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bloom ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

♡ part ii of this series | read on ao3 here

♡ fem!bucky barnes x reader (no y/n)

♡ rating: explicit / mdni / 18+ !

♡ tags: f!reader, college au, gender swap / fem!bucky, f/f relationship, feminine/femme reader, masc lesbian bucky, established relationship, living together, anniversaries, gifts, mentions of same shitty ex from last time, lingerie, multiple orgasms, fingering, spit, praise, service kink, petnames (honey, sweetheart, babe, angel, my girl, good girl, babygirl), scissoring/tribbing, dirty talk (use of ‘tits’/’pussy’/’cunt’), nipple play, squirting, not choking but hand on neck, crying (the good kind), love confessions, fluff, reader wears glasses, reader shaves and wears makeup and dresses and lingerie

♡ word count: 11k

♡ synopsis:

You and Bucky just hit six months together, and it feels like every day that you learn something new about yourself...and fall helplessly more in love with her. You've shown her with actions, gifts, and sex, and soon you'll do it with your words too.

♡ notes: the apparently much awaited part two of fem!bucky :D not many warnings for this one, but it will make a lot more sense if you read the first part beforehand.

(honorable mentions for the playlist included: sailor song by gigi perez, pink in the night by mitski, and juna by clairo !!)

*any photos used in the visual are not indicative of reader appearance*

not proofread. enjoy! x

It’s been a hell of a six months.

You’ve successfully ended one semester and dived headfirst into the next, shifted majors, and you moved out of the dorms and into an apartment just off campus with Bucky, the first step you’ve taken together of what you hope will be many more.

The summer was the busiest, between hastily moving your boxes and setting up the new place, enlisting the help of Steve, Sam, and Nat several times and paying them in pizza and drinks from the corner store. It’s still close enough that you see them a lot on weekends or when you stick around campus between courses, and having friends—real, honest, good friends who like you more for your quirks and inadequacies than your reputation—has unlocked a carefree, curious side of you you’d thought you lost somewhere around middle school.

To be fair, most of that credit goes to Bucky too. You spent a week of summer break at her parent’s quaint little beach house that’s been passed down through generations, as is customary for the family. That was a whirlwind too, meeting all of them, being immediately taken in by her sisters to her fond exasperation, and seeing her in a completely different, almost softer, element from school. A Bucky that slept in and pulled her hair back into those messy buns you like on her so much, that helped her eldest sister with college applications and her youngest with a very important princess tea party before she outgrows them altogether.

The middle one though, still in high school, Bucky mentioned seeming a little more withdrawn than the others. In between the rest of the family spending time at the beach and Bucky spending time with her other two siblings, it’d given you some window to introduce yourself to her properly.

She’d confided in you about drama happening at school and, to your own pleasant surprise, you’d been able to offer her tentative advice. She’d stuck close to you the rest of the trip, the first of three to add her number to your phone so she could give you updates when she went back.

It felt like such a small thing, but you think that’s when Bucky started looking at you differently. Like this was more in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Which is a good thing, probably, because you’ve been trying to work out how to tell her you love her for the last two months already at least.

It’s fast; much faster than anything with your ex had gone. It makes your heart skip beats, makes those butterflies that you’d only just gotten to calm start up again in your stomach.

She’s unexpectedly been the best thing that’s happened to you since you left home. Maybe you should pace yourself a little, be more realistic. You don’t want to be too much too soon, but you’re pretty sure this ending would be a hell of a lot harder to get over than the last relationship, and you’d been with him for years.

The last night at the beach house, you and her laid out on an air mattress in the dark living room so that her sisters can take the beds, she’d been quiet. The windows in front of you overlooking the pier, the lazily rolling waves and sparkling stars over the sand. Your eyes fought closing as her fingers traced over your open palm on the sheet in front of you, her body pressed up against yours from behind.

“Thank you,” she’d whispered against your shoulder, emotion tight in her throat. Her lips grazed the skin closest and held there in a kiss unwilling to end.

It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that needed a response, so you’d stayed quiet. Turned your hand to capture hers, fingers tangled and held to your chest in the moonlight.

And the whole time you’d thought, loud enough that she could probably hear it, I love you I love you I love you.

“Sit still,” you whine, makeup brush in hand and palette open across Bucky’s chest in front of you. You fix a smudge of the sharp shadow liner with your thumb. “It’s gonna smear if you don’t stop moving.”

She’s been a menace since the moment you had her lay down on the bed and you climbed on top of her hips, but the lighting in the bedroom is so much better than the bathroom. Whether or not she’s convinced that your cosmetic choices aren’t just an excuse to get her—literally—between your thighs.

She snorts, cracking one eye open to peek at you. “Babe. That’s literally the extent of the makeup I wear. Didn’t you say something about a smokey eye anyway?”

“Yeah, but it has to be intentionally messy, you know? Not your effortless one that I’m totally not at all envious of in any way,” you deliver cheerfully.

Her mouth splits into a grin underneath you as she laughs, fingers splayed out over your thigh while you bend down to fix the liner with your angled brush.

“Maybe I’ll do yours next time we go out then,” she murmurs, careful not to move. “I don’t use any of these fancy brushes y’got though. Just my fingers.”

You give a deliberately drawn out sigh. “I am always looking for more ways to get your hands on me…”

Her lips tilt into an unabashed smirk this time, and you feel the instinctive dread before her fingers even start drifting up toward your hips.

“No,” you threaten, wielding the brush like a weapon pointed in her direction. “Bucky, I swear. We’re already running late. Do not—”

“Don’t what?” she asks innocently. “Don’t feel up my girlfriend when she’s sittin’ so pretty on my lap?”

You stare down at her with a raised brow as her fingertips tease their way underneath the hem of your dress, slipping slowly up the freshly shaved and moisturized expanse of your upper thigh. Very carefully, you start to lean down again.

“I’m serious. I only have this one last part to do, and then I’m finished.”

“Oh? You’re gonna finish, are you?”

Your dress gets pushes up further and further, her hand making its way to the outside of your hip and gripping possessively. It’s a familiar trajectory when her palm shifts to grab your ass instead, fingering the lightly frilled edge of lace cutting across the skin.

She shifts again, torso moving in between your legs. It’s not quite enough to really give you any pressure where you need it, but it’s enough to be a tease.

“Bucky,” you warn.

She ignores you of course, shoving until your dress sits pooled above your hips and her hands can roam freely. Your breathing gets heavier and you glare when she obviously notices, eyes obediently closed for the makeup but smile giving everything away.

