the amount of descriptors y’all add before bucky’s name when indicating it’s a bucky x reader fic these days is so funny. it’ll be like “ceo!mobster! dbf! needy! dark! ex! beefy! soft!bucky x reader” like damn this guy has a real diverse portfolio, very niche
Summary: Bucky is inadvertently trapped in a time loop without any memory of the last five years, including his relationship with you. But you would do anything, if it meant getting to stay by his side. (alternate to Looped where the reader loses their memory)
Pairing: Bucky X Reader
Word Count: ~16k
Warnings: memory loss, angst, anxiety, Bucky in love
A/N: Companion piece to Looped! You can read this without reading Looped. This was a labor to write but so so fun. Please let me know what you think!
The first time you see Bucky, you think he is a person you would like to crack open. He is a story. He is the truth of the universe. He is the marrow of your bones.
Here is the person your soul has been calling to all your life.
He’s quiet and kind and believes that he is broken.
The first day you saw him, he had lifted his eyes from the floor to meet yours, only for a moment, and you had smiled.
You ask for nothing from him, watching and waiting for weeks until you happen to catch him wandering along alone one day and convince him to come outside with you, to walk with you.
To breathe in the new spring air and talk.
Something kinders inside you, tugs you by your heartstrings in his direction.
A silly little crush, because he’s beautiful and quiet and strange, like the first footprint on newly fallen snow.
This is a crush, you tell yourself, you crush on almost everyone.
But this crush, it's one that doesn’t go away and you always think back to that feeling, like you each held two ends of the same sting, like you both had been unconsciously tugging at it all your life.
You’re happy, burst through with pride and self-satisfaction, to find Bucky is drawn to you too, that he lets you draw him away from the stifling and sometimes sterile interior of the compound to take a walk and chat.
Or, rather, listen to you talk.
Bucky, those first few weeks, is silent as a tomb, only making passing comments that you suspect he only voices because they make you laugh. You have never seen a person look so warmed to garner a laugh from an offhand comment.
Like your laugh could sustain him.
But that is how you find out that Bucky is like a plant, that he absorbs until he’s full to bursting, until it's dangerous and rot might set in. Over time, you find ways to draw him out, to prod gently against bruised flesh until the words burst free from him. Gradually, he begins to talk with you, rather than letting you talk at him.
You do most of the talking that first day, but you don’t mind.
Because he smiles at you, when you haven’t seen him smile at anyone.
Because he offers you a hand so you can balance along the few stones that line the shore of the lake.
You’d gushed to Natasha that evening, who hadn’t said much at all, but instead smiled at you like she already knew a secret that you could not begin to guess at.
But you had gotten him that day, plucked him up like a forgotten stone in your path, considered him yours however he turned out to be yours. You knew that maybe he would only ever be your friend, that maybe he would only ever be a co-worker. But that was okay with you, because you got to know him, just a little bit.
Bucky was an added soul to your collection, a fragment of star dust that you would never let harm befall. Whether friend, or something more, or walking partner on quiet spring evenings.
He is yours, that you know.
But none of that matters.
What matters is that he smiles at you, always. What matters is that he seeks you out the next day and asks you what you’re reading.
You remember the desperation in his eyes when he realized he was late to therapy, that you had made him late. You’d thought he would be nervous, but all he had said was will you still be here in an hour?
What matters is that he not only asks you what you’re reading that day, but goes out of his way to find his own copy of your books.
Just so he can read them too, just so he can talk to you about something that is not himself.
He brings you colorful pens and sticky tabs and post-its that were probably stolen from someone’s office, when he notices your annotations in the margins of your book. You notice that he starts to do the same, careful chicken scrawl blacking out the sides of each page.
But you don’t care.
Because what matters is that he has chosen you too, exactly how you are.
What matters is that he suggests you start reading together, to save some paper, of course, when you’re reading the same thing. Why not read it together? From the very same pages?
What matters is that his thigh touches yours when he moves closer over a period of months that draws you together like there really was a string tied between you, that both of you were constantly tugging on.
Bucky even reads out loud for you, voice rumbling to a stop whenever anyone else enters the room, brows pulling together in irritation, like you were a bubble he lived inside and hated to see popped.
Bucky is like the silence of a forest in spring, quiet and watchful.
He’s gentle and kind like a burst of sunshine.
But his reading voice is strong as an oak, gruff and deep. Sometimes you worry he’ll just lull you to sleep.
He laughs softly, speaks slowly. He lets Sam rib him and Steve worry like the mother hen he is.
He is life and strength flitting between the branches of trees after a long winter, dappled sunlight on the edge of a sea.
The way he leaned close to you, carefully drifting closer over weeks until his thigh pressed against yours, made you want to know everything about him.
Maybe you’ve been in love with that quiet strength from the first time you met him, hesitant and unsure, newly healed mind sticky with memories like pine needles stuck together with sap.
The cracked pieces of his mind were healing slowly, and you refused to do anything that might hinder him in any way. You watched him struggle and suffer to get better, to sew himself back together.
You were happy to be there for it.
You love him all the same for it, maybe more.
It was never your goal to coax him into more than he was willing to give. You’d have been his friend for the rest of time if he let you, though you’d glowed with warmth that day at Coney Island when he kissed you.
Unexpected and terrifying.
And yet so welcome.
The fear had bled into something more potent, a determination to give all of yourself over to him while you could. When he realized that you were nothing and only loved you for your nearness and nothing else, you’d be happy to have gotten to push him out into the open world, so he could find the trueness of love that he most definitely deserved.
But fuck, are you glad to have him, to call him yours.
It's only after years of friendship that you find out that his arms are like the solidity of an ancient forest, that he tastes like honeydew in spring, that his skin is firm and soft under careful lips, that the give of his skin is like salt on your tongue.
Bucky finds safety with you, finds you tart and sweet in a way that you can’t understand, in a way that makes the tension drain from his face, his eyes go soft.
It almost embarrasses you, how much love he wears on his face.
Because you know he thinks he hides it well, that he wears a mask that conceals all he has ever felt, but you see it and you know.
Maybe you always knew you did not deserve all those moments, and so when Bucky loses his memories again, it feels like the universe laughing at you.
A grand practical joke years in the making, to rip the stitches out of your side and make you bleed, because despite telling yourself that when Bucky moved on from you, you would let it happen with grace -
You find out that that is not true.
You want to keep him.
You do not want to lose him. You want to sit in the rays of his sunshine for the rest of your life, you want to listen to the breathing of the quiet forest that lived inside him.
If the universe dared rip him from you, if it dared to rip and tear and take.
Well.
It would not do so without you ripping and tearing and taking back.
~
Normally, usually, when the team goes on a mission, you stay back at the compound, where you are in no danger of anything, securely tucked away in safety. You are not an Avenger, you’re only an intel analyst that, by a stroke of good fortune, ended up working for Stark.
But Natasha was gone, on a mission of her own, and you had volunteered yourself.
Bucky’s protest had been swift and immediate. A growled no that resonated deep inside you, that spoke of a fear that he would never dare voice. Steve hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, Bucky moving in front of you like if he could hide you, Steve would forget your offer.
“I’m trained,” had been your only refrain, a gentle reminder to him that you were not as breakable and fragile as Bucky sometimes liked to believe. You reached out, touched the inside of his wrist and watched his shoulders loosen, the tension in his neck soften into nothing.
The mission goes fine, as you had predicted.
Of course, until the very last moment where you decided to rifle through one last filing cabinet.
Bucky had turned, motioned you away from it, “I’ll do it, sweetheart. C’mere and download whatever is on here.” He had gestured to a computer screen that had just flared to life.
You switched places, your hand drawing away from the brass handle of the drawer you almost opened.
And so you had watched from across the room in horror as a nasty blue vapor blew into his face when he opened the drawer meant for you. He spluttered and wiped a hand across his nose and eyes, shaking his head to clear it away, stumbling away from the drawer.
But now, Bucky is staring at you on the jet back to the compound, his head at a ninety degree angle to keep you in his field of vision, watchful and serious, that little crease between his brows pinched tight just like it had been before the mission.
You reach up again now and smooth your fingers over it, begging silently for the stress to drain from his shoulders, but he remains painfully tense.
Before boarding the jet he’d been staring at you silently, brooding and moody and a little mad. You had only smoothed your thumb against the worried crease between his brows then too. “It’s going to be fine, Bucky.” He had nodded, eyes softening when you smiled at him.
It was a testament to his trust in you that he had not argued with you, that you knew what you could handle and that you knew he would have your back.
“Are you sure you didn’t breathe any of it in?” He asks now, reaching up to take your hand away from his face, to fold your fingers between his and squeeze tightly.
Your belly swoops with the dip of the jet, an uneasiness sitting at the back of your throat. “Bucky, I was on the other side of the room. We should be worried about you for now.”
The line on his forehead still doesn’t go away. “I know,” he says, finally glancing down and away from you, his eyes landing on your intertwined fingers. “I’m worried about you though, doll. I can’t help it.” His voice is quiet and solid, the last protector of some ancient forest, your self dedicated guard.
“We’re going to worry about you first,” you say firmly. “You are the one who breathed in that stuff. You’re going to the medbay as soon as we land.”
Bucky huffs out an irritated breath. “You need to be checked out first,” he says stubbornly. “You were in that room too-,”
“Bucky, honey, it went directly in your face,” you remind him gently, trying not to think about that terrifying blue neon vapor in his eyes, the panic that had immediately spiraled up from your gut. How he had waved you back, told you not to come near him, eyes pinching shut as he shook his head.
And then sneezed.
You aren’t sure you’d ever heard him sneeze before.
It wasn’t like Bucky got sick or had allergies.
The sneeze more than anything had brought worry to the forefront of your mind.
You know that Bucky is still a little bit mad at you for not listening to him when he warned you away from him. You’d leapt across the room despite his protests, cupped his jaw, turned his face so you could look into his eyes, read the dread written in his gaze.
“You are going to the medbay and you will get checked out,” you say again, firm in this.
“I feel fine,” he grumbles, eyes on your hands again. “It's you I’m worried about. Whatever it was probably won’t affect me because of the serum. Nothing does anymore. But you, sweetheart, even being in the room could be enough-,” He stops, glances away from you, a nerve jumping in his jaw as he clenches it.
