warnings: one-sided obsession, retroactive jealousy, softcore unfaithfulness, bucky is lowkey an asshole, literally the smallest inkling of wlw if you squint.
a/n: just a tad bit shady, inspired by obsessed by olivia rodrigo.
Bucky swears he’s moved on from you, but truthfully?
He’s still obsessed with you.
Another problem? So is his new girlfriend.
It’s been over a year with no contact. The breakup wasn’t messy, nor was it anything to write home about.
So when Bucky told his new girlfriend that his last relationship was over a year ago, she assumed that was ample time to get over someone.
Right?
Not right.
It started out tame at first, he’d bring you up in passing conversation, nothing of significance but nothing to be easily brushed off either.
Like when she asks to try out a new restaurant, he just purses his lips and shakes his head.
“Already been, it’s not that good.”
She doesn’t need to ask who he went with, she knows it was you.
Okay, that’s fine.
But then it started to get less-than-subtle.
She brought home a succulent after work one day, thinking it’d be a cute addition for his apartment.
He sighs the moment he sees it, looking at the small plant before crossing his arms over his chest.
“She told me those are hard to water, I don’t like it.”
A little less fine.
Bucky always wore a set of leather bracelets, he refused to take them off even in the shower. He treated them like they were precious family heirlooms.
They weren’t.
They were the last gift you had given before you broke up with him, she finds out eventually.
“You still wear those?”
She asks, her voice teetering on the edge of envy and disgust.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Definitely not fine.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, like the fact that he was still so utterly enthralled with you was somehow normal.
After a while, it was.
The thought of you eventually infests her mind as much as it does his.
Like how when he wakes up in the morning and his vision isn’t all there yet, he looks over at her with a smile on his face.
She knows he thinks it’s you lying next to him.
Because the moment he blinks a few times and rubs his eyes, the smile drops and it’s replaced with a look of content—acceptance, maybe.
She wishes she looked like you, just so he’d smile a little longer.
And a few months ago he had sprained his ankle at work, ending himself up in the hospital.
Coincidentally, he had forgotten to change his emergency contact from you to her.
“You talked to her?”
“Yeah, she just wished me well.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t even get the chance to feel pity for him before it was replaced with bitter jealousy.
The thought of you leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but she’s addicted to how it feels against her tongue.
She lays on your side of the bed, wondering if the mattress used to dip under your weight, if it molded against your body like you belonged there.
The same mattress always felt too hard to her.
Eventually, she starts to ask the questions that she doesn’t want the answers to.
“Did your ex-girlfriend ever get jealous?”
Bucky rests his coffee cup on the counter, swallowing hard as he tries to hide how elated he is to get to talk about you again.
“No, not really. I never gave her a reason to be.”
She just nods.
The way he spoke so highly of you could’ve been his own personal bias, but the more he talks about you the more she’s convinced there was nothing bad to say.
You bought out stock at the flower shop just so people could bring home a gift.
You spent an extra hour at the grocery store helping elderly women pick out which brand of olive oil was best for her husband's birthday dinner.
You always brought back little magnets from your business trips for Bucky, the same ones that he doesn’t even entertain the idea of taking down from the fridge.
God, she hated you as much as she was obsessed with you.
He knows everything about you, and she’s starting to as well.
You’re taller than she is, she concludes one day.
Because she notices how whenever Bucky turns around to face her, his eyes look over her head instinctively, like he’s used to looking up–like he’s used to finding yours.
And last week at dinner when they sat across from one another and she decided what to order, Bucky lowered his menu with a cocked brow.
“I thought you were allergic?”
“I’m not.”
“Oh.”
The matter is dropped then and there. They both know, they don’t say anything else.
The worst part is, you don’t even know she exists.
She looks through your social media like a stalker. The only way she found your pages was because of how often Bucky accidentally called her by your name.
She goes through every post and every comment section just to see if there’s any indication you even care about him anymore.
You don’t.
You’re in Cabo, you’re in Athens, you’re anywhere and everywhere that she isn’t—yet you’re there in her head, you’re all she can think about.
Sometimes she feels like she’s more obsessed with you than he is.
A part of her wishes you would care, that she’d be of use to make you jealous like she knows Bucky wants. She wants it to bother you as much as it bothers her.
But it doesn’t, because of course it doesn’t.
You’re perfect, why would it?
She doesn’t even like girls, but she feels like you’re a part of this relationship with how often you take up their every waking thought.
Bucky says he’s over it. Swears up and down that he’s moved on.
But she knows that he’d jump ship the moment you gave a call, and he’d gladly drown if it meant having a chance to get back with you.
warnings: 18+ mdni, pervy!bucky and slight pervy!reader, reader is implied to be a little older than him, rough and desperate bucky, fingering, choke hold, size kink, pnv unprotected, clothes ripping, implied consent, reader doesn’t talk like at all, he is so obsessed with you, he wants to get you pregnant!!!! job neglect :/
a/n: inspired by music to watch boys to. i love this so much.
The reason you kept showing up was a mystery to him, one that he spends the majority of his 6-hour shifts coming up with possible answers to.
Another thing he couldn’t quite figure out?
Your little staring problem.
Fresh out of his junior year at college, he’s sure he should’ve felt more of a sense of accomplishment.
Instead, Bucky’s downing the last of his energy drink and pulling into the sandy ‘employees only’ parking spot. The cry of gulls above meddled with the sound of rock music in broken speakers.
The view of the beach never got old to him, and when he got asked to come back to his summer job as a lifeguard, he accepted without a second thought.
He’s done it before. Worked right where sand met water, learned about the Ellis method a dozen times, and chatted with the locals. He enjoyed it all.
He didn’t think this summer would be any different, and he had the luxury of believing that for the first few weeks.
Bucky pulls his shirt off and haphazardly throws it into his locker along with his bag, not bothering to lock it up. He mumbles to himself as he goes about his pre-shift routine.
Pull his whistle over his neck, letting it hang in between the sunblock glistened skin of his pecs. Done.
Double-knot the strings of his swim shorts so he doesn’t get in trouble with his boss again. Done.
Check and make sure you weren’t already sitting on the beach in the same spot you always did. You were.
Done.
Bucky was used to regulars, if that was a thing at beaches. He saw the same families come and go every other weekend, staying for a few hours before jumping in their SUV and going home.
It was nothing out of the ordinary to see the same people here and there. He was a firm believer that if you were lucky enough to live by the beach, that should be taken advantage of.