The cool press of her rings feels admittedly good against your skin, but you really don’t have the time to get distracted. You finish touching up the wing and then add a little bit of something shimmery in the very inner corners of her eyes so that the blue will stand out even more than usual, and then start to pull back.

The moment you do, her hands climb a little higher, nearing your waist. You freeze, already looking at her when she opens her eyes.

“Good job, sweetheart. I’m sure it looks great.”

You open your mouth to scold her again, and only narrowly manage to get the makeup shoved out of the way before she’s cutting you off by executing her master plan of digging those beloved fingers into that cruel little dip of your waist where you’re most ticklish.

You squeal on top of her, knees trying to close uselessly as she tortures you. It lasts only a handful of seconds thankfully, and then she’s using your distraction as a conduit to getting you on your back underneath her.

She drops down to kiss you before you’ve even caught your breath, teeth clinking when you both smile and her hands going blessedly still at your sides, smoothing the material of your dress back down before it gathers wrinkles.

Your lip gloss is smeared all over her mouth when she pulls back, and you laugh and swipe a thumb over the sticky evidence. Bucky’s tongue darts out for a final taste as you pull away.

“Mm. Strawberry?”

“You’re getting better at guessing them,” you confirm with a grin.

She gives you one more before pushing up and off the bed, holding out a hand to help you up as you get ready to leave.

It’s you who stops her again though on the way out when you pass by the full length mirror hanging on the back of the closet, pulling your phone from your purse for a photo. Between her brown leather jacket and your thigh highs and heels, you make a nice looking pair. You take a few cute ones, a few silly ones, one where she’s grabbing your thigh and lifting it across her hip, fingers splayed firmly over the strip of skin just above the stocking and below the hem of your dress. You think idly about setting that one as your lockscreen next.

The last one is sweet, your phone facing the mirror to the side just as she grabs your chin and turns it to kiss you, and your thumb clicks blindly on the capture button for so long you’re sure you got at least fifteen to choose from.

“Happy six months,” she says against your lips.

You grin. “Happy six months.”

You’re going to make a toast tonight to many, many more.

It’s dark when you get back from the restaurant where you had your first date, full on sweet nostalgia and lips stained with sips of wine.

Your gift from Bucky rests in between your collarbones over your heart, a pendant in the same shape that sparkles in the right lighting. The simple design holds nothing on the fact that you’ve felt like you were glowing since the moment she draped it onto you and fastened it behind your neck, your entire body lit up with the physical proof of her affection.

Her gift from you is still in her hands, and you aren’t sure it’s left her grip since the moment she opened it.

It’s mostly a DIY, but you’re hoping your sentimentality matches her expense; everything from the heart-shaped cardboard box to the little things inside of it are handmade and crafted with love so obviously you don’t know how she can’t have already figured out how much you’ve fallen for her over these past six months.

There’s a collection of handwritten letters inside of it, some of them journal entries you’d wanted to share with her taken directly from your notebook, others written specifically for her and sealed with your lipstick on the outside.

With that is a flipbook of photos you’ve taken together, from candid dorm room shots to GSC activities, flash photos of the five of you in a booth at the bar where you’re in Bucky’s lap and she’s smiling up at you. Another strip of photobooth pictures you’d gotten at a campus carnival thing, a larger print of the two of you on the beach from this summer with the date marked in sharpie on the back with a heart. A couple of either of you behind moving boxes, progress pictures leading all the way up to a couple of weeks ago, the last one a shot of Bucky from above with you on her lap, her hair splayed over the pillows and a lovesick grin on her lips as she reaches for the camera with the arm that’s not bent underneath her head.

A cassette tape with an accompanying scan-to-play playlist sits wrapped in delicate pink paper, a collection of songs you put together that remind you of her or the two of you together.

And then, underneath the paper and everything else in a secret layer of its own, a smaller box holds a collection of one-of-a-kind polaroid shots of you in every lingerie set you’ve ever worn for her—and a few she’s yet to see, too.

“You’re trying to kill me,” she mutters the second you’re in the door, already grabbing at your waist. “Can’t believe you showed me those in public. Coulda fucked you right there at the table.”

You tilt your head when her mouth finds your pulse from behind, blindly depositing your bag onto the dining room table before turning and grabbing the collars of her shirt, dragging her down to your mouth properly.

“I’d have let you,” you whisper, giggling when it makes her groan.

“What have I done?”

“You’ve created a monster,” you tell her.

“No,” she shakes her head, taking your face between her hands. She smears your lipstick deliberately this time with her thumb, pupils widening by the second. “Found me an angel.”

It’s you who moans this time, buried in her mouth as she walks you back toward the bedroom. You hit the island and the hallway wall your first couple tries, laughing against each other as you refuse to part long enough to get to the bed.

She stops you just before you get there, tugging at your waist.

“What is it?” you ask.

She nods toward the bathroom. “Go take your contacts out first.”

“...Why?”

“Because you’re always too tired after and then y’fall asleep and then your eyes give you hell,” she rattles off in a far too practiced manner.

Your aforementioned eyes narrow.

“You just want me to put on the glasses.”

Her cheeks darken a little, but she wears even that confidently. Her grip turns sultry instead of desperate, thumbs rubbing little circles against your hips as she teases a kiss against your mouth. “I can care about your ocular wellbeing and also think my girlfriend looks hot when I make her cute little glasses fog up,” she says.

Point made.

You slip out of her grasp and head for the bathroom, pleased by the distraction anyway so you have the chance to freshen up beforehand. You don’t do anything about the steadily growing wetness between your thighs because you know she’ll like feeling it, but between the restaurant and the car ride there and back, it’ll be good to make sure everything’s still in place how you want it.

You use the bathroom and wash your hands, then carefully take out your contacts and slip on your glasses sitting on the edge of the cabinet. Bucky’s right, even if she’s horny about it—you do tend to pass right out after having sex, and your eyes really do give you hell about it when you wake up. Your chest warms at the small detail she’s picked up on.

With that finished, you begin to strip off your dress. The low back makes it easy to reach the clasps to undo it, and the fabric slips off of you and to the floor in a whisper of movement until it pools around your feet.

You’ve tried out an array of colors already, your natural eye typically drifting toward the baby blues and pinks or muted pastels that pop against your skin. But tonight you thought you’d try one of Bucky’s favorites.

The black lace babydoll is the style you love but the color she likes best, almost an exact match to the shade you put on her nails several days prior—(who could have known there were so many variants of just plain black?)