You squeeze his fingers until he looks back at you, your spring storm, your quiet forest. “Bucky,” you start, leaning in until you can press your nose against his temple, inhale the scent of him, like worry and fear, but underneath that the scent of peach, the scent of you on his skin, the homey smell of him, of pine needles in rain. “What if it had been me?” You ask gently. “Put yourself in my shoes here. What if it had been blown in my face? What would you make me do?”
“Go to medical,” he answers. “I get it, sweetheart. I’ll go. You’re gettin’ checked out too though.”
“Fine. I can live with that. But you are going first.”
You lean your chin against his shoulder then, sighing when he leans against you, the tilt of his head a welcome weight against yours. “Me first,” he agrees, sounding reluctant.
The scent of him overwhelms you, like fresh spring air, rain scented and green.
You tell yourself everything will be okay.
~
When the jet lands, you herd Bucky to the medical wing of the compound, you hold his hand while his blood is drawn and taken away in vials that make you sick to look at.
He clutches your hand, tight but not too tight, thanking you in that strange way of his for staying with him and holding his hand. There’s still an unspoken fear in him that you understand without it being said, a mistrust of needles and prying fingers.
The worry drains away when he meets your gaze, his shoulders dropping, back softening against your hand when you tap your fingers along his spine.
“I know I could never dream up something like you, sweetheart,” he tells you, not looking at Helen as she sticks a bandaid against the inside of Bucky’s elbow. “You remind me that I’m okay. I always know that I’m real when I’m with you.”
You don’t know what to say when he tells you things like that, always random and always said softly, like he’s not sure it's the kind of thing he should say, the kind of thing he should get to feel.
Surprise makes you speechless and you can only pat his cheek, glad that it's only you and him and Helen, who politely ignores you for the moment.
Bucky takes your hand and stands, pushes you down in his seat, “Your turn,” he says firmly, dutifully and carefully rolling up your sleeve in gentle turns until it is above your elbow, before he cups his fingers against your wrist, that comforting gesture between you.
Your blood tests come back normal. Bucky’s come back as normal as they ever are for a hundred year old super soldier. You joke with the medical staff and laugh like you always do, though worry is burning a hole through your belly, through your bones. Bucky seems totally and completely fine.
Steve and Sam, Tony and Bruce, make an appearance to question you about what happened, take the collection tube with a sample of the vapor from you, the hard drive.
Testing the blue vapor will take a little more time to analyze. And the only thing you can do, it seems, is wait.
You are told to rest and watch over Bucky. You are told that there shouldn’t be any danger for the time being.
You want to keep the data, itching to begin sorting through it, to look for any danger lurking in the vapor.
But Bucky tugs on your hand, eager to be away from the sterile medical wing, and you follow easily, because you would follow him anywhere but especially to the safe, cozy nest that is your apartment, that is the circle of his arms.
He so frets over you that you have to remind him time and again that he is the one that has been compromised, that he is the one that needs nurtured and cared for.
Something in him always rebels against it, likes to be the cradler rather than the cradled, likes to be the protector rather than the protected. His agency isn’t compromised if he is those things, he is still in control, still Bucky.
But once you get your arms around him and get him to settle it's almost impossible to move again, he's so entranced by the act and art of being held, of being protected, that being held and protected did not mean that he was lost but found, that he belonged.
This night, he demands you stay together, every moment must be in the other’s presence. He’s watching you, watchful of every move you make, hovering like a new parent, like he’s waiting for you to collapse.
He grouses under his breath, as you have a quick dinner, that they should have done more for you. They should have made you stay in the med wing, they should have swabbed the inside of your nose, they should have run more tests on your blood.
“Bucky,” you chide. “What about you?”
“I don’t matter. I’ll be fine.”
And you know he really believes that, that the serum in his veins stubbornly protected him even when he had wished that it wouldn’t, even when he had begged for it to stop. And so he believes this time will be the same, that he is okay while everything he’s built crumbles around him.
You have no qualms about him keeping you close, have nothing to say about him tugging you into the shower with him and holding you close, hands soft against your skin, breathing in the scent of you. Being together means you can watch him too. You aren’t foolish enough to believe that the tear in the earth did not want to consume your happiness as much as anyone else's. You aren’t naive enough to believe that the universe did not like to see you ripped apart at the seams.
Bucky uses your peach body wash, like dousing himself in the scent of you could protect him from the claws of the future always scratching at his door. But you delight in the pine and rain scent of him, like a forest floor after a spring storm, strong and steady and silent. Like a tree that could never be felled. The scent of him is like home, like safety, and so you’re only a little annoyed at the peach smell that sometimes sticks to his skin.
You never feel safer than when Bucky takes you in his arms, than when he looks at you with such love and affection it feels like a river that will never run dry, will never stop providing to you.
When you’re both clean and soothed that the other is still whole and well, not drifting away like flotsam in the air, you towel off and make a cup of tea.
Bucky wears only a pair of briefs and you slip on your favorite t-shirt of his.
You let Bucky select a movie, patiently asking him if he’d let you rub moisturizer into his skin. He acquiesces, sighing falsely like it’s a great pain to be loved.
You sit behind him on your bed and touch the smooth skin of his back, pay special attention to the puckered skin that runs around his left shoulder, the scars that litter the rest of him like morbid confetti. You press your mouth to the base of his neck and squeeze his fingers when he reaches back to circle your wrist with his fingers.
And you wonder.
What would he be doing now if it had been you?
You have a sinking feeling that it was supposed to have been you.
You should have inhaled that noxious blue vapor.
It should have been you.
Bucky leans back into you, lets you circle your arms around his shoulders and neck, knocks his forehead softly against your jaw when you take a shaky breath, caught up in your own thoughts.
What would Bucky be doing now? If it were you and not him?
Probably exactly the same things you’ve done. Dinner and a shower. Comfort and a favorite movie. Bucky probably would have also made a bowl of popcorn and tucked you in safely next to him, curled around you like he could become the shell of your armor, like he would sacrifice himself to shield you from everything. He would have held you until you fell asleep and stayed up all night watching over you.
You flip the cap closed on the bottle of coconut scented moisturizer and set it on the bedside table, tucking your arms around his head, holding Bucky close instead when he turns in your arms, his head against your chest, solid arms folding around your back. “Lie down, Buck,” you say gently. “Please rest.”
And he would do anything for you, this you know, because that is the kind of person Bucky is, so he relaxes against you so that you can draw the comforter up over both of you, create a warm little nest, blocking out the light of the still flashing television screen, movie already forgotten, mugs of chamomile tea going cold.
“Have I ever told you that I love you?” You whisper, lips brushing his forehead, fitting your arms around the shape of him.
Bucky doesn’t answer.
Instead he hooks his fingers against the curve of your knee and hitches your leg over him, entwining you fully together. You melt under him, slip closer than you deserve to be.
The scent of pine and rain draws over you, bringing you home, reminding you that all is okay and that you are safe, that Bucky is safe.
It reminds you that something like vapor…
was harmless.
~
The first time the loop resets, you find out what it is to have your heart broken.
You understand those stories suddenly, of people dying from a broken heart.
Bucky falls asleep that night and you do not. He falls asleep pressed against your chest, arms tight around you like he could fuse you together, like the pressure of your arms and weight of you beneath him reassured him that he was okay, that you were alive and well after the mission he had been so terrified of.
Somewhere near three in the morning, you brush the short locks of his hair back, kiss his forehead and gently wriggle out of the vise of his arms. It’s a testament to his trust in you that he does not wake up with the movement. You click the TV off and climb out of bed, not able to dispel the feeling that something was about to go horribly awry.
For a moment, you stand and stare at him, at his cheek squished against the pillow, the ever present line in his forehead gone, years taken away from him in sleep, like nothing bad had ever befallen him.
You lean down to whisper your love one more time, to kiss his cheek, the stubble beneath your lips like the rasp of a whisper against your skin.
The world is weighted in your hands and you are suddenly so sure that it's fragile, that it's so breakable and you are the one who’s about to crush it.
You pull away from him hard, stumbling backward, fear sloshing in your belly, a panic that you aren’t sure how to shove down creeping up the back of your throat.
Anxiety bites at your skin, every fear you harbored swimming up to rest in your mouth, make you dizzy with nausea.
What if it was poisonous? What if it was killing him?
You tug on a pair of sweatpants, tucking the sliver of Bucky’s dog tags inside your shirt before you sneak down to the analysts’ offices to grab your computer, hijack the drive with the data you and Bucky had collected and go back to the apartment to set up at your kitchen island.
So you can keep watching over Bucky, so you can stay close to him where you belong, while you begin sorting through the data for the answers to the questions burning at the back of your mind.
What the fuck did Bucky breathe in? What was the blue vapor?
Night turns to morning, the apartment slowly lightening as the sun rises in the east. The windows show well maintained lawns and the fluttering of emerald leaves. The sky is a bright azure blue, the color of Bucky’s eyes.
Your thoughts turn back to him, back to the way he did not care about himself, did not think to preserve himself, like your being okay would not be canceled out if he was not also okay.
The data yields nothing of interest, at least not yet, and you’re just thinking of getting up to stretch and make some breakfast when the bedroom door opens.
The first time the loop resets, you find out what it is to lose everything, to be lost at sea.
Bucky stands in the doorway, bleary eyed with a deep sleep. He looks so soft and warm, you immediately stand up. You want to tug him into you, press your nose to his neck and inhale the scent of pine and rain, peach and honey. You want to let him cradle you, comfort you that everything will be alright.
That he will be okay, that you will be okay.
The voice that meets you is quiet and gentle, hesitant. He says your name, but it's odd on his tongue, like he isn’t sure he should say it, like confusion is making a home inside his bones.
“Morning, Buck,” you coo, stepping around the table, waiting for him to hold out his hand to you so you can take it and let him tug you into his chest, “I was just about to make breakfast. How do you feel about pancakes?”
He stares at you, as though you’re a stranger, as though you are speaking a language he does not understand.
Bucky’s eyes flick down your form as you move closer, before darting away from you, pink tinging his neck and the edge of his jaw. “What are you doing here? Steve ask you to check on me?”
Confusion loops through you, makes you stop in your tracks. Steve? Why would you be here because Steve asked you to be?
“What do you mean, honey?”
At your words, Bucky goes a deeper shade of pink before his cheeks blanch white. “Why are you here?” He asks again, a curl of suspicion at the edge of his voice.