But you, on the other hand, seemed far too content on taking advantage of it.
The first time he saw you had been on a weekend trip with your friends. A chance encounter, sure. But the next few times after that seemed to be coincidental.
Bucky took the weekend shifts when no one else wanted to be stuck working on Fridays and Saturdays.
He saw you every shift.
On Fridays you’d show up at 5:30PM on the dot, clad in a bikini that you seemed intent on covering up with a see-through cardigan. Modest.
Saturdays were different, you’d show up around noon and stay rooted in your spot until the sun dipped below the horizon and the air grew cold. You always left right before his shift ended.
You learned his routine, and he learned yours.
You didn’t work on weekends, but he did. This was just a part time job for him while he was stuck at home over the summer. You seemed to have a job, a real one at that.
So maybe he was overthinking it, and maybe he was flattering himself a little, but who else with a working class job would choose to spend every weekend out in the blistering sun?
Surely you didn’t enjoy the feeling of sand beneath your feet and the screeching of seagulls that much, right?
It had to be him.
It wasn’t like you ever swam, either. Never touched the water, never gave him the opportunity to even entertain the idea of ‘saving you’.
You sat in the same thickly-woven beachchair, made of sturdy metal and pastel colored fabric. A 42-ounce drink sat in the cupholder. You always bought the boardwalk’s ridiculously overpriced lemonade, wrapping your lips around the striped straw like it was a delicacy.
And you always brought that stupid, heavy stereo.
The kind that only took CDs, the kind that took pressing about ten different buttons before any music actually started playing.
It was clunky, obnoxious, and nostalgia-including in a way that made any man or woman in their fifties chuckle when they saw it.
Today you were playing some soft rock music with a jumpy bassline. He liked it.
Bucky didn’t take you for the kind of girl to like that kind of music, but then again, he didn’t know much about you at all.
Except for the fact that you had a taste for too-expensive, barely-there bikinis. Ones that you never had to fix or adjust, ones that seemed to be fitted to your exact measurements. He’s sure if he looked long enough, he’d be able to guess them.
Or how you always brought a new hardcover book to read and finish every time you came. Never paperback, he knew.
And how despite the fact that he knew you could afford a more modern, up to date speaker, you still chose to lug around that big piece of metal junk.
So maybe he knew a bit more about you than any of the hundred other people who came to the beach every weekend, but in all fairness, he couldn’t help it.
There was something so fascinating about you in a strange, unremarkable way.
You were beautiful, it was the first thing anyone ever noticed about you. But in a crowd like this, on a busy Saturday afternoon, you blended in.
So why did he notice everything about you?
His sunglasses had been free, given out at one of the employee training courses along with those tie-dye colored rubber bracelets no one ever wore. The dark plastic was thin and cheap, but it got the job done, and that was enough for him.
But you? Not a chance.
Your tortoise shell sunglasses gleamed in the sun, the silver logo catching the light with every calculated turn of your head. They looked expensive, and so did you.
The difference in your eyewear was mundane, nothing out of the ordinary or worth mentioning to anyone that cared to listen. But Bucky noticed it, just like he noticed everything about you.
Like how you were always there when he was, how you always picked a spot just a few feet away from him. And of course he noticed how you always stayed right there.
The reason you kept showing up was a mystery to him, one that he spends the majority of his 6-hour shifts coming up with possible answers to.
Another thing he couldn’t quite figure out?
Your little staring problem.
Through fluttering lashes and low perched sunglasses, your eyes never left the sun-kissed skin of his back.
Or the damp curls of brown hair where his head and neck met, or the mouthed words that silently slipped from those soft lips of his.
You saw it all, watched like you couldn’t miss it for the world.
Bucky was used to the ogling looks from married women in their forties, the lingering stares from judgemental pre-teens, the threatening looks from guys with their girlfriends, all of it. So he should’ve been used to the way you always watched him.
But he wasn’t.
Every time he’d finish his scan across the sparkling blue waters, his head would bow in a nod and his sunglasses would slip down the arch of his nose.
And even through the harsh sunrays and burning of sunscreen in his eyes, he’d notice you were already looking at him.
Every single time, without fail.
It should’ve been weird, or it could’ve been a coincidence, but he was smart enough to come to the conclusion that it was neither. It was deliberate, purposeful.
Day in and day out, he sat high on his chair, carefully crafted wood painted white and worn down from years of use and exposure to the elements. It was something that made him stick out in a crowd, something that was impossible to ignore for anyone beneath him.
And yet the moment he locked eyes with you, he felt scrutinized under your gaze—small.
You’d always look away when he caught you, but the way you averted your eyes was nothing of a child doing something they weren’t supposed to.
It was that of satisfaction, like his acknowledgment that you had been staring was confirmation that yes, he knew, and he noticed.
Always.
This was the seventh weekend in a row since the start of June that you’ve come here to see him, he keeps count.
Bucky never approached you. Not when he was clocked out and saw you in the parking lot, and certainly not when he was on the clock.
For him, playing eye tag had been more than enough for him—at least for the past six weekends.
He’d like to think he was a composed guy. After all, he needed to be level-headed for the sake of his job. God forbid the common occurrence of a fight breaking out required his intervention.
But the moment he catches you looking at him for the hundredth time this hour and you don’t look away?
He thinks nothing else makes more sense than to do something about it.
Bucky pushes the rescue tube off his lap, ignoring the way it rubs against the aching bulge in his dampened swim shorts.
He descends the ladder, holding your gaze the entire time even through the swarm of heads that suddenly appear once he’s on your level.
For the greater good of the people, he tries to convince himself. But with the way your legs were glistening in the sun, he’s sure he’d come crawling even without being under the guise of doing his job.
Bucky walks quick and sure along the hot sand like it was concrete, being careful not to step on any sandcastles or towels in his pursuit.
The closer he got, the more you looked away.
You turned the page of your book, manicured nails resting against the spine of it as you pretend to act oblivious to the muscled mass of man very quickly approaching you.
His presence casts a shadow over you, your book, your chair—everything. You had only ever seen him at a distance, admired his body from multiple feet away.
The undeniable truth quickly makes your throat go dry, and not even your untouched lemonade could help you ignore it.
He was huge.
“You need something, sweetheart?”
He calls out all authoritative, like that means anything to you.
And surely, surely because you’ve been watching him like he was something you needed to commit to memory, you’d say something.
