it, his arms crossed, his head tilted, giving you a fond smile. "You're crazy."

"It's so nice! Come out and enjoy it!" you said, motioning for him to join you.

He shook his head, the smile still there, and said, "No way. I don't want to catch a cold. You should come in. Do you want me to run you a bath?"

"Ugh, you're no fun, bucky. I thought you were supposed to be the fun one. Steve's always been the stick in the mud."

"Come inside. I don't want you to get struck by lightning."

"Stand out here for ten seconds. Just ten!" you pleaded, sticking your bottom lip out in a pout.

He shook his head again, making an exasperated sound, and you were ready to admit defeat, but he slipped his shoes off and took a step out and onto the porch. "There, you happy?"

You clapped and laughed and moved towards him, delighted that he'd given in to your wish. His hair was already drenched, and he brushed it back off of his forehead, and the look on his face was something unreadable as he took you in, something genuine and warm and confusing all at once. You stopped in front of him, blinking rain off of your lashes, a silly grin on your face. "Feels nice, right? Like you're reconnecting with nature."

"If that's what you want to call it." he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. His hand came up and brushed a wet strand of hair off your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. "Now come on, let's go inside. You need to get changed."

You let him lead you, his hand linking around your wrist to guide you back in, your feet making squeaky sounds against the hardwood when you got inside. When he closed and locked the door again, everything sounded muted, just the sound of your breathing, and his, loud in the empty house. You felt a shiver creep through your spine. You'd forgotten the air conditioning was on full blast, and the cold of your clothes made goosebumps break out over your skin. He saw you shudder, and a look of concern, rather than an I told you so expression, crossed his face. "Yeah, I think you need a bath or a shower or something. I don't want you to get sick."

He pulled an abandoned towel from the back of one of the dining chairs and started to dry your hair with it, hands gentle, expression thoughtful as he bit his lip in concentration. You got lost in his eyes for a moment. Compared to the gray cast outside, the blue of them looked so vivid, like the brightest, prettiest topaz you'd ever seen. His hands slowed, then stopped moving entirely. The towel rested around your shoulders. Your breath mingled together, close in the air. His hands came up and held your face, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, and he whispered something—it sounded like, "oh, hell"—and then he was leaning forward, closing the distance between you, his lips soft but sure against yours.

It made you sigh against his mouth, like you'd been holding all the breath in your body and now it was safe to release it to him, for him to keep protected until you needed it again. His hands moved to rest lightly on the sides of your neck, and the towel fell away somewhere behind you, but it didn't matter, because you were lost, gone, absorbed in the feel of his mouth on yours, the glide of his lips, the first tease of his tongue that had you opening to him, sagging against him, his hands moving again to come to your waist and hold you up, your own arms wrapping around his neck.

You stood on your toes to reach him, the water from your soaked clothes seeping into his, your mind blank to anything that wasn't him, the taste of his mouth, the crisp apple of the wine he'd had, the feel of his arms, strong and certain around your body, the smell of him, all rain and sun and sand, the sound of him, because you were sure you could hear his heartbeat, and when you pulled away for breath, the look of him, his eyes heartbreakingly gentle, his nose brushing against yours.

"Let me take care of you." he whispered, and it was a plea, like he was about to be on his knees begging, like you were God and he was your disciple.

You could only nod, and he was picking you up, and you felt like a bride or a princess or something whimsical, nuzzling your face into the hot skin of his neck as he carried you through the rooms of the house. Your room was dim, the ballet pink wallpaper looking silver in the bleak light from the window, until he placed you back on your feet and turned on the bedside lamp, a soft glow ensconcing the space.

Then Bucky turned towards you, and you stood there in your drenched clothes, and he sighed softly before approaching and putting his hands back on your waist, where the hem of your shirt ended. He was slow when he tugged it up and over your head, and you weren't prepared when you could see him again, for the way his eyes had gone dark with want as he looked at you. You'd been in bikinis around him all week and never once had you recalled him giving you a look like that. The bralette you had on was cute and lacy and pastel blue, yes, but no more racy than the stringy swimsuits you'd packed with you. And yet he was looking at you like a precious gem, like there was only one of you in the world, the most devastating thing, like he wanted to preserve you and keep you safe.

He breathed heavily as he observed you, and then his hand flicked the button of your shorts open. It took the tiniest tug on one of the belt loops, done by one of his fingers, for them to fall down your legs and pool at your feet. The groan he let out was the sort of sound a broken man might make, when he learned his lover was leaving him, like he'd heard horrible news, but his eyes were all over you, the matching panties you wore, the way you stood with your knees slightly turned in, like you were shy.