“I-,” you’re not entirely sure how to answer. An awkward silence descends between you.
A breath sticks in your lungs that you can’t seem to dispel when he says, “I think you should go.”
“Buck? Are you okay?,” you ask, shaking your head and moving closer to him. Only to stop when he backs away from you, like you were a predator about to strike.
You stop moving, watching him carefully, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s terrified, you realize. He’s terrified of you.
“No,” he echoes back to you. “You have to leave. I don’t understand what’s happening and that’s never good,” he says, self-deprecating as he’s always been. “I thought Shuri fixed me. But my memories…I went to sleep in that bed last night, in that room, but the sheets definitely weren’t purple.” They’re your lilac sheets of course, your fluffy duvet covers his bed, your cotton scented sheets, because Bucky is so irritatingly utilitarian about things sometimes, either a product of his generation or a subconscious by-product of what he thinks he deserves.
“There wasn’t a TV in that room. There are books and clothes that I don’t recognize and -,” he stops and swallows and takes a step back from you. You bought the TV together a few years ago, the books and clothes are yours and his jumbled together. “You need to leave. I don’t want to hurt you. Things go to shit when I don’t remember. People get hurt.”
Hurt you?
How could Bucky ever hurt you?
You can’t make the words make sense, none of what he’s saying makes any sense. He is not making any sense.
Your fingers feel brittle, your bones like they might crumble. The room is so cold but you don’t remember it being that way minutes before.
He trembles and leans against the wall, on the verge of a full blown panic attack. “I can’t remember getting any of that stuff.” Bucky reaches up and touches his hair, “I don’t remember getting my hair cut.”
Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, “I can’t do this again,” he whispers. “I can’t forget again.”
You move slowly closer, edge around the table, trying not to spook him, stopping when you’re an arms length away. “What do you mean, Bucky? What do you mean you don’t remember?”
He swallows, eyes hooking on you suddenly, fastening onto his dog tags poking out of your shirt. “What the fuck is going on?” His voice is hoarse. “How did you get those?”
“Bucky-,” your voice is desperate and beseeching, even to your own ears. You reach up to fist your hand around the name plates.
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, shaking his head, sheepish. “I know we-,” he swallows and looks disappointed in himself. “Sorry, I thought I was better than this.”
Something is wrong. You choke on that knowledge, feeling like the threads of your life are being ripped from your fingers.
The floor is cold against your toes, like you’re slipping across broken ice.
Bucky doesn’t remember you.
Bucky doesn’t fucking remember you.
“What - what do you think happened?”
You try not to think of the vapor, try to chalk his behavior up to a dream he may have just woken up from, memories of another time at the forefront of his mind.
But you know.
The vapor that you’ve been trying to find information on for hours is showing itself to you in real time.
Gone, you think.
Erased.
The vapor took him from you, but not in the way you feared.
This is how you find out there are things much worse than death.
And it was your fault.
Bucky doesn’t remember you.
When you reach out to touch him, he jerks away violently, looking at your fingers like you would burn him. Your mind can’t make sense of him pulling away from you, and without meaning to, you reach out again, some part of your brain distantly thinking don’t! But you do and when your fingertips brush his arm softly, he flinches, his body wrenching away from your touch.
You recoil and back away, swallowing down the horror and pain.
And try to remind yourself that this is a man who has lost his memory more than once.
He doesn't seem to know you at all, and so he won’t trust you.
He’s afraid of you.
And that knowledge almost drowns you.
“Bucky-,”
“No,” he says, cutting you off. “I don’t…I don’t want you here.” He won’t look at you, hurt and embarrassment burns a hole into your stomach, acid dripping through your veins. Your heart gives a painful thump. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you….I’m sorry. For whatever brought you to me.”
He doesn’t realize it, but he’s mourning you. He is mourning your relationship. He is apologizing for being yours.
Crushing despair threats to pull you under the surface of your grief and confusion.
You swallow back the tears burning your throat and force yourself to nod. Like he did not just say something entirely earth-shattering. “I’m so sorry, Bucky,” and you are. For the rest of your life you will regret touching him in that moment, to have him fear your hand is worse than any tourture that could ever be dreamed up. “I shouldn’t-,” you stop and force yourself to snap out of it. This is not about you. “I can’t leave you like this though. Please let me call Steve. He’ll be able to explain to you and help you.”
He nods, looking relieved, something familiar to him, something he knows. A bit of tension drains out of his shoulders. “Yes. Steve.”
Steve, his touchstone to reality.
You back away slowly, move toward the table to grab your phone. Your hands are shaking and it takes you more than a few tries to find his contact and press call.
~
You remember those first days with Bucky as a friend, serene with slow building trust. You had chatted his ear off on walks around the grounds, held silence with him reverently over books.
He’d learned quickly, brought you a new pen to begin your joint venture through your first book together. The first time you had read from the same pages, instead of the same story from different books. It had required you share space and patience. And you had and it had been so easy.
Sometimes, you had read out loud, sometimes the book was held between the two of you, silence in reading, a code of taps that indicated when you were finished with the page and when you needed more time.
You’ve always understood each other, even in the very beginning.
Especially in the beginning.
For the first time, it feels like you aren’t even speaking the same language.
Now, you wait in the hall outside your own apartment, Bucky’s you suppose, it's always been his and not yours, pacing back and forth, up and down the hall. After hours or minutes or days, Steve emerges from the apartment and you stop.
“It’s the vapor, isn’t it?” You ask, fingers twisting together when Steve closes the door behind him.
Bucky is the kind of person you want to live inside of, warm and caring of those he loved and trusted. You cannot imagine your world without the warmth he offered you.
But hadn’t you always known that the love between you was meant to have an expiration date? Sure, you had not imagined it this way, but you had imagined it.
Imagined the day he thanked you for being his first love after finding himself again and said goodbye.
The day at Coney Island had been hot, the sun setting in the west, the darkening eastern horizon reflecting deep cerulean blue and cotton candy pink on the waves of the ocean. Bucky had been standing close to you, his head bent over yours. He’d been doing that a lot recently, standing so close you felt like you couldn’t breathe, almost afraid for what might happen if you let too much hope drip into your veins.
And then he had kissed you, so suddenly and without any fanfare.
And your soul had mourned, a warning echoing through you that you would break your heart on the shore of this moment.
The only thing you could do when he pulled back and looked into your eyes with a soft smile, was punch him.
A light knock, meant to chastise him more than anything. You were preparing to play the whole thing off as a joke, despite his lingering closeness, despite his flesh hand against your cheek and his left against the bear in your arms, the stupid toy he had won for you at one of the skill booths.
Of course, punching Bucky Barnes on the left arm no matter how light would end in disaster.
He’d been horrified and apologetic, embarrassed beyond belief, his cheeks pink while you searched for someone to give you ice, apologizing and explaining until you pressed a hand over his. “Bucky, was this supposed to be a date?”
“Supposed to be, yeah,” he had murmured. “Guess now I ruined everything.”
He hadn’t but you had been terrified, worried of the future when Bucky realized that you weren’t all that special, that you were only the first kind person to him after he’d found himself again, attached to you as he was while he healed.
He would realize eventually, surely he would.
But that day, you decided you didn’t care, you would take the time he would give you greedily and without restraint because you had loved him for so long, it didn’t matter if his love was fleeting.
Now, Steve looks at you with worry, despair.
“It looks that way.”
“No, Steve, maybe he’s having an episode, maybe-,”
“When’s the last time he regressed in his memory? Not since Shuri got to him and he came here from Wakanda.” Steve looks wrecked, “Not since the trigger words were removed. And not since he’s met you. This shouldn’t be possible anymore.”
“Steve-,”
“He doesn't remember anything from the last five years, Y/N. He thinks he just got here from Wakanda. Remembers everything before that. According to him he’s only been living here for a couple weeks. He says yesterday was the first time he talked to you, that you guys went on a walk together.”
You stare, and your knees wobble, and Steve puts a steadying hand on your shoulder. You can’t make yourself understand what any of it means.
“Maybe, until we figure out how much is what he breathed in and how much is just…Bucky, maybe it's best if you-,”
“Yeah, of course,” you squeak out, trying to cover the crack in your voice. “Best to keep him around things he always knows.”
And Bucky very clearly does not know you.
Not anymore.
Steve says your name, reaches out to you, but you step away, claw marks ripping up the inside of your lungs. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean-,”
But you can’t breathe and so you step away, again and again, until you’re moving away from him down the hall. Fleeing from Steve, but the look too in Bucky’s eyes, empty of the understanding that had always lived there.
Maybe you’d always known that you would lose Bucky, but you never thought it would be like this.
Eventually you stop running and close your eyes and feel the earth tilt, laugh, and spit you out into the cold alone. You lean against the cold wall and try not to feel so alone.
~
The second time the loop resets, it's better for Bucky.
It's worse for you, because you find out its a fucking loop.
You had avoided everyone at the compound for the rest of that first horrible day, throwing yourself into combing through the intel you had gathered, desperate for answers to your questions, ignoring Steve’s phone calls, sending him to voicemail time after time.
If you couldn’t be by Bucky’s side, then you would help him in other ways.
You would review data and intel until you passed out, until you went blind.
You go back to your old rooms where none of your things are, where you haven’t slept in years and everything is sterile. Where the mugs in the cabinets are plain white ceramic, where there are no books and sheets that do not hold the scent of you and Bucky.
You don’t see Bucky for the rest of that day and it breaks your heart. It makes you feel empty, like the center of your chest is a cavity that can’t be filled. You realize that you’ve been stupid all these years to believe you would ever be able to move on from a love like the one you feel for Bucky.
The next morning things become infinitely worse. You’re working on your laptop at your bare kitchen table when Steve knocks and enters without waiting for you to let him in, a haunted look in his eyes, “It's a loop.”
You close your eyes, exhausted. You haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. “What does that mean, Steve?” You snap.
“Have you slept?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve been going over the intel. Tell me what that means.”
Steve swallows and folds his hands together as he sits next to you at the table. “It means he’s not having some regressive episode. He…reset overnight. He thinks it's yesterday again. Asked him what he did yesterday, what day it was, and the only thing he would say is that he went on a walk with you around the compound.”
And that’s how you discover that Bucky isn’t just reset five years into the past, he’s on some kind of self setting loop.
You try not to think about Bucky five years ago, that you had made such an impression on him that he used it as a marker for what he had done that day.