The one you’d chosen is a midnight inspired shade, aptly named for the way the fabric has tiny little shimmery bits woven throughout it. Subtle enough not to notice right away, but tasteful enough that the glimmer should catch her eye when you move in the bedroom lights.

A thin, sheer material descends from the push up bra and hangs delicately over your hips and back, parting only slightly in the middle over your navel to show a glimpse of bare skin. It drapes prettily over your hips and falls halfway over the pair of panties she’d felt on you earlier, a matching set that makes your ass look great under the sheer material resting on top of it.

And then your favorite part: the thick, silky bow that wraps up your cleavage like a gift, and that actually unties in the middle to reveal the barely-there black lace cups of the push up that are just enough to support you and not much else. All it’ll take is one tug, and you’ll be unwrapped.

Pulling open the top drawer of the cabinet, you take out the finishing touches, adjusting the silk ribbons of the bow and clipping on the little connecting pieces to your thigh highs that turn it into a garter and attach to the material at your waist.

When you lift your head to the mirror next, you’re wearing the lingerie, your glasses, Bucky’s necklace, and nothing else.

It’s perfect.

You leave your lipstick smudged and slip back into the bedroom from the hallway, pausing just inside to lean against the wall.

Bucky’s stripped down too in your absence, leaning back against the headboard in a pair of short boxers and a sheer black bralette that shows off her piercings and, coincidentally, happens to match your lingerie almost perfectly.

She’s got one knee propped up, scrolling on her phone when you walk in. But her eyes slide over to you the second you stop, and the phone goes lax in her grip a second before she tosses it onto the nightstand and abandons it completely.

“Fuck,” she exhales, lip caught between her teeth as she crawls to the edge of the bed for a better look. “You look fucking unreal. Get over here.”

You hide a smile with a dip of your chin to your chest and oblige, your stocking-clad feet padding across the fake hardwood as you close the distance, the material at your waist flowing lightly in the AC of the bedroom.

“Wait,” she says abruptly. You stop mid-step, meeting her hungry eye. “Where’s the polaroid.”

You’ve no sooner pointed toward your nightstand than Bucky’s diving for it, wrangling open the top drawer to reach in and grab the little camera you’ve been using to document private photos for her anniversary gift.

She holds out a hand, and you slip yours into it and let yourself be pulled toward the mattress to join her. “C’mere,” she instructs, up on her knees above you while your shoulder blades meet the duvet. “Lay back. Yeah, just like that. Lemme fix your hair.”

It makes you feel warm all over again. She could just as easily have taken the photo in a messy snap and tossed it aside like her phone, but she’s seen the way you work at stuff like this, playing with angles and framing and poses, and she knows now by heart which shots of you you’ll like, and which you’ll be secretly hating for some small detail or another no one else would ever notice.

She never makes you feel like too much. You’ve never even celebrated a six month anniversary before, because you’ve been told it’s stupid and a waste of time and money for such a short milestone.

You have to bite down hard on your tongue as she’s adjusting the frames of your glasses so you don’t spill out those three words too soon.

Her pinpoint focus slips a little when she looks you in the eyes, gaze softening.

“Y’okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Really good.”

Satisfied, she bumps your nose with the back of her knuckle and then leans up again to grab the camera. She suggests a few other poses and you try out the ones you think will look good, ending up with your legs bent a little to the side and your spine curved to accommodate the stretch, the position naturally accentuating the shape of your figure. The necklace sits right between your cleavage, sparkling along with lingerie.

A series of snaps later, the photographs are set on the nightstand to develop, the camera is shoved back into the drawer, and Bucky finally descends on you properly. You part your legs to let her between them as she presses in to kiss you, but she doesn’t stay long before she’s squeezing your hip again and helping you sit up.

You end up back against the headboard with her behind you, settled in between her thighs. Her pierced nipples are rubbing against the silk at your back, her fingers sneaking around your waist to slip in between the soft curtains of fabric over your belly, the other hand rubbing at your thigh.

Her mouth, though, seems perfectly content to mouth against the side of your neck like she’s trying to paint a picture with her tongue.

“You want me to tell you what we’re gonna do?”

Your tilted head drifts up and down in a nod against her shoulder. “Yeah.”

“First, I’m gonna hold you just like this,” she starts. “Feel you up, tell you how pretty y’are in this sexy little get up you’ve been hidin’ in the back of the sock drawer.”

“Bucky!” you complain, suddenly aware of how she’d managed to match you so well tonight. It’s hard to stay mad when she’s touching you like this though, when she knows each of the places that turn you into putty in her hands.

Her fingers move down further, toying with the clasp on the garters, tracing it back up to the lace of your panties and then shifting to cup your cunt over the lace, casually possessive.

“Then I’m gonna slip my hand right down here and make you come for me.”

You fight a whimper, trying not to openly push up into her touch. “Then what?”

“Greedy girl,” she chuckles. “Then I’m gonna lay y’out and get one of these legs up in the air, spread ‘em nice and wide so that I can feel the evidence of this sweet, needy, wet pussy—” she underscores with a pointed grind of her palm, “—right up against mine.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, already imagining it. “Yeah. Yeah, Bucky, please.”

“Been teasin’ you about it for weeks, I know,” she smears a kiss against your cheek, subtly moving her hand against you. “Thought I’d save it for a special occasion.”

You huff a laugh with your nose, rolling your head into her until your forehead is pressed against her cheek. “Six months of me is pretty special,” you tease.

She doesn’t return your amusement. It makes you sober quickly, makes you hyper aware of her hand pulling away from your underwear to grip your chin instead, tilting your face up enough to kiss you once—sweet and slow.

“Yeah,” she says simply. “It is.”

Heat gathers under your skin, unfailingly amazed at the way being with Bucky can go from chaos to cute to heartfelt all in the span of a few minutes. You crane your neck up to kiss her more firmly, and you get her hand back between your thighs for the trouble.

You’ve learned a lot over the last few months about how to have sex with a woman, and more specifically, how to have sex with Bucky.

You know she usually likes to come once, twice at most, and usually toward the end of things. At the same time as you, if you can line it up just right. She gets off on her self proclaimed service kink when it comes to your pleasure, so intense in the ways she wants to take you apart that it sends a thrill up your spine. She doesn’t like anything inside of her that often, but occasionally when she’s in the mood for it she’s talked you through using your fingers to get her off that way.