And you were shy, because no one had looked at you the way he was right now. Not your boyfriend, or any boys previous.

"Sit down." he said, and you were already moving before he'd finished the command, settling at the center of the bed, watching him with big doe eyes. He shrugged his own shirt off, leaving him in just his shorts, and he knelt on the floor before you, his hands on your knees, smoothing down your shins. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." His voice was hoarse, and it filled you with such an ache that you could have been moved to tears. "Say that you're mine, for the night? Please. Please, please, please say it."

"I'm yours." The words left you without a second thought, like they were a fundamental truth, like they were lines in a script you'd memorized.

His forehead fell heavily to your thigh, and the kiss he pressed there burned like fire. Your hand moved of its own accord to card lightly through his hair, and when he looked at you again, he seemed so wrecked that it scared you for a moment, the pure devotion you saw there.

You were the altar he was kneeling at, and he was here to eat his sins.

Because the thing you didn't know, the thing you'd never known, was that as soon as you'd hit sixteen, your kind brother, wanting the best for you, had asked Bucky to promise that he'd never pursue you, and Bucky had agreed, confused, at the time, as to why Steve would even have to ask. You were like a kid sister to him.

Until you weren't.

He was slow, gentle, so careful, but his kisses carved a path of heat up your thighs, and you could only watch, enraptured, as he moved your legs further apart to slot himself between them more firmly. The kiss on your hip nearly undid you, his fingers tracing the line of lace at your waistband, before you felt his breath at your centre, then the press of his nose, then his tongue against the fabric, and the feeling made you squirm, too much and not enough, but you were rooted to the spot, unwilling to move for anything.

He hooked them to the side and the first swipe of his tongue made you go cross-eyed, your hands fisting the bedspread as you whined. He licked into you, taking his time, before sitting back, eyes blown wide, mouth wet, and tugged at your waistband again. "Please. I need these off, baby. Please, God. I'll do anything. Let me take them off."

He didn't even have to ask. You let him help you take them off, and then he was laying you back against the pillows properly, making sure you were comfortable, before he was between your legs again, his hands firm on your hips to keep you from bucking up, licking you like you were spun sugar, like you were sunshine and fresh air and vanilla cream, like you were a fleeting dream. Your eyes had fluttered closed, one arm over them as you cried and keened and whimpered, feeling like you'd left your body and transcended to heaven already, until he latched onto your clit, and you jolted at the sensation. "Bucky—"

He moaned against you, like he was the one being taken for a ride, not you, and all you could feel was the hot brand of his hands and the wet slide of his tongue, your breath coming out in gasps as an unfamiliar feeling spiraled tighter and tighter in your belly. You felt like a bug that had flown into a heat lamp when your orgasm hit, right when he'd stuck his tongue inside you, his thumb rubbing a delicate circle on your clit, your legs clamping around his head like a clamshell protecting a pearl. Wave after wave of it hit you, and your body shook, and you were crying his name over and over, mewling like a kitten, and one of his hands stroked your thigh reassuringly as he worked you through it, until you were shuddering and shivering from overstimulation, feeling like you had entered a fugue state where all you knew was the feel of his tongue.

Your head felt heavy on the pillow, and you were dazed, stars in your eyes, and then he moved until he hovered above you, a hand on either side of your head, his mouth and chin wet and shiny, his eyes bright and adoring. "You did so good. You're perfect. You're an angel. You're my angel, I swear to God, you are."

Bucky kissed your forehead as you made a weak little sound, and then he was gone from you, and you felt confused and lost until he came back with a throw blanket to cover you up with. "Are you… are you going?" you mumbled, feeling sad and empty.

He brushed your hair back. "Only for a minute. I have to clean up the living room. Then I'll come back, if you want me to. Do you want me to?" he asked the last part hesitantly, like he was sure you'd say no.

You used all your energy to grip his wrist, to focus on his eyes, as you said, "Yes. Please come back, please promise that you will."

And his eyes went soft and sweet as honey all over again, and he kissed you one more time, murmuring against your lips, "Yes, of course. I'll always come back to you."

You must have drifted off almost immediately after he'd gone, but you stirred when you felt body heat at your back at little while later, strong arms around your waist, and you turned in search of the source and moved closer, close as you could, until there was no space left, and you heard something murmured in the dark, something that sounded like love, but you were too gone to know that the words had been, "Sleep well, I love you more than words can say."

You woke with the dawn, feeling floaty and light like a dust mite, and you moved to stretch but realized you couldn't, because you were tucked firmly and safely into Bucky's chest like a well-loved teddy bear.