No.
Not a chance.
Your sunglasses are readjusted to sit as high on the bridge of your nose as they’ll go, hiding your wandering eyes behind a dark tint as you look down at your book.
So you could watch him from afar, but looking him in the eyes was off the table.
Right.
Bucky’s eyebrows knit tight in confusion, pink tongue peeking out to lick the corner of his lip.
Had he been wrong? That in his weird obsession with analyzing every little thing about you, he had somehow manipulated himself into thinking that you had been doing the same to him?
Of course not. Why else were you doing everything in your power to ignore him?
Any normal, sensible person would give him a polite smile, a shake of their head, and a friendly, ‘All good here,’ if he was lucky.
Yet you sat there, content with denying his existence like he wasn’t standing big and tall in front of you, taking up space in a way that no average man ever should.
You saw yourself as a prize to be won—but he’s had just enough with you and your unfulfilling stares, that he’ll take.
With a huff, he takes another step forward and invades your space. You’ve been staring from your domain, thinking your little umbrella and beach chair would be enough to keep him away.
Bucky reaches forward, using two fingers to shut the book you had been holding in two hands.
Jesus.
You don’t move, don’t even attempt to stop him as he takes matters into his own hands.
He hits the ‘eject’ button on your dingy little boombox, and a silver disk slides out as the music comes to a halt.
And you just watch, because that’s all you ever do.
He has to do all the work, and even if he swore he wouldn’t be trying to win you over, he sure as hell is working hard for it.
With every stretch of muscle, every ripple of tanned skin that moves with purpose and impatience, it becomes extremely obvious why he has this job.
A man like him was made for this work, the kind of work that required enough strength to pull another grown man out of the ocean’s current.
But also the kind of work that required the gentleness to handle women and young children.
His hands are careful as they reach out to pull your sunglasses off your face, staining the lens with fingerprints and folding the sturdy material like it was as delicate as you were.
Bucky doesn’t give them to you, he holds them in the warm palm of his big hands, letting the ends just barely peek out from his grip.
Come and get it. You could practically hear the words as they were left unsaid, and he tilted his head to the side to beckon you to follow him.
“Up.”
If you were going to watch, you may as well listen.
You stand up, craning your neck back to look him in the eyes now that there was nothing to hide you from him.
Up close, he can see every detail of you now that he wasn’t left imagining how beautiful you were. The shape of your nose, the curve of your eyelashes, and the soft pout that jutted out on your bottom lip.
He doesn’t feel nearly as intimidated by your gaze now, not when he could wrap his arm around your head and still have room for another. Not when his shoulders provided more shade for you than your umbrella ever could.
Bucky pulls his own sunglasses over his eyes, resting them in the sweaty strands of curly hair as he looks over the beach one last time.
There were plenty of other lifeguards on duty now, it was the busiest time of day, and no one would question the ‘Lifeguard Off Duty’ sign anyways.
So you follow him, seeing the way he parts the crowd by doing nothing. You keep your head down, walking along the dips in the sand where he had stepped.
He leads you underneath the boardwalk, away from the sun, away from prying eyes. The sounds of families of four and crashing waves fade into the distance as he drags you into the dingy break room.
The wood planked floor is sandy, the walls smelled of water, and you don’t get the chance to finish your gallery walk before he’s invading your space again.
His lips force themselves onto yours, molding your mouth with his and letting your tongues greet one another.
You let out a hungry moan, one that he quickly reciprocates. For everything you did, he returned the favor with equal intensity.
You watched, he fantasized.
Bucky’s hands slide up your back, splaying over the exposed skin entirely, toying with the strings of your bikini top until they snap and the garment falls between the two of you.
Your breasts press against his bare chest, the weight of them feeling so familiar over his heart. He’s spent so long staring at them, wondering how they’d feel in his hands, in his mouth.
But he’s had enough staring, and he’s certainly had enough wondering.
He lifts you by your waist, bringing you over to a creaky table that sat on the side of the room. There were papers strewn about, and he pays them no mind as he flips you over and pushes you down.
Bucky would make sure you stayed face down, cheek pressed uncomfortably against the surface of the table, feeling the sticky summer heat in the plastic as you’re forced to look at the wall.
No more watching, you had lost that privilege.
With your feet dangling in the air and legs shaking like you had forgotten to stay still, he kneels down behind you.
And even from where he’s crouched down, he can still see over the curve of your back and the dip of your neck.
It was his turn to stare as shamelessly as you had. You liked it just as much as he did.
He pulls your swimsuit bottoms to the side, the material stretching at his will just like you would.
And for someone who never swam, you were soaked, embarrassingly so.
Your slick coated you from top to bottom, glistening on your cunt and clinging to the double-lined fabric.
“Fuck,”
You hear him mutter under his breath, spoken in disbelief.
He’s everything but patient as he forgoes untying the laces of your bottoms, borderline barbaric in the way he tears the expensive fabric like it was a sheet of paper.
When you let out a whine of protest and lift yourself up on your forearms, he grabs your head and forces you back down onto the table with a thud.
Absolutely not.
“I’ll replace it,”
He rips another seam.
“With the money you watch me work so hard for.”
The words are taunting, as if you were the reason he couldn’t do his job properly.
You were.
Sitting all pretty and stealing his attention, like his job didn’t depend on the fact that he needed to be ready at all times to save someone’s life.
Bucky’s still on the clock, his shift didn’t end for another hour. But he couldn’t take another sixty minutes of getting dizzy from how often he looked over at you.
And he knows that his boss could walk in at any moment, fire him on the spot for negligence, and he wouldn’t care one bit.
He’s waited too long, and he’s sure you’d find a way to track him down at his next job. He hoped you would.
Discarding the tattered fabric of your swimsuit, he drags his thumb from the inside of your thigh to the wetness of your folds.
Bucky takes a deep breath, leaning in closer to really, really, take you in. Your scent forces a guttural groan from his chest, the noise sounding equal parts frustrated and reverent.
He slides his middle finger inside you, sinking in so slowly like he needed to feel every inch of skin being coated in your arousal.
An airy, breathless sound slips from your mouth, vibrating against the table.
He lets out a quiet sigh, deep and heavy as he curls the digit upwards to hit that sensitive spot deep inside your core.
You’re warm in ways the sun could never compare to.
Tight, like a hug from a long lost friend.