You both love to use your mouths on each other, oral sex quickly becoming an enjoyable pastime around the apartment. There’ve been a few times you’ve just done it for the intimacy or to be close, slipping lazy fingers into her hair when you wake up with her between your legs or when you’re on your knees in front of the couch in the living room, Bucky’s knees spread wide and grinding idly against your mouth as stress relief more than a concentrated effort to get off.

But tonight is something new. She’s teased you with the idea of scissoring since the moment you—incorrectly, apparently?—assumed that it was just something people did in porn and wasn’t actually a common way people had sex. She’s had that mischievous little spark in her eye for weeks now.

“You paying attention?” Bucky asks, teeth dragging across your shoulder. Her hand makes another broad pass over your panties, lingering but not giving you any pressure.

“Attention,” you echo cheekily, yelping when Bucky pinches the inside of your thigh lightly. She folds them back open when you try to close them, hooking her ankles around your calves to keep them that way.

“Forgot my girl’s not one for delayed gratification,” she says. You frown.

“Hey. I can be patient—oh, fuck. Yes.”

She chuckles as she presses down on the lace, two fingers circling your clit with expert precision. Your hips push into it but you don’t get far with your legs trapped by hers, and you whine when her touch evades you once more.

Her fingers move down, finding the split of your folds where it gives way to your opening and pressing. The lace makes it rougher, preventing her from sinking inside of you like you want, but you moan all the same when she pushes like she’s trying to anyway.

“You’re a mess,” she marvels, pulling the digits back in front of you so you both can see the way your wetness clings to them obscenely. “This all for me, sweetheart? It get you hot, gettin’ ready for me?”

“Always,” you tell her honestly.

The way she’s pressing in behind you now reminds you of the first time she ever touched you like this, back in the library where anyone could have walked past and seen her actively rewriting your perception of pleasure and self. Your body clenches around nothing as if trying to cling to the memory; as if trying to get her fingers back where they’d been that day all those months before.

She must feel it, her fingers back on your clit while you try to ride them with your limited movement. The part of the material that’s still clinging to your opening shifts each time you bear down on nothing, pulling under her fingertips.

The first time never takes much, especially not as worked up as you are tonight. Her hand lifts and raises, teases at the edge of the lace for a second before slipping through the thin triangle of hair underneath and further down to your needy, sopping cunt.

Your toes curl against the bed as she bypasses your clit and slips two fingers inside of you, stretching you in that way that always makes you gasp. She’d work up to three if you were taking the strap, but tonight she doesn’t waste any time. The two digits sink in to the hilt and immediately tilt upwards, the hand that’s been idly playing with the trim of your stockings shifting over to rub at your clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan loudly, aware of the fact that your vocabulary has already slimmed to nothing but expletives and noises but unwilling to attempt to change it.

“Yeah, ride me, baby, c’mon. Can feel you gettin’ close,” she encourages, mouth opening around your pulse again to take it between her teeth.

Her legs slacken just enough to allow you the range of movement to follow orders, your hips immediately jumping up against her hands as you chase the pleasure.

She’s a fast learner after all these weeks spent together, and where your ex felt like he was always just to the side of wherever you wanted him, Bucky works your body with a precision that makes you feel winded.

You guess that’s what happens when someone actually listens.

She readjusts her grip, fingers steadily fucking you while the other hand sweeps up from your entrance toward your clit, dragging the skin up with her and spreading you, leaving no buffer between the bump of your nerves and her greedy fingers.

With the pressure directly against your clit you shudder, and when the digits inside of you hook up and pull outward, you nearly collapse in half as you start to come.

She follows you the whole way, chest draped over your back as your forehead bends toward your shaking knees. It makes both of you sit up straight, allows you a front row view of your skewed underwear and her black, silver, and tan hands blurrily moving as she works you through it. Your own hands clutch at her hips behind you like an anchor, your mouth open and eyes fluttering closed and pendant tapping wildly between your breasts as your orgasm wracks through every nerve ending.

“Mm. Got you good that time,” she brags openly, perfectly composed while you struggle to catch your breath in front of her, all your core muscles still spasming with aftershocks.

This, you’ve learned, is one of your own kinks.

Too swept up in it to respond yet, you can only whimper as her hands slide out of your panties, giving you a cocky little pat over your clit in parting. You can feel her moving behind you, feel the warmth being peeled away from your back and shifting to your side and front instead. In the blink of an eye her mouth is on yours, a hand on your jaw pushing you slowly down to the mattress on your back.

She pulls back to hover above you, fixing the crook of your glasses where they’d shifted and touching your mouth where you’re sure the lipstick now makes them look swollen and bruised.

“Fuck, honey. Just wanna ruin you,” she murmurs right up against them.

You tilt your chin up for her. “You should.”

“Yeah?” she asks. “Y’want somethin’ a little filthy?”

You nod. Her eyes flick over you a little more purposefully this time, lifting to put a few more inches between your faces.

“Open your mouth.”

You do it without hesitation, and her fingers tighten where they’re splayed open and gripping your jaw. For an intense few seconds, she does nothing but take in the view, and you let her. It feels depraved, waiting like that, your mouth wide open and vulnerable for something unknown.

And then you feel even more depraved when she purses her lips and spits onto your tongue.

You moan loudly as soon as you’ve processed it, brows drawing together and thighs shifting as heat gathers again. She pushes your jaw closed, seals your lips together and watches with hooded eyes.

“Swallow,” she instructs. You do it visibly, and she peels your lower lip down, watches it bounce back into place. “Good girl.”

Her mouth meets yours with a hungry noise, even slicker this time with so much spit. Filth had been a good word to describe the way your tongues meet in the middle, the way neither of you have any regard left for propriety when you’re so openly desperate for each other.

There’s a part of you that can’t believe that Bucky just keeps wanting you; each time you assume the spark is going to fade out, it only ever feels like it’s growing even stronger. You’re not used to someone who spends so much time showing you their appreciation, with their hands or their words or their actions or their gifts or their acts of service. You feel spoiled, but not at all in the way someone would’ve meant it back home.

Bucky’s lips move down over your chin, fingers trailing lower in tandem. The bow tying your cleavage is still intact but she’s undeterred, her chin and nose disappearing right in the valley between them and laving kisses against the heated skin.

The graze of her teeth is just enough to distract you from the muted snap of the clips on your stockings coming undone, Bucky’s thumbs hooking into the sides of your underwear and working it down over your hips. With one last teasing bite to the curve of your breast she sits back on folded knees and peels them off, leaving you in just the babydoll and the stockings with everything in the middle completely bare.