You felt flushed as you remembered the previous night, but not regretful. No, never that. It had been magic. It had been fairy dust. It had been fireworks and comets and sparks, not just what he did for you, but the whole thing, from the first kiss to the last.

Like it was instinct, he came to consciousness moments later, blinking sleepily at you, his hands immediately coming up to stroke your hair like it was muscle memory, like he'd done it before, or for his whole life. He lowered his head to kiss your brow, to mumble against your skin, though his voice was too low for you to tell what he said, so you just snuggled closer, letting him hold you like you were the most important girl in the world.

When he eventually pulled away from you, just enough to look at you, you were stricken by the sadness on his face, open and honest. "I wouldn't change what happened for the world, but you know I shouldn't have done that, right? It was bad. I was bad. I should have been stronger than that. I'm sorry."

"I—no, don't be sorry. Never be sorry. Please. Maybe it shouldn't have happened, but it did, and it was perfect, and I don't want to stop. I want it to happen again. I want you to feel good, too." you said in a stumbled rush, trying to sound firm, to make him understand. "I—I love you, Bucky. Please don't push me away."

You could have stabbed him, from the way he looked after you said those words. "You can't mean it like that."

"But I do. I do, Bucky. I love you. I want to be with you. Please?"

He pulled you close again, so you couldn't see his face. You felt the rumble of his voice in your own chest, the beat of his heart against yours. "My darling girl. You'll be the death of me with sweet words like that."

"Say them back." Now it was your turn to beg and plead, to throw yourself at his feet for a crumb of affection.

"Angel—" he sighed, like he was going to let you down easy.

"Bucky—please." Your voice broke when you said it, your eyes filling with tears. and you didn't know how he knew, but he did, because he was again pulling away to look at your face, to wipe at your eyes, and whisper, "I love you. I love you so much it hurts, it claws me open, it makes it hard to breathe. I love you, I love you, I love you." He pressed kisses to your face until you were giggling.

His forehead pressed to yours. "If we're going to do this, we have to be careful, hmm? Can't let anyone know. It'll be different if you come and live with me next year. But for now, around everyone else, it's a secret, yeah?"

You nodded, eager to please. "Yes. Yes, I'll be good, Bucky, I promise. I can do that. I can keep a secret."

You didn't know exactly why it was a big deal to keep it a secret. Was it your age? You were still in school, yes, but you were an adult. Regardless, you trusted him with everything in your being. And being sneaky sounded exciting.

Keeping it a secret was harder than you'd thought. Keeping it a secret meant that you couldn't sit in Bucky's lap or ask him to join you in the shower after playing around in the lake, or to share ice cream with one spoon. Keeping it a secret meant you could only speak to him like you would anyone else in your family, since he'd been around you so much growing up, he felt like he was, sometimes. But when no one else was looking, you'd boldly mouth the words, "I love you!" with a brilliant smile, and he'd look all at once panicked and happy, and he wouldn't say it back, but the next time he'd sit next to you, he'd trace it with his finger onto your leg or your arm, the digits writing out, "more than words" on your skin.

Keeping it a secret also meant stealing away in his cherry red rental truck, driving down a long dirt road after telling your parents that you were going hiking, something that Steve detested, and then driving some more, into a narrow stretch of trees, shaded from the sun and curious eyes, and you were climbing into his lap like you'd been doing it forever, your fingers twining into his hair, his hands firm on your hips, your body rocking into his as you planted wet kisses down the side of his throat.

Every sound he made took your breath away, and you wanted to learn every one. He fumbled at the buttons of your beach top, until it was falling loose on your arms, exposing your yellow bikini top. The friction of your jean shorts wasn't enough. You wanted more, wanted him, completely, truly, irrevocably. Wanted him to stain your insides as well as your soul. He laced your hands together, stopping you from moving. "Are you sure?" he asked, the question serious, though his eyes were wide and glassy, his lips swollen, his chest heaving.

"Always sure with you." you said with an honest smile, and then he was smiling too, the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, and he let go of one of your hands to let you pop the button of your shorts and pull them down, along with your panties. His mouth was parted as he watched you do the same for him, and he shuddered and whined when you held him in your hand, stroking your thumb over the head, watching the look on his face with unbridled bliss. You rubbed him against your folds, slick and wanting, before lining him up and sinking down onto him with a whimper. His quiet curse was music to your ears, and he pushed your bikini up until he could palm at your breasts. "Perfect, so perfect." he breathed. "So perfect—fuck."

The air in the truck was a hot and heavy thing, sticky like syrup. Your breath fogged the windows while your hips rolled against him slow and steady, letting him stay seated inside you while you kissed him like he was the last man breathing. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers gripping your body to rock you into him, deeper, snugger, pushing you down to take every last inch until your clit brushed the coarse hairs at the base of him and made you cry out.