“Why is this happening, Steve? Is it going to reset everyday?”
Steve shakes his head and holds out a hand for you to take and squeeze. “Don’t know. I guess we have to wait until tomorrow and find out.” You briefly grasp his hand but let it go just as quickly, because it is not the hand you want comforting you.
“It should have been me,” you whisper, leaning over your keyboard, fingers cold where you grip the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “I was the one that was going to go through that cabinet and-,” you stop, your throat tight. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll fix it. I’ll let you know when I find something.”
Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, “You need to sleep.”
“Steve-,”
He stands, shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t look at you. “It wouldn’t have been any better if it were you. Don’t blame this on yourself. Like you said, we’ll figure this out.”
“You can’t honestly think that,” you say. “This is so much worse. This might retraumatize him and it's my fault because I-,”
“It isn’t,” he interrupts. “Bucky would torture himself out of his mind if it were you. Come say hello to him when you have a minute. I tried explaining to him about you but he seems to think I’m fucking with him. Doesn’t believe you guys could have gotten together.”
The knife in your heart sinks a little deeper.
You scoff instead of crying. “Can’t imagine why.” You look back at your computer screen. It’s not like you were ever any good for him anyways, not like you were meant to last forever. “I think it’s best not to confuse him. Just leave me out of it. He doesn’t know me anymore.”
“You’re an important part of his life-,”
“Now I am. I wasn’t then. Bucky five years ago is going to be confused by me. Stick to what he knows is solid, Steve. That’s not me.”
Steve puts a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm, “You have never been confusing to Bucky. Trust me on that.” He lets go and moves toward the door, not looking back at you as he says, “Get some sleep. Bucky will kill me when he gets his memory back if I let you run yourself ragged.”
You feel empty, like there’s a shiver inside of you that’s threatening to crack open every insecurity you’ve ever had.
You want to cry but you’re so exhausted you can’t manage it.
~
Avoiding the rest of the inhabitants of the compound is easy. You spend several days combing through intel until you find the notes and research about the vapor and present it to the team, only staying in the conference room briefly enough to present it before hiding back in your room again.
Not being with Bucky is like losing a limb, everything is the same and yet nothing feels the same. You feel strange, unmoored and adrift and you don’t know how to reign in your emotions anymore, so you simply ignore them, going empty and blank instead.
You can’t be upset if you don’t feel anything.
You can’t be upset that the love of your life doesn’t know you anymore if you feel nothing.
But guilt eats at you, because you have abandoned him, and you know Bucky would never do that to you.
Steve is right, Bucky would torture himself just to stay by your side.
If it were you, he would never leave your side.
But you still can’t help but feel that your presence would only confuse him, would only make him hate you later. If, when, he got his memories back, he would hate you, for making the torture of not remembering so much worse.
So, you aren’t expecting to be sought out. Because the love of your life does not remember you, does not know you at all.
You expect the rest of the team to keep him away from you, so that you don’t accidentally do inadvertent damage to his psyche, to the hard won security of self he normally possesses.
You’re worried, worried about harming him, about the flinch away from your hand, about asking for too much and retraumatizing him. About asking for nothing and still hurting him.
Memory is not an easy subject with Bucky.
Memory and the Bucky from five years ago, is a landmine, an unnavigable sea of the unknown.
Likely explaining to him that he’s lost years of memories, relationships, would make him spiral.
And he had to do it every morning.
And it was your fault.
Better to keep the explanations to a minimum. If he did not know about you, he could not think he lost more than he had.
So you’re surprised when, a week after the looping begins, a week where you don’t sleep and hardly eat and spend all your time trying to find out if an antidote already existed, Bucky appears at your door with a stack of books.
“Bucky,” you whisper when you answer the door. “Hi-,”
“Can I come in?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. “Steve said I could find you here.”
You blink in surprise before opening the door wider. Annoyance at Steve for meddling scratching at your skin. “Sure, Buck.”
Bucky carefully sets the stack of books in his hands down on the kitchen table. Your throat tightens when you catch sight of a few of the titles. The books are all well-worn, beaten up, tabbed and scratched in over and over again.
They’re your favorites, books you and Bucky had returned to the worlds of over and over through the last few years.
“Have you been sleeping?” Bucky asks abruptly, his eyes fastened on you.
You don’t answer, straightening and making an effort to smile, to act normal. “I’ve been busy…the others explained to you?” You ask, tapping one nail against the top of your closed laptop.
“Yeah, they said you’re the one that figured out that the vapor is a redo on the Winter Soldier program.” He shoots you a rueful smile and sits at the table without waiting for an invitation. “A bad one apparently since it didn’t throw me far enough back into the past.”
You swallow and don’t answer, crossing your arms over your chest, realizing that you’re still wearing his shirt from that first night after the mission.
It hasn’t been washed and the scent of Bucky has almost entirely faded from it, but you can’t bring yourself not to wear it. You don’t want Bucky to notice, worried it might make him feel awkward.
You long to fist your hand around his dog tags, but you can’t, not without drawing more attention to them.
“Steve told me you’ve been avoiding me. I…he said it's been a week.” He looks at you with eyes you know so well but without memories to fill in the gaps of who you are. Before you can begin to answer, Bucky reaches out and catches at the edge of your sleeve. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to make you do that. For what it's worth,” his eyes flick over you, “God, I wish I could remember you. You seem so familiar, like I used to know you.”
Of course Bucky would blame you not being around on himself.
Your heart softens just a little.
You let him tug your arms out of their crossed position, shock pinching your lungs when he cups his fingers around your wrist.
The Bucky you had been tentative friends with five years ago would have never touched you like that.
“Sorry,” he says, letting go of you almost immediately and you have to wonder what expression has crossed your face. “Like I said, you feel like-,”
He ducks his head. “We are together aren’t we? Steve and Sam aren’t messing with me?” You still just stand there and stare and Bucky says softly, “Please say something.”
You sit down next to him, reaching out to run your finger down the stack of books. His scent washes over you, pine and rain, like the strength of a forest home.
But it only serves to make you mourn, because he is not imbued with the scent of peach and plum too, like he’s already lost all of you.
Your heart is in your throat, the edges of your vision a little blurred. “Yes. We are.”
“I figured I should come talk to you today because it seems like maybe you’re beating yourself up about all this. Steve said it's been a week, said you were the one who found the notes about what the vapor does,” he prods again.
You nod, “Turn back the clock, make you the winter soldier again. Guess they didn’t calculate right or it was old and they meant to administer it earlier or-,” Your chest is tight and so you stop talking, fingers worrying at the edge of your shirt instead. “Was there something you needed?”
“To talk to you,” he peers at you with a shrug. “You know me best now, according to everyone.” Bucky’s cheeks slowly turn pink, the blush of strawberry peeking in at the edge of his jaw. “Seems impossible.”
Did he think so? You suppose he would.
To you, Bucky has always been inevitable, the home at the end of your path, the safety of a forest.
You forgot that he had not felt the same way, that he’d come to you slowly.
You try not to let the hurt show on your face, smile at him despite the echoing chambers of your heart. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Maybe a little.”
Bucky is being shy with you, something he hasn’t been in years, not since that first day, and you realize with a jolt that he never gets to tomorrow. He never seeks you out in the common area and asks you what you’re reading. Never overwhelms you with the spring scent of rain.
But he’s brought you a stack of books now and it seems like it's happening again.
Like it's happening all over again.
“Did something happen between us?”
“What do you mean?”
“It's just,” he shifts in his chair. “You haven’t come to see me. And I don’t know what happened that first day. Were we fighting? Did I…Was there-,”
“Oh, honey, no,” you cut him off, a little bit disturbed that he would think you would ignore him over something stupid when he’d lost his memory. “You just don’t know me right now. I’m a stranger right now. I didn’t want you to -,” you swallow. “I always want to be where you are. Just thought it was better that I wasn’t. For now.”
“But I do know you. Now. I know you now,” he says urgently. “Right? I’m supposed to know you.”
“Yes, you do. You’re supposed to.”
“I don’t want to abandon you,” he says and your heart does crack. It splits right up the middle, cleaved in two. “I’ve been feeling like I’m missing something all day. And now…I know it sounds crazy but…I know it's you I’ve been missing. I knew as soon as you opened the door.”
He swallows and before you can reply continues on, “All your stuff is in my apartment. Everywhere there are traces of you. Of a life we have together.” His eyes drift down, hooking on the dog tags that you promptly reach up and first your hand around.
You nod, unable to speak.
“I read all your notes, in these books. My notes. I found-,” he stops himself from continuing, licking his lips and looking at you with beseeching eyes. “Would you tell me about us?” He looks nervous as he flips open one of the books and presents it to you. “Today, god maybe every day who knows, I looked through some of the books and I don't know we seem to be…we seem to really-,” He stops and looks at you, afraid to speak the words.
“Love. I love you. You love me. You’ll see that that’s true when you remember.”
You hoped he would at least, if he did not end up hating you for that first day, for how you had hurt him, terrified him.
His shoulders loosen, he reaches out again to press his fingers to the inside of your wrist, unconsciously confirming his own words to you. Part of him remembers and knows exactly who you are. You remember Bucky when you first met him, those first few weeks together where he listened more than he ever talked.
Some part of him is comfortable enough now to speak openly and frequently with you, to touch you so easily. “Have you been sleeping?”
You remember his hand in yours that day, how he offered his hand to you in a very old world way so that you could hop from rock to rock on the shore of the lake that very first walk together.
Steve’s words come back to you.
You have never been confusing to Bucky.
Bucky says your name nervously when you don’t immediately answer him.
“Not much.” You point to your laptop, “Busy trying to help.
“C’mon, then,” he says, standing and tugging you up. “This can wait.”
“It can’t,” you say, fiercely holding onto the book he handed you. “It can’t wait. I want to tell you about us if you want to know.” And suddenly it's the only thing that’s important to you, making sure Bucky knows how loved he is, what your relationship is like, how you met and got together and found solace together. Because what if he never remembered? What if this was forever?
Your voice cracks with the possibility that everything you’d come to set the foundation of your reality on might be gone. “Tomorrow you’ll forget again and-,”
“Not until tomorrow morning. It’s only afternoon. C’mon. You can tell me while you try to sleep,” he smiles at you and holds out a hand, asking you to trust him in that ever subtle way of his.