The panties hit the sheets below you, her boxers joining them, and then her fingers immediately circle your ankles.

“Given how much you enjoyed learning the art of sixty-nining,” she says conversationally, “I think you’re really gonna like this, sweetheart.”

One of the hands on your ankle slips up the inside of your leg until it’s behind your knee, then lifts and pushes until it’s perpendicular to the rest of your body. Bucky swings one of her own legs over to straddle the one of yours that’s flat to the bed, and crawls on her shins the rest of the way up until your hips are nearly aligned.

One expert pull and twist of your body puts your ankle resting on her shoulder and tilts your hips sideways and up, one of her knees slipping behind your ass to prop you a little. It’s not totally unlike the way she fucks you with the strap sometimes, but this feels decidedly more…intentional. Designed to get as close as possible.

And seconds later you do, the deliberate, well—scissor of your legs closing in around each other until, finally, you meet in the middle.

Both of you moan, your hips bucking up into her until she shushes you and presses you back down, keeping herself a teasing breadth away from you at first. You’ve felt her with your fingers and your mouth before but it’s an entirely different sensation with your cunt, all of your most sensitive nerves up against hers. You’re smooth shaven below the top of your vulva but Bucky isn’t, her dark hair all natural save for being neatly trimmed to keep it manageable. The texture only adds to the sensation, makes you that much more eager to feel her in yet another brand new way.

Wrapping a hand above your knee to hold it against her shoulder, she rolls her hips forward gently, just enough to touch the folds of her cunt against yours. You’re both wet, enough that when she barely presses against you and then pulls back again, the slick still connects you like the spit between your mouths had just a few minutes ago.

“Look at that,” she says, reverent and depraved. “Just like kissing, huh?”

“Bucky,” you moan, shivering at the visual.

“Yeah, grab onto me,” she urges. It’s only then you realize that you are already, in fact, holding onto her hand that’s splayed across your hip, fingers unconsciously trying to find their way between hers. She turns her palm for you easily, squeezing. “S’a lot, right?”

“So much,” you groan. And then, conversely, “More.”

Almost too easily, she complies. With a hand wrapped firmly around your leg she grinds forward against you again, and this time she goes slow enough that you feel everything. The tickle of her hair, the sticky suction of your combined wetness, the bump of your clits pressing in and then rolling together deliciously.

“Oh, shit, Bucky,” you exhale, already mindlessly beginning to pick up on her rhythm.

A cocky grin presses into your stocking. “Feels good?”

You nod, too caught up in the swivel of her hips to make a comment about her—decidedly deserved—confidence. She sweeps diagonally back and forth over you while she holds you open, nowhere to hide from it. Especially not when she uses the hand on your leg to reach around and slip two fingers into your folds, spreading them at the top and doing the same to herself so that your clit rubs firmly against hers on every stroke.

It feels so desperate compared to her measured grinds, the way your own hips jump and push and try to move back against her. All your shifting is probably only making it less pleasurable but the lick of shame only makes the burn on your skin even hotter, the fact that you feel a little like you can’t even control yourself.

You whine when she stops, pressing you back down to the mattress again. She bends only just enough to let a string of spit land between you, dripping down your cunt and adding to the mess, and then smears it around your clit with her thumb.

When you shiver so hard your legs threaten to try to close, she’s right there with her other hand on your calf to hold it open as she presses you flush together again.

“Uh-uh. Keep those legs open for me. Not done kissing you yet, honey.”

You love finding out all the ways you can make Bucky fall apart, but part of you really enjoys this too; having a partner that’s confident and knows what they’re doing, someone you don’t have to perform for and can speak up with if something’s not working. Bucky notices things no one else ever has, little twitches in your face or a skip in rhythm somewhere. She’s the perfect medicine for someone like you who’s been a people pleaser your whole life, willing to keep biting your tongue unless she asks directly.

And, true to her word back in the dorms, she doesn’t get tired of having to ask.

That’s why all of her confidence is deserved; because if you answered any one of her cocky questions of feels good? more? right there? with a no, she’d switch up immediately until it was back to being a resounding yes. No hurt pride, no hard feelings, no resentment.

Not that you’re incredibly experienced, but it is without a doubt the best sex you’ve ever had.

“What are you thinking about up there?” she asks, half panting already as your steady grind turns back into a slow, indulgent roll between your hips. You bite down on a smile at her noticing, proving your own point.

“You’re the best sex I’ve ever had,” you admit honestly.

She gives a breathy laugh. “I’d hope so. Gotta keep a pretty thing like you satisfied. S’my job now.”

You start to grin, then moan when she grinds hard against you. “Your job?”

“Mhm,” she nods. “My job where I get to touch and kiss and lick and fuck and give good girls like you the best sex they’ve ever had.”

“Sounds like quite the job description,” you tease from the pillow.

Her head turns just enough to take the material of your stocking between her teeth, pulling lightly until it stings a little when it snaps back. “And I do it fuckin’ proudly.”

You rock against each other for another handful of greedy thrusts, your glasses askew from turning your head side to side and thigh highs slipping down past your knees with the rough handling. Even your breasts threaten to slip out of the bow they’re tied up in when you really get into it, Bucky’s hips making the bed frame rattle above your head.

Cheek pressed against your leg, she watches you until her blue eyes are nearly all blown black, and then she reaches for you with her hand.

“C’mere. Sit up,” she says, patting your hip as she pulls back. “Need to get my mouth on you.”

Obligingly, you push up on your palms and scoot forward as she sits down in front of you, letting her right your glasses and smooth down the little hairs around your temple mussed from sweat and the pillows.

She pulls you in between the split of her thighs, stretching one of your thighs over her hip, her own tossed over one of yours. It’s a more complex, sexier version of criss-cross applesauce, both your knees bent and sitting so close that her breathing fogs your lenses just a little when she leans in.

That, and your throbbing cunt is inches from hers again.

“Lemme unwrap my gift,” Bucky says as she closes the distance, yanking your hips in to let you do all the work, grinding your clit against hers while you lean back on your palms and she reaches for the bow on your chest.

You pant, watching with half-lidded eyes as she pulls at one end of the silk and the whole thing comes unraveled. It leaves your breasts framed on the outer edges with the strips of black push up material, and otherwise completely bare in the middle.

Her hands slide down your hips, curving to hold your lower back where it arches as you roll your hips as she bends with a moan to take one of your nipples into her mouth. Yours falls open at the sensation, head tilted back and hand sinking into her hair as your hips buck against her.