So wet, he’d dedicate all of his swim training to you.
His other hand tightens around your scalp, digging into the roots of your hair as he adds another finger, stretching you open, breaking you in.
He hates that he waited seven weeks to do this.
He hates that you have him so undone without ever saying a word to him.
And he hates that he double-knotted his swim shorts this morning.
Bucky stands up. And with just as much mercy as he had shown your poor swimsuit bottoms, he snaps the flimsy string of his in half with a grunt.
You had spent weeks wondering what he looked like beneath his shorts, imagining just how well endowed he was from the glimpses of his lap.
You’ve seen him walk around before, seen the heavy bulge push against the seams in a way that someone would only notice if they were really looking.
And even with your face pushed down and eyes squeezed shut, you don’t need to see him to know the reality of the situation, to feel it.
Just like the rest of him, his cock is huge.
You would’ve been an idiot to assume otherwise, and yet when the blunt head prods at your folds like fingers in a filing cabinet, your face almost immediately twists in a wince.
With pulsing veins running up the sides like tinsel on a Christmas tree, and precum drooling from the tip like it was mocking your mouth—God, do you wish you could see.
Bucky bends at the knees, withdrawing his fingers from your cunt and wrapping it around his cock.
The flat of his palm mixes your slick with his, and he’s no longer able to differentiate where he starts and you end.
“Come on, sweetheart,”
He taunts, voice so deep and gruff that you feel it in your chest.
His hand leaves your head, dragging down the exposed skin of your back and finding solace in the dip of your waist.
He squeezes the soft flesh, a reminder.
You’re here. Not ten feet away, no longer staring from afar, no more thinking that would keep you safe.
Bucky feeds an inch into you, pressing his lips into a thin line at the vice grip you’ve already got on him. He swallows hard, you do the same.
“Let me in, yeah?”
He asks, like it was up to you at all.
You clench around the head, it stays still. Not quite inside, but definitely not out. Purgatory, he decides.
And he needs Heaven, can’t go back to the Hell you’ve put him through for the past two months.
Both of his hands grip your sides tight, leaving divots in your skin like his steps left in the sand.
The slide is brutal. It’s allowing, but unwilling to give in just yet. He’s panting behind you, choking back groans and grunts with every inch your cunt permits entry to.
When he’s finally, finally buried as deep as you let him, the both of you let out sounds that neither of you are sure belong to who.
Huffs leave your mouth, warming the plastic of the table as his hips stay right against your ass. He tries to be still, even if you don’t deserve it.
But he can’t, not after waiting this long already. Your insides scorch impossibly hot, and for once he doesn’t mind a little sunburn.
Pulling back, he drags his cock out of you, moaning low in his throat at how your hole doesn’t let him.
Bucky had already used his ‘lose his cool’ card once, when he had decided to abandon his shift and bring you here. So logically, that meant he wouldn’t do it again, right?
Wrong.
“‘m sorry, sweetheart.”
The apology is muttered out, like he knows it’s a lie. He’s not sorry in the slightest bit. He couldn’t possibly be, not with you wrapped so tight around him it’s making him lightheaded.
His hands readjust their grip on your waist, pinkies lifting your hips the slightest bit as he pulls your ass flush against the patch of hair that blooms from his v-line.
And he slides in slowly, driving home with a throaty groan. He fills you to the brim, and there’s still an inch or two of his cock that he still can’t manage to fit inside.
But he tries, oh, does he try.
Bucky digs his fingernails into your plump, soft skin, thrusting in and out of you at an already brutal pace. The push and pull of his cock is unforgiving, rejecting the apology that you’d never give to him anyway.
He’s horribly impatient in the way he lifts you off the table just to drag you onto him, using your drooling pussy as an outlet for the frustration you instilled in him.
Your eyes squeeze shut as a string of shaky moans flood from your mouth like an oil spill. Your hands curled into fists on the table, trying to grip the plastic to no avail.
His teeth grit as he leans over you, driving his cock deeper and deeper into you with every heavy push of his body. He lets out a growl every time his hips meet the reddened skin of your ass.
You feel the brush of his whistle against your back with every cant of his hips, swinging back and forth against the sweat-slicked skin like a mockery of his job.
And when he decides it just isn’t enough anymore, he leans down fully to press his front right against your back. The smell of your sunscreen and sweat makes him groan as he reaches an arm up to wrap around your neck.
You let out a gasp as you writhe in his hold, and he shushes you immediately as he squeezes tighter.
“None of that, don’t you fucking dare.”
It’s a threat that’s more than warranted, and he’s willing to do or say whatever he can to keep you here—tucked between his bicep and forearm, using the grip as leverage to fuck into you harder with every thrust.
Your cunt clenches, and his rhythm falters.
He can’t believe he’s this close to blowing his load inside you already.
His legs are shaking almost as uncontrollably as yours, and he feels slightly less embarrassed to know you’re just as close as he is.
With his mouth right next to your ear, you can hear every gut-wrenching, lung-bursting groan that forces itself from the depths of his soul.
It’s animalistic in the way he fucks you like it’s instinct, with nothing else on his mind other than to breed you, to make you his for good.
“Babe—”
Bucky chokes off, and every thrust grows sloppier than the last.
Your stomach is in knots, and a familiar, buzzing feeling gathers in between your legs. You clenched impossibly tighter around him, and he loses it right then and there.
With a guttural, gravely moan, he buries himself right against your cervix and spills. His cock pulses inside you, and you feel every contraction of the tight skin against your walls.
He pumps you full of his hot release, spurting the thick liquid in droves and coating your insides.
It leaks from around his shaft, dripping out of your cunt and down the backs of your thighs. He doesn’t want to leave, but he’s sure if he didn’t now then he never would.
He’s dazed, nearly tripping over his feet as he pulls out of you and flips you over.
For a moment, he just stands there and pants. His eyes are hooded and his pupils are almost entirely blown out.
When you lift yourself up on your forearms, you follow his line of sight all the way down to your hole. You can’t see yourself, not nearly as much as he can.
It’s slightly wider than before, and he’s in awe at the fact that he stretched you that good, broke you in so hard that you were gaping for him.
And it’s full of him, his cum, his mark, his claim on you.
The thick, white substance coats and spills from your pussy slowly, like it was giving him time to admire the sight.
Bucky licks his lips, swallowing like he could already imagine what you tasted like right now. You see the puff in his chest, the unbridled need and insatiable desire that plagued him.