And because you really, really would follow him anywhere, you take his hand. You trust the hand that has never led you astray.
“You don’t have to,” you whisper as you point to the bedroom door and Bucky leads you that way.
Bucky, more nervous than he otherwise would be, says “I can stay in the room at least. ‘Til ya fall asleep.”
“‘S okay,” you murmur, patting the space in the bed next to you when you lie down. “I don’t bite. I’ll keep my distance if it makes you uncomfortable-,”
Your throat closes up, but Bucky just lies down. For a moment, neither of you say anything. The pain in your throat eases when he doesn’t seem to feel uneasy, the line of his body loose, muscles soft.
“When we were friends, you stayed over with me a lot. You would stay on my couch. I had a dedicated basket with blankets and pillows and sheets for you. You refused to stay in my room, I think because you thought you might have nightmares and -,”
You stop and swallow.
Silence descends between you, both staring at the ceiling.
A few minutes pass before you turn your head, just so you can smell him better, rain on pine needles, the strength of a forest hidden in the bones of a man.
You jump when he folds his fingers between yours, and he almost pulls away, but you hold on tight.
“Tell me more,” he requests quietly.
You remember that feeling you had when you first saw Bucky, like there was a story living inside the shell of him, a shell to be carefully carved open. You thought you had, that you had split him open and learned the inside of his soul.
Now, you think maybe you haven’t.
At least not all the way.
Should you be afraid to tell him these things? These feelings spiraling out of you? You’ve been afraid before, of saying too much, revealing too much, and making him uncomfortable. But you can tell him now, because he won’t remember in the morning, because every sin you commit might be erased.
And it's not fair to him but you want to share anyway. You want to tell him every tiny feeling and thought you’ve ever had about him.
You want to tell him how steady he is, and how comforting that is to you. How serious and protective he is, and how it annoys you but also makes you feel so safe, cradled in giant hands that would never let you fall.
How he reminds you of sunshine even when he’s being a gloomy little cloud.
How you had wanted to kiss him for years, and when he finally kissed you, you thought there wasn’t enough time to make up for the lost moments.
How he tastes like sunshine and honeydew, how his skin was like salt on your tongue.
You want to tell him about the beach at Coney Island, the dark sand, the moon behind his head, how warm it had been and the pure happiness that had sung right through your bones, burst the seams of your heart.
You want to tell him of all those moments with him where joy he inspired had stolen your breath, made you laugh until you were sick.
Like the irritated pout on his lips the day he’d taken you on a picnic and the bottle of wine had cracked and soaked the sandwiches he carefully made with his own hands. How he’d been so stupidly upset because he’d planned the whole thing and it had gone to shit, how he’d wanted to ask you to be his with a basterized version of a promise ring - dog tags slipped around your neck.
For now, you settle for telling him about the first time he slept in your bed.
You press your forehead into his shoulder, Bucky dipping his own head so his nose is pressed against your temple.
“You only stayed with me here once we were together. You insisted that the couch was fine but you have a problem saying no to me. You were afraid but nothing happened. We laid like this,” you squeeze his hand and then let go, cupping your fingers around his wrist instead, feeling his heartbeat in his veins. “And talked for hours. Just talked. You fell asleep before me and you told me the next morning that you didn’t dream. You said it like it was something impossible.”
You can’t believe he’s lying there with you now, touching you. Bucky five years ago would have never been convinced to lie next to you like this, not after knowing you for mere hours. It soothes you, to know that some part of him knows you, that the soul did not as easily forget as the mind.
“How did we get together?” Bucky asks after a beat of silence.
You tell the story.
Of Coney Island and the unknowable date, the punch and the kiss. And Bucky is laughing, a quiet huff of breath against your cheek.
“You smell really nice,” he murmurs, shifting closer. “Like summer.”
A smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself, “It's nice to know you haven’t been lying about that all these years.”
“Yeah?”
“You not so subtly lean in anytime I use this body wash. Best random purchase I ever made.”
He huffs out a little laugh, his face is so close to yours, his breath warm on your cheek. “Tell me something else.”
“In my version of your tomorrow,” you whisper. “You come to me and ask me about what I’m reading. That’s how we get to know each other.”
Bucky is quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking slowly over the back of your hand, “I know it's probably strange for you to hear, doll, but I really do feel like I know you.” He swallows and looks away from you, his throat working with an emotion you can’t fathom. “Don’t think I’d be able to lie here like this with you otherwise.”
“Maybe memories can be stolen but souls can’t,” you tip your head up to meet his gaze. “If anyone is proof of that it's you. No one ever got to the soul of you.”
His eyes are wide as he stares at you, his breathing hitching as his eyes flick down to your lips. “God ‘m fuckin’ confused.”
You squeeze his hand, “I know. We’ll fix it.”
“Promise me somethin’?”
“What?”
“Don’t stay away anymore. This is the best I’ve felt all day. Like I can calm down. Like I’m…like I’m finally home.”
But he doesn’t know about how terrified he’d been of you that first day, doesn’t know how he’d flinched away from you.
But you nod anyway.
You could apologize for that for the rest of your life. Abandoning the love of your life when he was vulnerable was unforgivable.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Promise me.”
“I promise, Bucky.”
You feel his lips against your forehead.
Maybe everything will turn out fine.
~
You spend the day with Bucky, you tell him things he should never know.
Like how the first day he’d kissed you, you had walked the long length of the beach in the dark, moonlight on waves, water soaking your toes and feet and calves.
How you had gone home, thrown a sheet over the couch and laid there with him for hours. He’d tried to get you to go shower and sleep in your bed but you couldn’t because everything felt like a mirage, like it would disappear if you didn’t hold onto it tight enough.
“You smelled so good. Like sand and salt and sea. I didn’t want to let go of the moment and you let me hold on.”
Bucky presses a hand to your back, leans down and whispers, “I’m real.”
And he is.
And so are you.
But that forested strength might forget you.
He certainly would in the morning.
And so as you’re leaving his apartment that night after a midnight dinner and a longer than necessary cleanup effort - you slip his dog tags off and leave them on the kitchen counter.
You stare at your shared bedroom door, at the all pink cookware Bucky had not minded you purchasing in the least still drying on the counter, and think about how if you deserved them, he could give them back to you.
When he remembered.
If he remembered.
Maybe the universe was finally giving him the redo he’d always wanted.
You had never thought that you were the thing that wasn’t right, that didn’t belong.
~
You don’t leave Bucky again.
Every morning you find him, usually with Steve, just to be safe, and explain to him, again and again.
You smile at him, and make breakfast.
Something different and elaborate everyday, even though he doesn’t remember the previous day’s meal.
Everyday, you watch his shoulders loosen and drop when he sees you, tension fading. Like his soul really did recognize yours and know it was safe with you.
Still, you avoid touching him, going near him at all, even though you yearn for it, and let him come to you.
And he does, every day, he finds his way to you. He touches the small of your back, the skin of your wrist. He presses his forehead to yours, dares to hug you outright some days, sits with you on the couch with his thigh pressed to yours.
This morning, Bucky is flipping through one of your many books when Steve finally departs and you pour two cups of freshly made coffee.
Bruce had finished an analysis of the vapor early that morning, and your hand shakes as you pour. You and Steve had come straight from the debriefing to Bucky. You were already tired, not able to sleep past 3 am.
The good news had been that the vapor would dispel on its own, the bad news was that it could take months.
Months, Bucky might lose months of time.
He had already lost so much in his life, it didn’t seem fair.
And again, you feel an overwhelming sense of despair cast over you.
“Are you okay?” He asks you now, tentative, drifting closer to you, book held in his hands.
You take a careful breath and smile at him. “Yeah,” you say, wiping sweaty hands on your jeans. “C’mere and eat before this stuff gets cold.” You made chocolate chip pancakes, a favorite you had introduced him to.
“How many days have you been doing this?” Bucky asks, ignoring the plate of pancakes you set on the counter, ignoring the demanding way you point at the barstool, indicating he should sit. “You look exhausted.”
“Gee thanks.”
“How many?”
“Doesn’t matter,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “Eat.”
Bucky’s brow is furrowed as he stares at you. “How many?”
“Don’t be stubborn about this.”
And for a moment you forget, you forget what you’re arguing about because it's so normal. One of you being inexplicably hardheaded about something stupid.
The divot between his brows, the serious line of his shoulders, the laser focus of his eyes never wavering from you.
It’s all so familiar and normal.
So, you reach across the counter and press a thumb over his brow.
He doesn’t flinch from your touch but you still jerk back, horrified at your mistake.
Bucky frowns but doesn’t comment on your actions.
“I’m not the one being stubborn,” he says, finally taking a seat at the counter, spinning the mug around so he can see the front, the Georgia peach mug you picked up for him in Savannah. His eyes turn toward you and you explain before he can even ask.
“A storm trapped me in Georgia and I had to stay in the airport overnight. You were so upset because it was hurricane season and you threatened to drive down and get me.” You reach out and touch his wrist, his nonreaction to your touch giving you a burst of confidence.
He doesn’t jump and you sigh, stepping around the island, closer to where he sits, taking strength in the shade of his forest. “I got you this as a funny consolation prize. You're obsessed with peach.”
“Noticed that in the shower this morning.”
“Used it too,” you note, leaning in.
But you miss the gentle scent of him in the mornings. Peach and honey, but rain and pine too, the lingering scent of sleepy cotton from the sheets.
Bucky takes a sip from the mug, and then says, “Tell me how many days.”
You let go of his wrist and take a seat next to him, watching as he frowns down at his own skin, the place you had been touching.
“I think we’re heading into week six,” you try to say casually, like you did not count each second. “Thirty-six days.”
Bucky’s mug clicks down hard against the counter and you cringe, trying not to meet his eyes you focus on spearing a bite of pancake. He says your name gently and you glance up. “I’m sorry,” he says, completely and utterly incomprehensible to you.
You pause, that ever present tightness forming at the back of your throat again. “Why are you sorry?”
“Can’t imagine doing this every day,” he says.
You laugh and don’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on his dog tags which now hang around his own neck. “Bucky, you are doing this everyday. And thanks to me, you can’t remember any of it.”
“But maybe it's worse to be the one that remembers.” He reaches out, touches the inside of your wrist gently. “Maybe it's so much worse. In this case.”