She grabs at you with her other hand, easy and proprietorial, sweeping her thumb over the one that’s not in her mouth as she sucks hard and then pulls off with a pop. Your skin glistens with spit when you separate, the already slick noise of you rubbing together seeming even louder now.

Her lips drag up toward your collarbone, stopping briefly to kiss the heart shaped pendant she put there earlier before she continues. Her hand curves around the back of your neck, turning your chin smoothly into a deep kiss. It’s unbearably intimate when you know she can feel just how affected you are this way—how much her hands and mouth and cunt are stealing your air.

“Wanna know a secret?” she says when she trails sideways again to suck on the lobe of your ear, leaving you panting.

“Always,” you breathe.

She leans in close, licks a burning stripe up the side of your neck before pressing her lips right against your ear to whisper, “This is the best sex I’ve ever had too.”

You make an alarmed noise, eyes widening even as your hips move uncontrollably. “No way.”

“Baby,” she huffs, shaking her head as she closes in on your lips again. “Way.”

It’s a boost to your confidence if you’ve ever heard one. You kiss her hard when her mouth meets yours, your rhythm faltering as your lower limbs begin to tremble with exertion. As much as you complain about her calling you a pillow princess, she’s not completely off base. She would know better than anybody now.

But the work you’ve put in certainly isn’t for naught; Bucky seems to have regained her own energy in the time lapsed, and you gasp and squeak when you’re suddenly tossed back against the pillows on your back.

She crawls on top of you, hands behind your knees as she shoves them up until you’re practically bent in half. Your breasts sit free, satin extending from either side onto the bedsheets, glasses rattled with the movement. When she presses your knees apart the babydoll covering your belly splits too, your thigh highs slipping down to your ankles. You’re more bare than you’ve been all night.

You think she’s going to bend down and put her mouth on you, and you’re entirely thrown off when, instead, she takes you by the ankles and plants a knee on either side of your hips, pressing your cunt against hers from a completely different angle.

Then she rides you like she would if she were wearing the strap.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, high and drawn out as your body jolts each time she ruts forward. Your eyes roll back behind your glasses, the heat coming off your face making them fog up. If you weren’t on your back, they’d be falling off by now.

“Love seeing these tits bounce while I’m fuckin’ you,” she marvels, making you hold your own legs so she can reach down and grab at them again.

It feels indescribable in a way you can’t even comprehend. Your body’s braced from muscle memory to expect something inside of you but there isn’t, and instead of the spread of fingers or a vibrator against your clit, Bucky’s is already hard and hot and wet against you. Swollen too, enough that when she ruts down it slips inside of you just the slightest bit and makes you shiver.

Everything’s slick, a mess between your thighs and hers, sweat and makeup and lingerie all coming off at once. Bucky’s pace this time around is punishing, your vocabulary narrowed down to nothing but whiny syllables as her hand slips up to wrap decadently against your throat and tilt your face down toward her.

Things start to get blurry. Your noises raise higher in pitch, lipstick smeared completely off your wide open mouth where her thumb teases at your tongue. Your ears ring as your muscles clench, everything from your toes up to your calves, your thighs and hips and shoulders, the greedy muscles of your cunt right in the middle of it all.

You can see Bucky’s mouth moving above you, murmuring filthy nonsense. You stare at her lips like every thought has been fucked out of your head, the sturdy width of her shoulders and slender collarbones, the black hair that curls around the sides of her neck with sweat. She’s so hot, you think helplessly, deliriously, for a brief moment berating yourself for ever thinking you could be totally straight.

You go to bite your lip and end up sucking on the tip of her thumb instead, still resting heavy on your mouth. It does little to muffle the noises you’re making, and when she shifts the angle just enough to press her clit against your entrance again, her vulva grinding hard up against yours, you fall apart completely.

You feel yourself start to shake beneath her, your grip on your legs going slack and mouth falling open around her thumb as you stop breathing. Your orgasm starts quick and sharp but unfolds like a cup of water knocked onto the floor, pooling in the middle and spilling outward into every last strip and divot it can find.

“Shit, you’re comin’ again, aren’t you? That’s so fuckin’ hot,” Bucky groans, holding your ankle back again when it slips so she can ride you through it. You hear her through a tunnel, glasses completely fogged and head empty. “Fuck, honey. Look at you. You’re shaking.”

You have to toss out a trembling hand to stop her when things start to get oversensitive, coming back to yourself in twitches and gasps and hastily swiping the drool from the corner of your mouth before Bucky chases it with her own.

It’s a sloppy kiss, your coordination shot and limbs refusing to obey anything anymore. Bucky unfolds you like the silk, bending one leg out and then the other, pressing them back into the mattress and rubbing them until the feeling comes back again.

“Fuck,” you tell her belatedly, her laugh warm against the side of your neck where she’s been pressing kisses. “Think you broke me.”

She chuckles. “Was gonna get my mouth on you again after this but I guess y’don’t need it, huh?”

You catch her just as she’s pulling back, turning to press your lips to hers again. “Wanna make you come.”

“Oh yeah?” she cocks a brow, still sticky with sweat. “You have something in mind?”

Reaching your shaky arms up, you toss them around her shoulders and pull her down on top of you, then roll over until she’s laying back on the sheets and your body is lining hers from the side, half on top. You make yourself lift up a little enough to kiss her properly, your fingers drifting down toward her chest.

“You remember when you told me you came once just from playing with these,” you prompt, tracing a nail around one of her pierced nipples through the mesh of her see through bra and feeling how hard it’s gotten while she made you come.

She gives you a lazy grin, arching into the touch. “After tequila shots and a whole lotta touchin’, yeah.”

“You saying you don’t think I can pull it off?” you ask.

“I’m sayin’ it’s little ambitious but I’m definitely willing to let you try all you want,” she amends, dipping forward to kiss you.

Huffing against her mouth, you try your best to regain your balance and get your game face on. Before you were eager, now you’re determined.

As sultry as you can manage in the state you’re in—which fares well for you, since she loves seeing you all taken apart—you slide down her body a little until you can hook a thigh over one of hers, subtly pressing your knee within grinding distance of her pussy. If she closes the distance, you’ll know you’re doing a good job.

But for now you leave it hovering like a promise, pressing your own chest against her ribcage so you can lay against her for support. Her smile turns filthy and fond all at once, her fingers pushing your glasses up your nose a little for you when they slip.