“You feel insane.” he gritted, his voice nearly a growl, broken by restraint. “So warm. Fuck. I don’t wanna pull out, I don’t wanna ever leave you, shit—”

You kissed him harder to shut him up before the words set you off. Your whole body trembled, bouncing slowly in his lap, his hands helping guide your rhythm even as his head dropped to your shoulder, gasping against your neck like you were taking the last of his self-control with every squeeze. You clung to him, arms around his neck, nails leaving light trails as you panted through every needy little roll of your hips.

The truck creaked with your movements, the suspension groaning, a rhythm of metal and desperate flesh. He filled you just right—long, thick, hot, stretching you sweet and deep until your walls were fluttering around him with every downward stroke. You moaned openly, loudly, shamelessly, like you were announcing to the world how he made you feel.

“S’good, Bucky—fuck, it’s so good—feels so good—!”

He kissed your collarbone, tongue flicking, teeth catching gently on the soft skin, whispering against you, “You’re made for me, you hear me? Made to take me. Look at you, bouncing on my cock like you were born for it—fuck, I can feel you clenching—”

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—!” you whimpered, dizzy with it, stars exploding behind your eyes every time your clit rubbed just right, body convulsing with every twitch of his cock as it nudged that perfect spot inside you.

“Ride me, angel,” he groaned, his hands now everywhere, sliding from your hips to your ass to your waist, back up to cup your breasts, your bikini top loosening with every movement, before it fell between you. “Don’t stop, yeah? Don’t stop ‘til I fill you up—shit—I’m gonna come, I’m not gonna last—”

You clenched down harder on purpose, gasping at the way he twitched inside you, the way his hands gripped you like he’d fall off of the world if he let go. Your body burned, shivering even in the heat, slick dripping down between your thighs, soaking his lap and the seat beneath you.

And then he was coming—his jaw dropped, his eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a raw, primal noise, somewhere between a groan and a choked-off cry as he held you still and thrust up into you, once, twice, deep, deeper, spurting hot and thick inside your walls. The sensation of his release sent you spiraling too, tipping you into an orgasm you hadn’t known was building so quickly, your body arching, head thrown back, voice breaking with your high-pitched sob of pleasure as you milked him, pulsing around him, both of you shaking.

When you slumped forward, your foreheads pressed together, his arms circled you tight, grounding, safe.

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice wrecked, and you couldn’t help the giggle that burst out of you as you rested your cheek against his damp neck. “Gonna kill me,” he murmured. “You’re gonna kill me, baby girl. Sweetest fucking torture in the world.”

You stayed there, impaled on him, basking in the heat, in the smell of sex and sweat and skin, in the sunshine and the trees and the summer breeze. When you finally lifted your head, you caught his expression—soft, dazed, almost devout.

“I meant what I said,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Always sure with you. I love you.”

His eyes shimmered with something you couldn’t name. One hand rose to cradle your cheek, and he kissed you again, slow, deep, no urgency now—just promise.

“Say it again,” he whispered into your mouth.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Bucky.”

He kissed you between every repetition, like each one was a vow. And when you finally slid off his lap, wincing slightly at the mess you’d made, he was already reaching into the glove box for tissues, already tending to you, helping you clean up like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because you were his.

He redressed you slowly, tenderly. Buttoned your shorts, straightened your top. Then helped you hop down from the truck and pulled you into his arms again in the quiet of the shaded woods. The sun was peeking through the trees, mottling the earth in dappled light. He tipped your chin up and smiled.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised.

And if you couldn't, he was sure he'd remember the taste of your skin, the taste of your sin, for the rest of his life, anyway, like it was his last supper. The memory of the rain clung to your skin, but now, so did the memory of Bucky's hands, all over you, and you were still warm where they’d touched you, still burning where they’d held on like he was anchoring himself to the world through you.

He fished around in the backseat of the truck for the old Polaroid camera you’d been bringing around all summer. He aimed it at you. “Smile for me?”

And you did, a dazzling, radiant flash of your teeth, a smile that could melt the iciest of exteriors. When it printed out you snatched it before it could develop and kissed the back, the faintest glimmer of pink glitter gloss staining it. “That’s for good luck, so that when you miss me, you’ll always have one of my kisses to keep you warm.”

It was type of thing someone experiencing puppy-love might say, but Bucky didn't care. He looked at the twin smiles, the one in person, before him, and the one in the picture, perfect and preserved, and he imagined where the creases would eventually show from where it would be kept in his wallet, because you were a piece of him now, and he'd carry you with him always.