He takes a step forward, reaching a tentative hand out towards your body like he hadn’t been inside it just moments ago.
He presses hard and deep against your clit, tucking his fingertip underneath the sensitive hood with each and every rub.
You were still so sensitive, cunt clenching and clit throbbing with every tortuous circle of his thumb.
A whimper forces its way out of you, thighs tightening up and trembling around his hand.
Bucky looks down at you, mouth slightly ajar and soft puffs coming out. And he watches you—watches the way your cunt flutters around nothing, pushing out his release onto the table.
What he wouldn’t do to keep it inside you, make it take, seep right into every fiber of your cervix.
He’d be so good to you. Finish college, find a nice, real job.
And you haven’t spoken a single word to him this entire time, yet each time he looks deep into your eyes, he can see his future so clearly.
Three pairs of shoes at the door at all times, all different sizes. His dress shoes, your high heels, a pair of light-up sketchers.
Two sets of keys hung right in the foyer—just thinking about the jingling sound of metal has him moaning into the space between you two.
One bed he’d share with you. He’s never been a fan of shopping, but he’s confident he’d spend hours looking for the exact thread count and pattern of bedsheets you wanted if you asked him to come with.
Bucky hopes, and he prays that you’re not on the pill. That you want this just as much as he does.
He hopes that one of these last few weekends he’s still working, you’ll come up to his lifeguard chair with a sheepish look on your face and a positive pregnancy test clutched in your small hands.
It’s selfish, he thinks. You have a perfect life, the kind that allows you to afford such high-end sunglasses and spend your weekends at the beach.
And he wants to ruin it all.
He wants you bedridden, breasts swelling and back aching, whining for him to rub your feet.
The image he’s created of you in his head dissipates as you let out a soft, choked breath, bringing him back to a reality where he only has you in his moment.
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can feel the nagging heaviness at the back of his throat that’s begging to be let out, the pressure behind his eyes that threatens to spill over.
He wants to draw this out as long as he can, have you writhing beneath him and holding your pleasure in his hands.
But much to his dismay, it only takes him one finger and a pussy full of his cum to get you to fall over the edge. You force the rest of it out, it pools at his feet.
Your eyes roll back and your mouth drops open in a silent cry, hands reaching out to dig into the tanned flesh of his forearms.
He hoped you'd do the same when you were laying in the delivery room, legs hitched up the same way they were around his waist, screaming and crying just like you were right now.
His cock twitches at the thought.
When you’re past the height of it, he swallows your moans like it was his only sustenance, calloused thumb still guiding you through your orgasm as he messily slots his lips between yours.
He’s ruined the sweet tinted gloss you have on your lips, and he’d spend every last penny of his paycheck buying you more tubes if it meant he could lick it off every single night.
You come down from your orgasm like it’s a rude awakening. You’re completely naked, cunt and thighs sticky with cum that was equal parts his and yours.
You just fucked some twenty-something year old guy just because he couldn’t take the fact that you were making eyes at him.
The worst part is–you’d do it again.
Keep on meeting him here until it wasn’t a coincidence, until strangers turned into something more than that.
Bucky breaks the kiss with a hard sigh, like it physically pained him to pull away. It seemed the reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him as well.
Wobbling to your feet, you walk on shaking knees over to where he had discarded your garments. Picking up the mess of expensive fabric and thick strings, you let out a soft huff.
It’s a sad sight, but you can’t be mad, not with the last drops of his cum leaking down your legs and your mind so fuzzy you can barely see.
You give him two fifty dollar bills that you had tucked in the inserts of your bikini top.
Bucky didn’t think girls actually did that.
Handing over the money, you tell him to buy you a cheap bathing suit from the boardwalk with half, and a Plan B from the convenience store down the road with the other.
So you weren’t on birth control.
Now he's more than happy to oblige, pulling up his swim shorts that he’s selfishly kept mostly intact. The strings are torn in all sorts of ways, and the waistband sits loose on his hips.
Peeking his head out the break room door, he sees that the beach is just how he left it. Although he’s not sure how he’s supposed to return to work after this.
But he follows your directions without a question, walking through the hot sand with balls that were much emptier than when he first saw you.
He picks out a hot pink bikini for you, not nearly as expensive as the one he had ripped off your body, but it’d work.
He hands the cashier the first fifty, placing the bikini on the counter and a glass bottle of soda to make up some of the difference.
And he knows exactly where the convenience store is, he goes there every break to buy lunch.
But he tells the cashier to ‘keep the change’, and walks right back where he left you, leaking and aching with traces of his cum.
Bucky pockets the other fifty, smirking to himself as he readies his lie for you, ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Must’ve dropped it somewhere on the boardwalk.’
It’s half-assed, and no sensible person would believe it. But he’s hoping you’d humor him, nod and thank him anyways.
You’d slip on your new bathing suit, smooth over the mess of your hair, and walk out the door with a blush on your cheeks and your eyes finally kept to yourself.
You’d go home, drown yourself in work for the week, forget all about making that short trip to the drugstore to buy that tiny pill.
One day of forgetting would pass, then three, and then suddenly the five day safeguard was over—and it’d be too late.
What a shame that’d be.
Bucky hopes that by the sixth day—and every day after that, he’d see you again.
warnings: grief, dead wife (you), undisclosed cause of death, bucky misses you so much.
a/n: twas listening to strangers and got sad. inspired just by the vibes from the song, bucky does not eat you.
You haunted him, plagued his every thought like a virus.
You were eating him from the inside out, and he missed you more than anything.
The ride back home from your funeral is silent, and so were the days that followed.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months he no longer cared to keep track of.
There was a calendar pinned to the kitchen wall, but he refused to touch it. He needed to keep the house the same as you left it.
Bucky was doing everything he could to keep you here. To remember you in a world that had already moved on.
He wanted nothing more than to be stuck with you, but time was unforgiving, and so was grief.
You haunted him, plagued his every thought like a virus.
You were eating him from the inside out, and he missed you more than anything.
Midnight was the only time he ever felt fine. He hoped that sleeping away the numbness would allow it to pass, but when he woke up to an empty bed and a quiet house, he’s back to square one.
He finds himself at a crossroads every time he passes the bedroom. On one hand, he wanted to leave your side of the bed untouched, but on the other, your scent was fading, and he didn’t know what he’d do once he forgot it.