Her touch lingers even afterward, slipping around to the back of your neck to drift knuckles over your pulse in a relaxed grip. It’s sweet, and you love it, but you don’t want her calm at the moment.

She’s already worked up from grinding against you—you’d felt as much before your higher thinking melted completely out of your head. You’ve been getting better at nailing down the things she likes too, and her nipples are already so sensitive…

She sucks in a breath when your lips lower to the curve of her breast, kissing her lightly through the mesh while you look up at her from behind your glasses.

“Cute,” she teases, but her voice shakes a little when she says it. You bite down on a grin.

You lavish a series of those soft kisses against either side of her chest, not using your hands yet. But when you settle back against her side, weight relaxed and thigh poised where you want it, you let your tongue drag against the material.

Her exhale is slightly heavier when she lets it out, still watching you from above. The material is obviously transparent, a sheen of dark gray-black stretched over her breasts, your spit getting stuck in the tiny diamonds that make up the mesh as you suck careful marks into her skin through it. The first time your teeth graze her, a ghost of a moan breaks through her teeth.

When she’s arching up into you more unconsciously than just in invitation, you trail lower, sideways until your lips are hovering just above one of her nipples. It pokes provocatively through the material, all pale flesh, dark pink pucker and the shimmering silver of the piercing coming out either side. Your mouth waters, but you don’t let yourself jump ahead.

Instead, you dip innocently, kissing the tip of it once. It’s chaste and sweet, more a peck than anything else, and Bucky gives you a breathy chuckle as she rolls her shoulders, some of the tension dissolved when she thinks you’re done teasing her.

When she’s not expecting it, you part your lips a little more, lightly sucking at just the tip. Her laughter immediately fades, legs shifting under you as you purse your mouth around her.

She’s not grinding against you yet, but it’s a close thing.

Now with her full attention, you finally give her more. Your mouth opens wider against her enough to encompass the entirety of her nipple and the piercing, your hot tongue pressed against her as it fills your mouth.

She moans when your hand joins in on the opposite side, cupping her breast in your palm and thumbing lightly back and forth over her nipple. You pull off and kiss the tip of the one that’d been in your mouth lightly again, blowing out a breath over it next to watch her shiver.

You take a brief detour to the other side to get it wet with your lips, and then return to your spot. This time when your thumb drifts over her the peak is achingly hard and straining against your fingertip, the strum of your finger over it rougher with your spit. The other is still hard, still pushing against your cheek when you rub against it, letting her breast nudge your glasses crooked just because you know it’s going to get her going. And, sure enough—

“C’mon, baby,” she urges, voice dipped rough around the edges now, eyes back hazy. “Open for me. Gimme that mouth.”

You let her think she’s in control when your lips drop open obligingly, her hand on the back of your neck guiding you back to her nipple. Then, when her head has dropped back against the headboard, you use your teeth to steady the flesh as you flick your tongue against the piercing, timing it up with when you flick your nail gently against the other.

“Motherfucker,” she curses in a gasp, head snapping back down to look at you. “That is not something I taught you.”

You smile around her, letting her nipple and the wet mesh slip out of your mouth. “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Research,” Bucky echoes curiously. “M’gonna need you to tell me about this research later.”

“But isn’t more fun if I show you?” you ask coyly.

You don’t bother waiting for an answer. using both hands now, you pull the tall straps of the bra off her shoulders enough that her smaller breasts can pop free of the flimsy cups without anything between you.

You use her technique this time, going slow while your energy returned just to be able to spend it on her now.

She sighs your name when your mouth seals around her again, then shouts it when you immediately start flicking your tongue against her quickly. Her hand hovers at the back of your head, half in shock and half in encouragement as you hollow your cheeks, spit gathering messily beneath your mouth. Your other hand kneads at her openly now, shifting the mound of flesh in a rough circle the way she likes before shifting to graze one of your nails over the erect tip.

And then you feel it—her hips jumping up, wet cunt grinding thoroughly against your knee.

You moan this time at feeling her, curling around her further to give her more room to ride your thigh. It’s slick and sticky with nothing in between you to soak up the mess, the trimmed hair of her pussy grinding against your smooth, shaved thigh like second nature.

You double your efforts now, flattening your tongue against her and moving it rapidly side to side while your fingers fly over her other nipple the same way hers do against your clit when she’s drawing out your orgasm.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—” she warns, and then there’s a flash of motion.

She sits straight up against the pillows, pushing your head into her chest with her hand while her other braces on the bed so she can grind frantically against your thigh. You whimper as she holds you to her breast, cheek smushed and glasses close to falling, only realizing now that you’d been mindlessly rutting against her hip this whole time too as if feeling her pleasure.

Her grip tightens around you, on the back of your head and your ass, her thighs clamping down on yours as she comes, and then slackens altogether into a series of smaller twitches and gasps through the aftershocks.

Your mouth slips off of her with your own intake of air as you catch your breath, and for a moment, everything is calm and quiet.

Until she decides she isn’t quite done with you yet.

You’re pushed backwards, falling onto your back with your head by the foot of the mattress this time as she crawls over you. Your thighs are pushed open as she swipes her fingers across her tongue in a useless aid for wetness, then promptly sticks them between your legs and inside your sopping cunt for the first time all night the way you need them.

You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut as your body seizes and her hand finds your throat again. When you open your eyes next she’s hovering inches from your face, and your fingers grasp onto the outside of hers at your neck like a lifeline as she starts fucking you relentlessly on her hand.

“Such a good fucking girl,” she rasps against your cheek. “Thought you were done but look at you—soaking fuckin’ wet just from sucking on my tits. S’that what gets you going?”

It’s a rhetorical question by design. You sob when you try to open your mouth to answer anyway, and Bucky just kisses you quiet, not so secretly a glutton for the fact that you can’t even kiss her properly, can only clumsily tongue back when hers slips into your mouth.

Her fingers are relentless, two of them bent and pointed straight inside of you, jabbing in at just a slightly elevated angle. You know exactly what she’s going for before she even says it, your body already clenching in anticipation.

Sixty-nining and scissoring aren’t the only things she’s taught you about yourself these last six months.

“You know what I want, baby, don’t you?” she asks against your mouth, her hand taking a brief detour from your throat to press down on your lower belly. “You feel that right here in your hips?”

You nod frantically, tears threatening to spill over from behind your foggy glasses. Just when you lament the fact that you can’t see her through them she reaches up to rip them off of you, tossing them gingerly aside to a safe spot on the sheets before her fingers wrap around your neck again.