You let yourself be pulled toward him, and even Bucky seems surprised, engulfing you in a hug you didn’t know you needed. “Every day for thirty-six days? When I get my memory back, I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing for this.”
“It wasn’t every day and it isn’t your fault,” you murmur, tentatively lying your head against his shoulder, amazement coursing through the veins in your heart when Bucky sags into you, holds you tighter. “It's my fault and I left you at the beginning when you would have never done that to me.”
For a moment he doesn’t reply, but then he strokes a hand down your back and with infinite patience says, “I’m sure you had a reason.”
His belief in you chokes you, threatens to overwhelm you, because he has no reason to think that you were anything but selfish, that you had fled at the first sign of trouble. You circle your arms around him anyways, “I failed you Bucky. It should have been me. And the first day, I was confused and you were afraid of me and I reacted badly and I touched you when I shouldn’t have. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. You had to come find me after a week and you didn’t know that that had happened obviously and-,”
“And you were the one to find information about the vapor so quickly,” he says. “You’re running yourself ragged being here now. Don’t think I don’t know. I know tired when I see it. Are you sleeping?”
You want to cry, but the tears don’t come. “It’s hard to sleep without you now. I’m not used to it.”
You wonder if, when, Bucky remembers you would regret speaking these truths.
Of admitting constantly how much you loved him, how codependent you were, how much you relied on him.
He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight.
You don’t sleep without Bucky lying next to you.
And you wonder at all the sleepless nights he’d endured alone.
You wonder at the ocean of silent sheets he had lain in, all the terrible sleeps he must have had throughout the years.
In the mud during the war, on hard packed earth and concrete and stone, the desolate sleepless sleep in ice.
And then, when he finally got the chance, beds and sheets and blankets might have been harder for him to adjust to.
He hated the feeling of the cotton against his skin, hated the softness of the mattress, hated the detergent used, the smell of it reminding him of something long forgotten.
But it had changed that night with you.
That was the first night you felt safe, and you think it was the first time Bucky had felt that way too, at least in a long time.
You wonder how he sleeps without you now.
Bucky presses one hand to your cheek, turning your head so he can see your eyes. “I don’t sleep well without you either.”
You blink, not sure how he would know something like that.
Bucky doesn’t seem surprised, and you suppose that comes with years and years of living with uncertainty. “Do you remember-,”
“I don’t know. I just know I have a few strange memories.”
“Like what?” You whisper. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Bucky slots his fingers between yours. “Just trust me when I say I know I sleep better with you.”
Something inside you breaks, shatters just a little bit, so you lean your head against his shoulder, feel him kiss the crown of your forehead. “How are you being so calm about this?”
“I’ve lost memories before. This is the easiest version of that. Steve is here. I know I can trust him to explain. And then I look at you and know I’m home. I’m safe, I never was before when I couldn’t remember.”
And it's your fault he has to do it again.
Bucky strokes your back gently and you hate yourself. Somehow you are the one being comforted despite being the one who remembers, the one who failed.
You pull away and touch his cheek, “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“Sometimes we dance in the kitchen when we cook, and you always pick Bryan Adams songs. It's not often I can convince you too so it's usually a one person show.” You say, remembering when he found the On a Day Like Today record at a flea market. You remember him listening to the whole thing lying on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. You’re pretty sure he’d fallen asleep that first listen. “And one of your favorites became When You’re Gone.”
Bucky looks at you with wide eyes. “Is this about to become morbid?”
You laugh and slide off your stool, stepping between his legs, Bucky just pulls you closer. “No. I was thinking about how there’s a part that makes a lot of sense to me lately. It goes like-,” And you start to open your mouth to sing but quickly snap your mouth shut. “You should just listen to it.”
“Sing it,” he requests, fingers looping around your wrist. “Please. I don’t know the song.”
You shake your head, “Just know I miss you a lot. I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” You try not to feel embarrassed about your words, about admitting something that should be obvious. “You should look at the records. They’re all yours.”
He frowns at you, like you’ve suggested something bizarre, “The records don’t tell me anything, sweetheart.” He gestures at the book he had been holding earlier, “Those do.”
“They’ll tell you something about yourself,” you say. “I watched you collect those for years. I watched you form a collection. I watched your music taste change.”
Bucky owned records of everything, from pop to old country classics and blues, rock to hip hop and alternative.
“You’re more interesting,” he says. “Yesterday, we went on a walk together. You talked so much, and my heart almost beat out of my chest when you came down the hallway and stopped in front of me.”
You stay quiet, still, waiting for more.
He’d never told you this before.
“Everyone else was avoiding me. Giving me space. But you didn’t, at least not forever.”
“I waited, you know,” you say. “As soon as you got here I wanted to know you. But I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know any of us.” If Bucky was sharing then so could you. You could tell him things that you wouldn’t have otherwise, because you have a feeling that the Bucky that did not have at least most of his memories shuttered away in a loop every morning would not be telling you this.
He was afraid of being too much, just like you always were.
“You did?” He tilts your chin up, so he can rest his forehead against yours. “Why the hell would you want that? To want to know me?”
“I just knew. You were meant to be mine somehow.”
“Somehow?”
“Anyway you would let me.”
His lips are so close to yours, and you wonder what memories he’s gathered and retained. “I thought the same thing yesterday,” he says. “That I would stay with you no matter what.” Bucky licks his lips, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “But I didn’t feel this pull yesterday. This connection. And now I do.”
“It's five years in the making, sweetheart,” you say. “I had a crush on you the moment I met you.”
“Crush huh? I think I know something about that.”
Something in you shines to know that he had a crush too.
~
“We don’t know if it’ll work and there’s not really a way to test it,” Banner says. “ Barnes’ system seems to be burning through the vapor quicker than it would a normal person, which is a plus. But since your memories seem to be coming back, you could just wait it out. Probably would only take a few more weeks.”
“But I could remember everything tomorrow if I take it?”
“That’s the hope.”
You don’t say anything, the hole is your chest crumbling into a crater. “How many days has it been?” Bucky asks.
No one answers, because he’s staring at you.
It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Forty-nine today.” You cringe at the way your voice creaks.
You swallow, and try not to cry, exhaustion weighing you down, guilt and hatred and grief.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just stares at you from across the table. You watch half formed memories flicker through his eyes, a steely determination settling in. “I want to take it.”
Of course he did.
“Bucky-,”
“No. It's my decision. I won’t make you keep doing this.”
You huff out an annoyed breath. “I’ve been doing it and I’m fine. You should think about this a little.”
He stares at you, piercing and irritated. “You aren’t fine,” he snaps.
But Bucky has never really denied you anything, and apparently this version of him can’t either.
At least not immediately.
“I’ll think about it,” he concedes after a few tense moments, but he doesn’t look away from you as the team shuffles out of the room.
Eventually you glance away, not able to hold his gaze any longer.
You try to take a deep breath but your lungs just shudder and hitch painfully around the air. “Why don’t you want me to remember?” He asks eventually, sounding so hurt and soft it makes you want to cry.
“I do,” you say to the table. “I do want you to remember. That’s all I want.”
“Then what’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m worried about what you’ll think of me when you do remember everything. And maybe I’m selfish for that but I want to keep you for a little while longer.” You still can’t look at him but he becomes hard to ignore when he reaches across the table and takes your wrist between his fingers.
He never forgot that, never forgot that gesture between you so comforting and warm. Bucky’s thumb tracks back and forth over the thin skin of your wrist.
“It's my fault you lost your memory,” you continue, finally meeting his eyes, your story, your truth of the universe, the soul yours had been waiting for. “It should have been me. I wish it would have been me. And you will too when you remember. You’ll know exactly what was taken from you again. You’ll remember the first day you forgot-,”
That first day haunts you.
How he looked at you with mistrust and fear, uncertainty.
“I want you to remember, obviously I do. I’m just afraid. I don’t want to lose you. They don’t know what the antidote is going to do. What if you don’t remember anything?”
Your other questions go unspoken.
What if you had to start over? Should you? Would you have to tell him about how afraid of you he had been, how he’d told you to leave?
Would you have to tell him how you abandoned him for a week, telling yourself it was for his own good?
“I’m not-,”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please, Buck, you can’t know. Neither of us can. I want you to remember. But I want you to do it safely. At least this way we know you’re remembering everything.”
“This is safe,” he says. “You trust them, right? Steve does?”
You shake your head, “I trust them but it's not like this is a precise science, honey. It’s not like this has ever happened before and you’ve lost so much already-,”
“But look what I end up gaining, sweetheart. I get you. I get all this.” His fingers tighten on your skin and fear creeps into his voice. “Would you explain again? If I don’t?”
“Of course I would. No matter what, I would,” you whisper. “God, I’d do it forever. You’re it for me Bucky.”
You want to say, I worry that I’m not it for you. You deserve better.
He nods, staring at you in that very Bucky way, intense at all times. “And I won’t abandon you.”
“Okay,” you say, begging the universe to let it be true, that he would still love you after this failure, gripping his wrist in return. “Whatever you decide - I’m here.”
~
That night, you try desperately not to worry.
You try to be strong and not to show the fear that buzzes inside your chest.
Bucky had swallowed the antidote without the slightest reaction to it in the medical wing a few hours earlier.
“Wasn’t that gross?”
“I’ve had worse.”
You hadn’t wanted to know in that moment what was worse than the foul smelling concoction he had downed, and so you hadn’t asked.
You’re resigned to spending the night with him, and so you stand in your own living room feeling very much like a guest.
It’s your blankets folded over the end of the couch, mostly your mugs in the kitchen cabinets, a whole bookshelf filled with your collection from before you had met Bucky.
You stand in the center of the room and hug your arms around yourself, waiting for Bucky to finish up in the bathroom. Though you had cooked and Bucky had eaten, you had not been able to.
The nervous butterflies beating against the inside of your ribs would not let you.
You haven’t been back inside your bedroom since that first night and you’re terrified at the prospect, you can’t really even bring yourself to look at the door, the imprinted image of the way Bucky stared at you haunting you, the way he had backed into the wall beside the door.
The nerves swallow you so completely that you don’t realize Bucky has been trying to catch your attention, that the sweet smell of rain and pine and honey is drifting toward you on a cloud. “Sorry,” you say, trying to smile at him.
“‘S okay. You comin’?” He jerks his head toward the bedroom. “Think we both could use some proper sleep.”