You left a bottle of acetone open on the bathroom counter, and even if he hates the smell, he can’t bring himself to close it. Your fingerprints were still on it. He hates watching the liquid slowly evaporate.
Your husband spends hours practicing your handwriting, looking through every grocery list and page in your phonebook to try and replicate the way you wrote.
He didn’t care if it wasn’t perfect, he just needed to read ‘i love you,’ in your writing one more time.
And he wishes he could tell you about his day one more time. Even if he spent every hour sitting in his old recliner and staring at the wall, he knew you’d listen with a smile on your face.
Pictures don’t do you justice, and he wants to punch every mirror he passes when he’s looking at himself and you’re not standing behind him.
You had broken a heart that only you had managed to fix in the first place.
His mother had come over the other day to help him clean up. She accidentally washed the plate you had your last meal on.
Bucky cried the entire night.
He felt like a fraud in his own home, pretending everything was fine and that he belonged here. But the truth was that he didn’t belong anywhere you weren’t.
Every day spent and wasted without you felt like disrespect. It left a bad taste in his mouth to walk around while you wouldn’t ever again.
He envied the earth, the crops that grew beside you, the wood that protected your body.
Nothing was the same, and nothing ever would be.
Bucky would spend his Sunday afternoons alone at the grocery store, trying his hardest to carry you with him.
He’d take too much time picking out tomatoes like you would, he’d look through every aisle like he didn’t already know what was in each one, and he’d pick up your favorite pastry just to feel the slightest bit closer to you.
And when he’d go home and carefully flip through the pages of your homemade cookbook, he’d follow every single step you’d written down.
Still, the food didn’t taste the same.
It never did, and it never will.
But when he goes to sleep with a full stomach, in warm linen sheets and a room that smelled like your perfume—he believes things are normal, that you’re still here.
warnings: 18+ mdni, frequent mention of guns but no use, age gap (r!20s + b!40s), father figure bucky, daddy kink + use of papa once, fear kink, fingers in mouth, vaginal fingering, oral f receiving, spit swapping, mentions of branding, undertones of cnc but everything is consensual, bucky is kinda gross in this, he calls you ‘kid’ once.
a/n: sorry
“You want Daddy to get you a real gun?”
He asks, lifting the lace edge of your dress to rest on your hip. He’s not looking at you, but you keep your eyes on him.
“No.”
“Teach you how to shoot properly?”
“No.”
When Bucky had moved you out to the countryside, there were a multitude of things that you had to get used to.
The hot water would occasionally turn off.
The bugs outside would only grow louder as the weather grew warmer.
And this wasn’t at all like the city where the closest police station was a five minute walk away. Your nearest neighbors lived ten minutes away by car, and the town was even farther.
Bucky insisted on the secluded location, said it was good for safety.
But the day he handed you a Red Ryder rifle “just in case”, makes you doubt that severely.
He called it ‘Daisy’, and you giggled to yourself, thinking it was just a cute name for the gun.
He shook his head, cute.
In your defense, you didn’t think you’d ever get a chance to use it. Or at least you’d hoped.
It was tucked underneath your side of the bed, covered by the white lace bedskirt that you insisted you needed, or else you ‘wouldn’t be able to sleep’.
Whatever. He didn’t care, got it for you the first time you asked.
Because Bucky took care of you, in ways that you would’ve spent years trying and failing to find in dozens of other men.
You always felt safe and cherished with him, never having to worry about what was for dinner—he took care of that every night.
Or what to wear to the town’s first church service of the season—he’d have your favorite dress washed, dried, and ironed before you could even ask.
It was rare that you ever felt fear.
But with Bucky away at the hardware store, and a strange creaking noise coming from downstairs, you couldn’t pull the bedskirt up fast enough.
The weight of the gun felt wrong in your double clutched hands, wrapping around wood, metal, wherever you thought looked intimidating enough to whoever was breaking in.
Now, you know you were supposed to stay in the bedroom until Bucky came home. He said he’d only be a few hours, and he didn’t need you running around without his supervision.
Usually, you listened. But the pounding of wood against a heavy body grew louder as you descended the stairs, and that was the only thing you could hear right now.
It was coming from the backdoor. Bucky never used that door, said it was just as useless as the side door.
You’re questioning why he bought you a house with so many doors.
You swallow hard, readjusting the rifle in your hands like it’d somehow make a difference.
Bucky—who was in fact using the backdoor, was oblivious to the little gun show you were putting on inside.
He had bought about a dozen bags of pellets for the heater inside, and none of the obnoxiously big bags fit on the front porch.
But due to the fact that you were right, that he never used the backdoor, it was jammed shut from the winter’s frost.
So he pushed, and he shoved, and eventually the poor wooden door gave in with a cry and swung open with a crack.
You point the snout of the rifle at him, fingers shaking horribly and hands in all the wrong places.
Your eyes were blown wide, jaw clenched so tight he’s sure that it’d click when you opened it next.
Bucky holds his hands up, more amused than placating as he smirks.
“Hey,”
He says softly. He takes a big step towards you, like he was beckoning a fawn he knew couldn’t outrun him.
“It’s just papa.”
You’re lucky he’s not an actual intruder, because your pointer finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger, and even if you tried to shoot, you’d end up breaking a window.
And even though now you know it’s just him, you’ve still got him forced two feet away. You still haven’t lowered the rifle.
He lets out a huff.
“You been playing with Daddy’s guns?”
He grabs the muzzle, nearly smacking it out of your hands with the force.
He knows it’s not one of his, he can tell by the look and weight of it. And you know better than to touch his shit, anyway.
But you looked just as terrified as if you had been caught with his most expensive carbine.
And you look so cute—scared out of your mind and shaking in those fuzzy slippers he bought you last week—that Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell you it’s not a real gun.
And he certainly can’t tell you that he didn’t even get you the adult version of the BB gun.
“Told you to stay in your room ‘til I’m home, kid.”
Lifting the toy gun out of your hands, he gives it a shake. A rattling noise fills the house, the sound mocks the fact that you had thought it was real, and that you were still scared shitless.
Bucky throws it to the side, letting it fall to the wooden floorboards with a crash.
You flinch.
He smiles.
His thumb reaches out to slip into your mouth, pressing against your frenulum like he was lipping a fish.
He tastes like ash, a grainy feel against your tongue. The skin of the finger is rough and calloused, years of hard work all for you.