You cling to it like your only anchor as your body bounces with her hand, that pressure inside of you building and building. After two orgasms with your clit it’s not going to take long to get there this way, not when Bucky knows exactly which buttons to push.

“Gonna give it to me?” she asks. When you nod again, she grins. “Babygirl used all her energy gettin’ me off and now she can’t talk. Can’t do anything but take my fingers like a good girl. That right?”

Your breathing skips, lip trembling when she doesn’t let up. Orgasms like this are always so intense, only something you’ve done a handful of times since you got together. They make you feel delightfully fragile, pinned and cared for and safe to let go knowing that Bucky will carry you through it.

Now’s no different, caught between her hand, her fingers, the way even the spit slipping past your lips feels like sweet, soft love in this sort of headspace. Her mouth shifts, presses against your cheek.

“S’okay, sweetheart. What was it you said? Better if I just show you.”

A if waiting on permission, the tightest coil in your body finally comes loose, and you scream, vision swimming as you tremble violently and your cunt releases all over her hand and arm. Her free hand finds yours and holds as the other slips out of you and splays over your clit, strumming rapidly over it as your cunt expels the last dripping wet arcs of your release.

When the peak of it’s over her digits slip back inside, shushing your whimpers as she soothes her earlier roughness with slow, shallow strokes of her knuckles. She likes to feel the way you grip her afterward, still spasming tight and trying not to let go. Ordinarily she could work another couple out of you if she does it the right way, but she seems to recognize that you’re spent tonight, and you’re grateful for it.

Her lips graze your forehead as she slips free of you completely, dragging through the trails of wetness on your thighs and the sheets. Her other hand, still tangled with yours, comes up to wipe at the wetness on your cheeks, close enough that you can see her even without your glasses on.

She nudges your noses together and then dips to take your mouth, something sweet and soft this time, then drops onto her back on the sheets beside you.

“Best sex ever, huh,” she echoes to the ceiling, chest heaving almost as much as yours.

You use the very last of your energy to roll onto your side into her arms, spent and filthy and exhausted.

“Best. Sex. Ever.”

The hand you lift for a high five is shaking and doesn’t make it up farther than your wrist propped on her ribs, but she laughs anyway, giving you one and then lacing your fingers together. She stifles a yawn.

“Nap. Then shower.”

You’re asleep before you can confirm.

Bedtime has become one of your favorite routines since moving into the apartment.

Whatever the weather outside is, however busy your classes get, no matter how much your different electives and part times keep you from Bucky all day long, you always make time to unwind together and get ready for bed.

It’s extra special on days like today, when you’ve already been together and the rest of it is just an extension, the shower cramped but neither of you willing to get out, the mirror fogged up with sweet smelling steam afterward as you sit on the closed toilet lid and lather on lotion, Bucky scrunching product through her hair at the counter beside you.

And now you’re back in bed, clean sheets and minty breath, fairy lights on that Bucky helped you string up over the headboard. Her flag has migrated over from the dorm too of course, space for you to add one of your own left over your side.

Your lingerie has been swapped for an equally silky pajama set, soft against the cotton of Bucky’s boxers and sports bra. All that’s left on is your glasses and the pendant still around your neck that Bucky’s fingers keep tracing over absently while you both check your notifications before bed.

When you get too tired to keep scrolling, you set your phone on the charger on the nightstand, then turn over and rest your head on her shoulder with a sigh.

“I think that was also the best anniversary ever.”

“Seconded,” she agrees, letting her phone fall dark and drop to the sheets. “I mean. I’ve never celebrated one before, but.”

You shift against her shoulder. “Never?”

“I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple weeks,” she admits. Her eyes flick off toward the foot of the bed with a purse of her lips, her telltale sign that she’s unsettled.

Slipping an arm around her waist, you press in close and drift your fingers over her bicep. “Well. I was in one that lasted years and he forgot all of them or complained the whole time we were supposed to be celebrating, so.” You lift a shoulder. “We’re both trying something new.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs distantly.

Her own fingers twitch where they rest on your hip, and you can hear her quick, thumping heartbeat underneath your ear. She gets like this sometimes, lost in her own head, and you’ve learned that it’s typically better to let her come to you than to pressure her to talk about it. Even if her getting like this after a day like today has a twinge of your own insecurity sparking again.

You shake the thought away and stay where you are, offering closeness in lieu of the words you’d like to tell her instead.

“I love you,” she says.

You lift your head from her chest, eyes snapping to hers. She looks like she had in that hotel bathroom months ago, panicked and brave and uncharacteristically soft.

Your mouth stretches into a grin. She furrows a brow but hesitantly smiles back.

“What’re you smilin’ about?”

“The mixtape I made you in your gift had a secret message in it,” you whisper.

Laughing when she narrows her eyes and kicks off the blanket, you watch her speed walk into the living room again to find the gift box, endeared by her willingness to indulge in your antics.

She breezes back through the door with the cassette tape you made in her hand, bed bouncing as she knees onto the mattress and then swings one over you to straddle your hips. The tape is cradled between you, the hand drawn cover on one side, the written tracklist on the back facing her.

“Okay, let’s see here. Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. A classic,” she comments. “Letter to myself at 17 by Baby Queen. Only a girl by Gia Woods. Volcanic love, The Aces. Everything I want, Beabadoobee. Your song by Elton John—oh, that’s sappy as hell—“

You flick her in the arm, face heating. “Keep going.”

“One line by Pj Harvey and ur so pretty by Wasia Project,” she finishes. Her eyes slip down to you, a brow raised in sympathy. “Was this your taste in music even before me? Baby, this is almost gayer than I am.”

“Buck,” you whine, shifting under her. “C’mon.”

Laying the hand with the tape carefully to the side of your head, she leans down and noses at your cheek, smearing a kiss to your jaw.

“C’mon what? Gimme a hint so I can decode this secret message of yours.”

You turn and catch her lips once with yours. “The first letter of each song.”

Her eyes light up, and you watch as she pulls back to look down at the tape again, her grin slipping into something softer as she spots the lineup of I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

“That’s cheesy as hell,” she breathes, dropping the tape onto the sheets to grab your face instead. “I fucking love it.”

She ends up kissing your teeth a few times when you can’t manage to stop smiling, but you collect yourself enough to kiss her back before you finally return the sentiment.

“I love you.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

And this time when you catch yourself thinking I love you I love you I love you before you fall asleep, you get to say it out loud.

.