The last night at the beach house was awful. You were tearful all through dinner, which your parents thought was sweet, that the reunion had meant so much for you. Steve had teased you a little bit, but he couldn't admit that he'd enjoyed his time, too. Not out loud. Only Bucky knew the true source of your tears.

You found it hard to sleep, feeling misery creep into your very essence, the thought of being worlds away from Bucky, your Bucky, making you want to bury yourself in the sand and never leave the place where everything changed.

It was like he heard the sad echo of your heartbeat through the walls, because he stole into your room, an old blanket tucked over his arm, his voice a whisper when he said, “I want you in the moonlight.”

You were floating out of your bed like a feather on the wind, fingers laced with his as you tiptoed out of your room and down the hall, careful for every creak and sigh of the house settling, your footsteps light as he slid the back door open and led you from the porch to the grass, bathed in silver, the air still and silent, the water beyond like the clearest mirror you'd ever seen.

The blanket was a soft, pilled thing, a little threadbare but cozy, and he laid it on the grass like it was the most precious parchment, like he needed gloves to handle it, like it belonged in a museum, like it would seal the memory within the wool. It was a risk, what you were doing. If anyone in the house got up for some water, they would see you from the kitchen window, but the thrill, the reckless abandon, the love shooting through your veins like the sweetest drug you'd ever known made you throw all caution to the wind.

He undressed you like you were carefully packed glass, like he didn't want to ruin or break you, like you were to be placed on display on the mantel, and laid you on your back beneath the stars, kissing you from your hairline to your core, worshipping every inch of exposed skin, touching every part of you, not just with his hands but with his soul, like it was calling to yours.

It felt so right, like he was put on earth specifically for this, for you, to love you and hold you close and whisper sweet nothings to you under the cover of shadows and starlight.

You opened like a flower unfurling its petals on a warm spring day when he slid two fingers into you, diving into your cunt, drinking you in like you were the most divine communion wine, and the sounds you made had Bucky feeling like he was at a private show, and you were dedicating the song to him. Your back arched off the blanket like you were trying to get closer to God, and he held you through it as you shattered apart like a falling star, swallowing your cries with his mouth, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs, looking at the reflection of the moon in your eyes, the silver of your tears.

Entering you felt like a sacred ritual, the heat of you a brand that marked him, ruined him for anyone else, because no one else could compare to you. Your nails scratched gently on the nape of his neck as you pulled him closer to you. He moved slow, savouring the moment, the push and pull, the look on your face, like you were utterly enamored, infatuated, obsessed, his name an exhale on your lips.

Every time he hit the deepest part of you, you both shuddered, like you were melting together, a gradual pour of your hearts into one vessel, until he was burying his face in the side of your neck, his lips on your throat, a whimper of your name leaving him as he filled you full, your walls clenching around him like you were trying to keep him there forever and ever.

It was perfect, your final night together under the stars, intertwined. He held you close and rubbed his hands up and down your arms, watching you lazily blink up at the sky, the universe above you, the blanket a warm embrace, and he didn't know how he'd survive without you tomorrow, or the days and weeks and months after that, so he tried his best to memorize the way you looked there under the deep blue of the sky, all long eyelashes and dazed wonder. If he was going to Hell for this, for corrupting his best friend's little sister, at least he’d gotten to experience something as holy as you.

The morning meant goodbye. Not forever, no. It couldn't be forever. It wouldn't be forever. He helped you load everything into the back of the car and said goodbye to your parents, leaving them to chat with your brother, who was staying behind to hitch a ride to the airport with Bucky. He pulled you aside, murmuring, “You break up with your loser boyfriend. You call me now, yeah? You call me whenever you need me.”

“But your job—“

“You matter to me more. The job is inconsequential.”

The smile you gave him was both sad and happy, like your heart was breaking and repairing at the same time. "Okay. I'll call you. Every day."

Bucky hugged you tightly then, his arms looping around your waist, his lips in your hair. "You and me. It's you and me, yeah?"

You nodded, your cheek brushing against his shoulder, whispering it back. "You and me."

And he didn't say the words, the I love you, because he knew it would bring tears to your eyes, but he hoped you heard them with every thrum of his heart, before he let you go and walked you back to the car, shutting the door after you'd climbed in.

And then Bucky was watching the car drive away, and he stood there, hands in his pockets, watching his heart leave with you, because you had it in your hands now, and he feared you always would.

doodles

————

well in my conception, the wol attempted to kill himself to prevent his transformation, but he failed. it was too late.

bonus cuz i like my ship angst