And he loves you more than anything, but god, he loves scaring you more.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
His words melt into one another, the drawl of his voice failing to soothe you the way it normally would.
You want to tell him yes, something is wrong. He scared you half to death, and your heart is pounding against your ribcage.
But you don’t, he already knows, he wouldn’t ask otherwise.
Bucky pries your mouth wide, and just like he expected, your jaw opens with a click.
Your tastebuds pulse against his fingerprint, a soft noise spilling from your lips as he pushes his thumb further into your warm mouth.
“Y’really think I’d let anyone get you?”
It’s a question, undeniably. But you know better than to answer.
He’d never give anyone else the privilege of frightening you like this.
He had you here for a reason.
Safety, of course.
“Bite.”
His voice drops an octave, the command simple and familiar.
Your teeth slowly reveal themselves, encasing the skin and bone of his thumb as he inspects the rows. You don’t bite hard.
You know better.
“Good.”
And you release, like a well-trained dog with her bite inhibition all in place.
Bucky pulls his thumb out, watching the thin trails of saliva drag from your lips.
He lifts it to his own mouth, licking, sucking, savoring.
He swallows, and you do too.
“Did I scare you, baby?”
He asks, leaning down to grab your face and lift your cheeks in his grip. You feel the wetness against your skin, and he rubs it in like you deserve to be dirty.
You nod like you’re unsure, but you know it’s the truth and the answer he wants to hear.
“Words.”
He reminds you.
“Yes.”
He hums, the fond kind that blooms deep in his chest.
A pained wince squeaks from you as he squeezes harder, just to curl into the ridges of your teeth through your flesh.
“‘m sorry, baby.”
He whispers out the falsehood, and you know better than to believe it’s an apology. He’s not sorry, and he never will be as long as you keep acting this way.
When he lets go of your face, the skin rises from where his fingers dug into you. He wishes the marks would stay.
He wishes he could brand you, just to hear the way you cry out for him, to see the tears that pour just for him.
Bucky lifts you like he lifts the pellets, careful as to not rip them, but rough enough because he knows they can take it.
He lowers you onto the dinner table, the wooden legs wobbling beneath you. He lays you flat, holds a hand under your head so you don’t hurt yourself.
“You want Daddy to get you a real gun?”
He asks, lifting the lace edge of your dress to rest on your hip. He’s not looking at you, but you keep your eyes on him.
“No.”
“Teach you how to shoot properly?”
“No.”
Bucky sighs, thumbing over the swell of your clit through your soft cotton panties. You clench, he groans.
You’re sensitive; It’s been days since he last touched you.
He makes you wait. But it’s harder for him than it is for you.
You’re always wearing those little dresses, walking around the house he bought for you, the house he feeds you in, bathes you in, and loves you in.
And he wants nothing more than to keep you in bed all day, bolt the door shut so neither of you can leave, press your face down into the bedsheets until they’re soaked with your tears and you can’t breathe through your nose anymore.
He doesn’t.
He’s deliberate, disciplined.
“Think you’d do good with a derringer.”
Bucky notes, like you had any idea what that was.
His index finger hooks under the gusset of your underwear, barely noticeable in the way his breath hitches.
“It’s small, cute.”
He whispers to himself, but you’re listening. Always are.
Your cunt leaks, drips down your perineum and stains the fabric of your panties.
A finger drags along your folds, reverent in the way it touches you. Your slick fills the cracks of his fingerprint.
“They make ‘em in pink.”
He adds, and he knows he’s just taunting you at this point.
You didn’t care if they were pink, purple, red—you weren’t the kind of girl who carried a gun.
“I don’t want it.”
You cried.
“You don’t want it?”
He echoes with feigned concern, and you shake your head with tears in your eyes.
His middle finger joins the other, rubbing your cunt and spreading your mess. You swallow your sounds, only letting out the soft whines he knew you couldn’t hold back.
“Well baby, that’s not up to you.”
Bucky sinks the digits into you, letting out a grunt at the tightness he missed so much. His insides ache; the pressure in his cock growing unbearable.
The stretch burns like it always does after a few days. It’s supposed to, he’d tell you.
You pull him in so eagerly, like he hasn’t taught you to be his patient girl.
The air fills with a crude squelching sound that your cunt keeps on making, like a cassette with its tape snagged in the player.
He curls the fingers upwards, reaching so deep that his knuckles press into your thighs. He’s looking for that spot, the one that always makes you cry so pretty and gush so hard.
When he’s found it he’ll know, because you can never keep shut for long after.
Your mouth drops in a breathless, panicked moan. The kind that you let out when you’re so overwhelmed you start to worry a little, because you know you can’t escape it.
Bucky never lets you, either.
He rams his fingers in and out of your hole, brushing and stamping against your spot with an unforgiving intensity.
He lowers his knees to the ground and his mouth to your clit, taking it in between his warm, wet lips and sucking.
Your sweet taste spreads along his tastebuds, and he groans into your mound. The scent of you is like nothing he’s ever imagined could exist.
It makes him dizzy with every inhale, and he just can’t stop. He’s breathing so heavy like the next one would be his last.
He licks your folds with a reverence that you’re expected to show him, because he loves you so fucking much that he’s willing to bend his own rules.
You try your hardest to stay still, to not thrash and writhe and mess up the table runner he’s put out.
But he was making you feel just as good as he always did. His tongue alternates between swirling around your sensitive bud, to joining his fingers buried deep inside your pretty pussy.
And you cry. Tears pour from your eyes as you squeeze them shut, hips lifting ever so slightly to press up into his tongue.
Incoherent babbles spill from your mouth, and he feels the tension in your body before you can.
“Sweetheart,”
The name pulls you back to consciousness, and your eyes open to meet his above you. One hand is still nestled deep inside you, and the one plants firmly beside your head.
You’ve glossed him from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his chin, a thin layer of your warm slick coating the stubbled skin.
“Hi, baby.”
His voice lowers into something more genuine, nothing of the taunts and teases he had been throwing your way earlier.
“Think you can cum for me?”
If you weren’t so debauched right now, maybe you would’ve laughed at the irony of it.
You’d do anything he asked you to, especially this.
You nod, swallowing hard and turning over to wrap your arms around his forearm. You can smell the worn out leather of his brown jacket as you hug him, and it only makes the coil in your stomach wind up tighter.
Bucky keeps on pressing deep, the slow stroke of his fingers coaxing you to come on, baby.