Bucky drifts closer to you, approaching you slowly like you’re a wounded animal about to bolt. “I don’t know if that’s -,” you stop and swallow. “I think I should stay here. On the couch-,”
“Now c’mon doll. If it were me, would you let me stay on the couch?”
“No.”
“Right,” he holds out his hand, and you press your fingers around his wrist. “So come on.”
You allow yourself to be tugged into the bedroom. It's much neater than you left it, though all your things are still there. But you aren’t sure where you belong in that moment and so you just stay nervously by the door as Bucky turns down the sheets and duvet, lowers the lights.
He turns back to you and gestures you closer, “If you really don’t want to, you can stay on the-,”
“I want to, Bucky,” you murmur. “I just…you don’t remember but-,”
“Honey,” he says, “Whatever bad reaction we both had that first day, it's okay. We were both confused.”
Shock renders you silent for a moment. Did he remember? For a moment your mood lifts, your soul lightens. “How do you know what happened?”
“I don’t. But you’re like an open book, sweetheart. It isn’t hard to guess.”
“I hate you.”
He laughs and climbs into bed, looking at you patiently.
“Can I borrow a shirt from you?”
You’re already in your pajamas but you want to feel at home, and home is in bed in one of Bucky’s shirts.
“‘S all yours anyways.”
You pause, hearing the echo of something in his words, but quickly move on, grabbing a favorite of yours, one well worn and well loved, before turning your back and tugging your sweatshirt over your head to exchange it for something much better.
You’re wondering if maybe you should have gone into the bathroom to change so when you turn back you only giggle a little.
Bucky is staring pointedly at the ceiling, a pink tinge in his cheeks. Something about it warms the marrow of you, makes you want to curl inside the sunshine of him.
You cross to your side of the bed and slip in beside him.
You’re trying desperately not to look at Bucky where he reclines against the headboard, arms crossed behind his head, and so you notice almost immediately that something isn’t right.
Bucky has your pillows and you have his.
You start to ask and then think better of it.
You don’t want to embarrass him by pointing it out. You can feel the spill of nerves inside yourself as you consider why he might have switched them.
Like he might have preferred the scent of you. Been comforted by it.
You turn to your nightstand instead. It’s been cleared, your things stored in the drawer which you reach over and tug open, seeking the book you started months ago that’s hidden there.
“Doll,” Bucky says sharply, sitting up abruptly, but you’ve already opened it.
A stack of polaroids lie there atop the usual fare, along with a folded bunch of paper.
You lift the stack of photos, what looks like a pile of snapshots Bucky had taken of you with a vintage polaroid camera you’d gotten him one year for his birthday, photos you had never seen. But photos some version of this memory-less Bucky had apparently found somewhere and sorted through.
When you reach for the paper though, Bucky says, “Leave that. Please.”
“Why?”
“You’re only meant to read it if I don’t remember tomorrow.”
Your fingers hover over the innocently folded paper and you consider grabbing it anyways. But you pull back and turn to him.
Bucky is watching you carefully, eyes nervously darting down to the photos in your hands. “And I found those pictures…at some point and left myself a note to look at them first thing. I’ve…I didn’t tell you and Steve but I left myself a note each night, to explain, to tell myself to look at these pictures as proof and-,”
He continues talking and you want to be mad but you can’t. You want to be mad that he had let you worry every single morning that he would reject you, your belly in knots over it.
“It made it easier to stomach, going to sleep knowing I would lose everything, if I knew I had some control and that I was helping myself in the future, that I wouldn’t be as freaked out.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I don’t know. I thought you would think I didn’t trust you.”
“Did you not?”
“No, I think I just wanted something that I knew was mine.” His brow is furrowed tight and you know he’s nervous. “I wrote you a letter but the other part is all the letters I wrote to myself everyday. So you can see for yourself that I-,” he stops and glances away from you. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll see if you need to.”
You nod and decide not to push him about it, flipping through the photos, watching years flick past, pictures Bucky had never shown you. He takes them gently from your hands and carefully picks to one. “This one has been my favorite for every reset. I know, I told myself so.”
It would be funny, if it weren’t so fucking tragic.
The picture is of you before that horrific picnic date. You don’t remember a picture being taken, you aren’t sure who even took the photo considering Bucky is in the picture next to you. You’re walking to the car you had borrowed for that day, looking back over your shoulder with a smile, Bucky is watching you with a lovesick expression, one of hopeless, unending endearment.
“I have never seen myself look like that,” he says. “I can’t remember ever feeling the way I look in that picture. But god, I woke up this morning and read my own fucking letters to myself and looked at that picture and thought bullshit, no way. Not you. There’s no fucking way I got you. And then you walked in here with Steve and-,” he strokes his thumb over your face in the picture. “-and it was like the world stopped turning.”
He faces you, drops the photo and tucks your face between his hands, “I have never felt a love like this. It’s like I’ve always known you. I didn’t have to think about anything today because I knew that you knew me and I knew you. And whatever I said or did, you would understand.”
You don’t answer for a moment, pushing your cheek into the cool metal of his left hand. “I love you.” Your head spins with the admission, something you’ve told him a million times before. “You thought you couldn’t get me?”
The armor that Bucky wears always falls away when he’s with you and this moment is no different, you’ve always been the one to poke the bruised skin, to see the fleshy raw feelings he kept hidden. “No way in hell did I think I actually got that lucky. So you know when I tell you not to worry about whatever happens. Know that’s true. I fall in love with you every day. I know I’ve fallen in love with you every day.”
When you can’t find the words to reply, Bucky sighs, gathers the polaroids and sets them to the side before pulling you close, pulling you down against his chest. And when you turn your nose against his shirt, all you can smell is him, rain on pine.
“You don’t smell like peach,” you whisper.
“You get irritated when I smell too much like you,” he says.
It's something he shouldn’t remember and it makes you smile. “I like when you smell like me too.”
He rubs one hand down your back, seems soothed by your reaction to his admission. “Bucky,” you murmur against his chest, the first time you’ve been in your own bed in weeks.
“Yeah?”
“I hope I never have to read your letter. And I hope you know that you’re mine. I got you so long ago, I won’t give you up.”
He kisses the side of your head, and you feel like everything might be alright. “Never give me up, sweetheart. I know I belong to you.”
~
Just like last time, you wake before Bucky.
You wake with your nose nestled between his arm and his ribs. His chest is rising and falling slowly, sleep still drawn over his face. For a moment you consider getting up, slipping out to the living room.
But you don’t.
You’re so terrified of the last time.
So afraid that he won’t know you, that he will be fearful of you again.
You think of the note, and wonder when he started writing to himself. Was it after that first night? Did it traumatize him just as much? Did he write of your abandonment?
You clutch him tighter, feel the rise of his breath in your fingers and press your face back to his ribs, the scent of the forest growing inside his bones invading your senses.
He’s warm, warmer than a normal person.
Cozy, like being inside on a wet autumn afternoon.
The pine and sunshine scent of him almost lulls you back to sleep, and you’ve been so tired you almost let it.
But then the arm lying against your spine flexes, the fingers against your hip curl into the fabric of your sweatpants.
You go painfully still, peeking up to watch his lashes flutter.
The world is silent and still, the only movement that of the flutter of new morning sunshine across the floorboards.
You swallow tightly as he blinks away sleep, head turning lazily to gaze down at you.
Fear chokes you as you wait for the dawning confusion, the horror, the hatred.
Something other than the love in his eyes.
But none of it comes, you’re boneless as he shifts and pushes you back into the pillows, not looking away from your eyes. He cups his fingers around your wrist, thumb soft against your forearm.
“I remember,” he murmurs. “Everything. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I missed you so bad. I’m sorry you had to do that all on your own-,”
Grief and relief overwhelm you in equal measure and you let out a strangled noise, gripping his shirt with your free hand.
“No,” you say, desperate and pleading. “Don’t you dare, Barnes. I’m the one who's sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Baby,” he says softly, nuzzling your cheek, ignoring your plea. “Thank you for taking care of me. You were so good. That first day? I know exactly what you’re thinking. I wasn’t afraid of you, I was afraid for you. To me I’d only just met you and I couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting you, not when you were so kind and gentle and understanding. I usually hurt people when I can’t remember and-,”
You kiss him, just to get him to shut up, sliding your hand to press against the back of his neck until he lets his weight sag against you. It’s the first time you’ve kissed him in fifty days, the taste of honeydew and summer on his lips, like home and firsts.
“But it's my fault,” you whisper when he pulls away, forcing you to breathe and meet his eyes when he pushes his forehead against yours.
“No. It’s just something that happened.”
You feel tears threaten to drip down your cheek, eyes blurry with salt. “I’m still sorry.”
“Okay, but you don’t have to be. You’re mine, sweetheart. How could you ever think I wouldn’t come back to you?”
You want to devour him in that moment, just so he would know how firmly embedded in your DNA he is, that you would never let him slip away.
But you settle for pulling him closer, kissing him harder, biting into the bittersweet sun that is Bucky Barnes.
You breathe him in for a moment and your heart stutters when he pulls away, and tugs off his dog tags. “You gave these back?”
“You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t know what it meant and I wasn’t sure you’d want me to have them anymore and-,”
He tucks them inside your fist, “I know what it means to see them on you. I knew that day I came and found you when you were hiding away. You made a promise, remember?”
“To never take them off.”
“Right,” he murmurs. “They’re yours. Not mine. Even if I hadn’t remembered anything I would have found my way back to you. I promise.”
“You really think so?” You whisper, eyes wide, watching him watch you with a softness that was too good for the world.
18+ ONLY, DARK FIC, smut, Dom/sub dynamics, BDSM dynamics/punishment, mentions of cannibalism, some fresh spoilers, manipulation, degradation, edging, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, squirting, free use, vaginal fingering, oral sex (female receiving), breeding kink, slight daddy kink, forced pregnancy.
notes from the author;
he’s a dark mf, but i love him your honor. this is probably really self indulgent but 🤷🏾♀️. please enjoy!
credits;
18+/consent banners by @maysdigitalarts / line divider by @firefly-graphics / prompts from here and here
i want to swallow you, have you melt into me and flow through my veins.
~ han kang the vegetarian
Your stomach is in knots. Tight and in your throat. It’s been upset for days, the food he’s brought for you going untouched. Sleep is scattered— an hour here, thirty minutes there, bad memories jarring you back awake as soon as you start to really settle in. Bad girl. The words taunting you, haunting you, rattling back and forth in your brain, reminding you. Trying to run from me, girl? You think anyone can hear you out here?