Your thighs lock up tight around his hand, feeling every muscle in your legs stretch and strain as your back arches off the table.
He watches you the entire time, the way your face contorts and your jaw unhinges. How beautiful you sound when nothing but cries and whimpers fall from your mouth.
And he feels you.
The sticky warmth that coats his fingers, the drooling wetness that pools in his palm.
“Knew you could do it,”
He cherishes your release like he cherishes his crops, expectant of harvest and grateful for abundance.
Your hips lift off wood, slowly, slowly grinding upwards on his hand. His fingers inside move with every small thrust, holding you through it and letting you know that “Daddy’s here..”
He’d whisper.
Shushing your cries, cooing at your mewls.
He’d slowly draw his fingers out of you, smoothing your dress back over your hips.
You’re too disoriented to watch him take the digits into his mouth, licking them clean like it was ritual. Frighten, worship, feed.
With a tender kiss to your forehead, he carefully lifts you up and off the table. Your head tucked into the crook of his neck, and your legs wrapped on either side of his waist.
Bucky carries you to the bedroom, and you cry the entire way there.
But he’s with you the entire time that tears spill from your eyes, tucking you into the soft sheets, fluffing your pillow like a good man would.
“You need anything else, baby?”
He asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and wiping at your flushed cheeks.
You shake your head.
And so Bucky turns off the lights, closes the curtains, and leaves the room, making sure to lock the door once he’s on the other side.
He stands there for a few moments, pressing his ear against the wood and listening.
warnings: 18+, mdni, college!bucky, sub!bucky, male masturbation, fantasizing, bucky is pathetic, mentions of sleep-aid use, bucky is a yearner!! you're literally his dream girl, lowkey sad
a/n: very, very!!!! loosely inspired by the song NPC by Cavetown. like the song has nothing to do with this at all.
Your mind cannot create faces or people, if you see someone in your dreams, it means they are real.
God, did he hope they were right.
He remembers the RC car on the Christmas catalogue, he circled it in bright red pen as a kid.
He remembers the first paycheck he got as a teenager, how he saved up for the skateboard he saw in a shop window.
All of his life, Bucky has wanted, and he has gotten.
He wasn’t spoiled, but he always got what he asked for. He wishes he could take it all back now.
Because none of it ever compared to now, when there was only one thing he wanted.
You.
But an RC car and a skateboard were tangible—real.
You were not.
He had met you in a dream once, months ago. Ever since then he’s been taking more naps, going to bed earlier, buying more bottles of melatonin.
Anything to see you again.
No blog post about seeing faces in your dreams went unread. They all said the same thing:
Your mind cannot create faces or people, if you see someone in your dreams, it means they are real.
God, did he hope they were right.
Bucky saw you in his sleep, he saw you when he’d close his eyes to wash his hair.
But that was the only time. And it was driving him crazy.
Because the truth is; He misses you.
He misses you every hour he's awake, every hour he's forced away from you. He’s afraid if he stays up for too long, eventually he’d forget what you looked like.
He draws you every chance he gets; sketching out the curve of your nose, every wrinkle in your lips, the emptiness in your eyes.
Bucky thinks about you when he’s in class, when he’s driving to work, and when he’s forced to watch his peers enjoy the company of one another.
Everyone else his age has someone, even if it's a one-night-stand or a long-term relationship, the common denominator is someone.
But in the solace of his room, away from anything and anyone real, he closes his eyes and thinks about you again. A smile spreads across his face as he greets you, a warm, sickly feeling pools at the base of his chest.
The moment you smile back is when his hand runs down his chest, his touch light and gentle. He’s pretending it’s you. Because you’d treat him so well, the way he deserved, he knows.
Your palm is warm against him, rubbing and caressing the bulge in his sweats. His head tips back, a breathless moan slipping from his parted lips.
“Sensitive..”
He’d whisper to you, only opening his eyes in his dreams.
When your fingers slip beneath the waistband of elastic, he’d gasp just like he always did when you touched him this way.
You were always so careful with him, and he wants nothing more than to thank you.
Thank you for how you wrap your fingers around his cock, spreading the beads of precum around the head and running your fingernail through the leaking slit. Thank you for how you always come to visit him, no matter what time it is.
One day he’ll get to, he’s sure of it.
His fist twists up and down his length, feeling every bump and ridge and wishing you could too. The skin of his balls tightens with every slick pass of his palm, and he dreads for this moment to be over so soon.
Bucky’s head tosses and turns against his pillow, back arching off the worn out bedsheets, hips thrusting into his hand like he knows how to do nothing else.
It feels too good to stop, both getting himself off and continuing to see you. He can't stop, not when that meant he'd spend the rest of his life looking for you in other girls, in the shadows between buildings, and in the empty dreams that'll always be missing you.
His other hand clamps over his mouth, and he lets a few whines slip from the cracks of his fingers, because he knows you like that. He just wants to make you happy, to be everything for you that you can't for him.
And he’s making a mess of his sweatpants, still hiked over his hips even as he fucks his fist. He’d imagine you would pull them down slowly, letting the cool autumn air brush over his wet cock.
You’d lean down to whisper in his ear, smoothing his tussled brown hair out of his face. You’d tell him that he doesn’t have to hide from you, because you never hid from him.
He feels safe here, with you, and nowhere else.
Because you were kind. You were familiar in a way that nothing else in his life was. You were a constant, something that he always, always had to look forward to.
You’re familiar like the ache in his abdomen, like the curling of his toes in his soft white socks, and the orgasm that rips through him like tillage in a flower field.
When he opens his eyes, you’re gone. You always are.
The spot next to him in bed is empty, and not even the crumple of bedsheets is left behind in your wake.
His grey shirt is stained with cum, and you’re not here to help him clean up.
He wants to cry. And some nights, he does. He curls into the unused case of your pillow, taking deep breaths in like he’s hopeful one of these inhales he’ll catch your scent.
There always comes a point in the night where the logical, sensible part of his mind tells himself that you’re not real, and that you never will be.
He knows the day will come when he thinks about it for longer than a few seconds, where he comes to terms with the fact that he’ll never see you, when he has to say goodbye to you.
But for now, he’d sleep.
He’d take another melatonin gummy.
He’d chew it like it wasn’t bitter in his mouth.
Because he knew being reunited with you would be so much sweeter.
a/n: thank you for reading my first post! all comments, notes, feedback are appreciated!!
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