The chain connected to the leather handcuff around your wrist scrapes along the floor as you pace back and forth, eyes darting around the modern room. You can’t go far— not even to the door— that’s part of the punishment for being a bad girl. A shorter chain. You stop, eyes falling to the floor as your lips part slightly, just breathing as your battered brain does gymnastics. He loves you. Takes care of you. You had nothing before me. You were nothing…
Slowly, your eyes lift to the wall in front of you, a beachscape painted from wall to ceiling. You tilt your head a little, eyes moving along the wall, the orange sky, the blue waves crashing. You remember the ocean. The smell of the salt in the air, the wet sand between your toes. That’s all over now—
No. no. Steve loves you. You can’t think that way anymore— this is what’s best for you. Haven’t I been good to you?
Of course he’s been good to you. You’re alive aren’t you? Eating three square, healthy meals a day and if you’re really good, your favorite dessert after dinner. He washes your hair with the special shampoo you like and need— braids it for you with satin bows when he wants you to feel pretty. The cute little dresses and the flowers. He loves you. You need to stop with all these dramatics. Your old life means nothing now. You have him. What else could you need but me, sweetheart?
It’s been a long three days. Lonely. He hasn't visited once. Just has someone, you’re not even sure it’s him because they make you turn and face the corner, drop off your food and plenty of water. The hands that place the blindfold over your eyes while they lead you to the bathroom surely don’t feel like his— too rough, both physically and in demeanor to be the hands of a doctor. That makes you sad. And nervous. He’s so mad he doesn’t even want to look at you, or have you look at him.
It’s unnerving, his silence.
Your face breaks at the thought. A sob chokes up in your throat as you drop your head into your hands. You fall onto the small bed in the floor and bring your knees into your chest, hugging them with your arms as you bury your face and cry. Hard. Loud. Almost as hard as you did the first night you woke up down here after spending the first weekend with him. It was different then— you were different. That girl is slowly dying, although, there’s still flashes of her every now and again. She’s what got you into the mess you’re in now.
Now you’re crying because you miss him. You want him to be happy, you want to make him happy. He’s good to you. He loves you. That’s what he tells you over and over and over. I’m keeping you because I love you. You’ll soon come to understand that, bunny. You’ll love me too. Promise.
You roll over onto your side, pull your knees back up into your chest and let the sadness, the worry, the nervousness wash over you, your body shaking with the tears. You want to be a good girl for him, want him to be proud of you.
What is wrong with you! Next time he comes in here, you need to—
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Cover your ears with your hands, “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” you whisper. You can’t think like this anymore, not if you want this to work, “Leave me alone.”
Wake up! You’re stronger than this! Try again… run!
There’s footsteps in the hallway, you don’t really hear them though. You’re so mixed up, not really sure what’s real and what’s not anymore. Exhaustion and body aches, sore muscles from the fight… it’s got you all hazy. Your brain is just so tired. So weary. There’s still a little fight in there, somewhere deep but as the days pass— the hours, the minutes— it grows weaker and weaker. Steve’s words sinking in further and further. You were nothing before me. You need me.
There are hands on your shoulders, jarring you back into the present. You shrink back, scrambling into the corner of the room, covering your face with your hands again. Your screams sound so strange to you now, you’re not sure why.
“Shh, shh, shhh. You’re okay— you’re okay.”
The arms pull you close, bring you right into a chest. Lips hover by your ear as you struggle against this person, his arm wrapping over your chest, hand curling around your shoulder. Another hand covers your mouth as he pulls you closer, lips at the shell of your ear again, “Shh, bunny. Shh. Stop being so dramatic.”
That voice. It’s him, he’s back. “Steve?” you whimper, “Steve?”
“It’s me, it’s me.”
You turn in his arms, throwing your hands around his neck and hugging him hard, “Steve,” you start crying harder, your words all mushing and slurring together, “I’msosorry, ple—please forgive m-me. I-I-I’m s-sorry.”
He rubs your back slowly, tucking his chin over your shoulder for a second or two before pulling back and grabbing your face in his warm hands. Tilting your head up, he strokes your bottom lip with his thumb, blue eyes bouncing back and forth between your red, heavy, swollen brown ones. His lips are in a tight line, eyes serious as they scan your face. Then he sighs, real deep. Slow. Thumbs still sliding over your lips and then caressing your chin.
“I wish I could believe you, baby.”
Panic instantly rises in your body, your chest tightening, stomach twisting even more at the words, “You c-c-can. I’m s-sorry, Steve. P-please.”
He continues to stare at you, eyes dipping to your lips then back up to your eyes as you cry in front of him. As you beg. He’s so hard to read when he gets like this and you can’t help but let the dread you feel take over. Your shoulders slump, your head falling as Steve pulls his hands away. Sobs rack your body as you cover your eyes with your swollen hands, the skin over your knuckles broken and bruised from your daring escape.
Something in you just wants to make him happy. His forced training is starting to work after all.
You feel Steve stand and move away from you, but you’re still underneath his hard stare. He sighs heavy and hard again as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Staring at the orange carpet, you force out a shaky breath, trying and failing to focus it, “Please don’t leave me down here. Not all by m-myself. I can’t— I can’t take it any-more.”
It’s so weak. You’re so weak. Just how he wants you— how he likes you. So he smirks.
He loves to win.
Silence falls over the two of you for a long while, so long it gets uncomfortable for you. You’ve been thinking about this moment for three days— well, two and a half. You don’t remember much after he slammed your head back into the glass window. Bad girl. This wasn’t how you thought it’d go.
“Are you going to hurt me now?”
Steve laughs, shaking his head, “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. I like you. That’s why I’m keeping you, but—”
“ — Please don’t hurt—”
“I wasn’t finished speaking,” he cuts you off, his face going hard, the words even harder. You snap your mouth shut immediately, dropping your eyes back to the carpet, “I’m not going to hurt you. The only reason it got so nasty a few days ago was because you hit me first, remember?”
“Steve—”
“ —Aht.” He wags his finger, “You hit me first, right?”
You sink further into yourself, wanting to disappear right into the floor, “Yes.”
“And you still haven’t apologized.”
“You haven’t let me,” you whimper, “I haven’t seen you in three days.”
Steve nods slowly, crossing his arms over his chest, “So it’s my fault now?”
“No!” you shriek, “That’s not— that’s not what I meant.”
He cocks his head to the side, “Then apologize to me. Nicely.”
You hold your arms out without hesitation, wanting him closer. He takes a few steps, right to the edge of your bed— right to where the chain around your wrist has no slack— and stops. Without a word, you pull yourself up, take the three or four steps it takes to get to him before you get up on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck again.
“Please forgive me,” you whisper, blinking your wet eyes furiously, staring back at that scenic beach painted on the walls, “Please Steve. You’re all I have.”
Steve keeps his hands in his pockets, but you feel his breath hitch in his chest as your words fall over him. And something in you stirs. Just that little slip up from him, the smallest of breaths, makes you feel a little better. He still cares.
He still loves you, maybe.
And that maybe is just what you need right now.
He pulls away from you again, puts more distance between your bodies but grabs your cheeks, squeezing hard, “Are you gonna be good if I let you shower?” you nod, “Words. I need to trust you.”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Promise?”
You nod again, this time, more convincingly, “Yes. I promise.”
Steve searches your eyes for a few seconds more, still reading you, still wanting to be assured that you won’t try any shit again because if you do— then he’ll have to hurt you. And he doesn’t want to do that. He sweeps his fingers over your forehead, moving away your curly hair, brushing the tips over the cut just over your left eye. You wince, the salt of his fingers stinging the fresh wound and he shrinks back.
“Don’t make me hurt you, and I won’t. Got it?” He asks soft, “Turn around, lemme see the back of your head.”
You turn in his hands and let him push your thick hair apart, peeling it away until he gets to your scalp, eyeing his handiwork, “The stitches look good. You’ll be healed up in no time. Now, go shower. I’ll wait for you by the door.”
You whip around, eyes going wide as your mouth falls open in genuine surprise, “You’re not going to shower with me?”
“You don’t deserve that yet.” he answers quickly, grabbing your wrist and turning it over in his hand before grabbing the key from his left pocket. The metal chain falls to the ground with a thud once he pops the lock, making you jump slightly, “Go. Now.”
Your stomach falls to your feet. He’s still so disappointed.
You’re starting to really hate that.
—
You wrap the fluffy white towel around your torso as you step out of the shower. It’s amazing what a hot shower can do for your mood. It’s not super high, but you feel better than what you did twenty minutes ago. Cleaner. Physically anyway. You pop open the door to find Steve leaning against the wall, a white box tied with a red ribbon in his hands.
“See how much I love you, honey? Even when you’re mean to me I buy you presents.”
A smile cracks onto your face, “For me?”
“All for you,” he smiles, handing it to you, “Look at that pretty smile. That’s what I like to see. Open it up.”
You untie the box slowly, Steve taking the lid from you once it’s free of the ribbon, his eyes on you intently as he pull out the soft, blue satin dress, “Steve,” you let out a breath as a warmth spreads through your body, “It’s, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“You like it?”
“Of course I do,” you reach for him, hugging him tight again, “Thank you so much.”
He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small jar of your favorite body creme, “I pay attention, don’t I?”
You nod again, unable to wipe the smile from your face, “Yes. Thank you.”
With a tap on your hip, he tips his head toward your room, silently telling you to hurry. And hurry you do. Steve keeps his eyes on you the entire time, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall as you smooth the lotion over your skin. Arms, chest, stomach, legs, back, your spirits lifting ever so slightly again.
“Are there any panties with this? A bra?” You ask, turning slightly to glance at him over your shoulder.
Steve shakes his head, pushing away from the wall, “Nope.” He moves towards you, taking the dress from your hands to bunch it up, “Arms up.”
Turning towards him, a little bashful underneath his strong gaze, you lift your arms up, ducking your head some as he slides the smooth material over your body. He picks at it, pulls gently to get it sitting just right on your body before he steps back and looks you over. He reaches out, grabs one of your nipples between his thumb and index finger to give it a little playful squeeze, “I love these, you know.” he smiles wide, “Maybe one day we’ll get them pierced, hmm?”
He chuckles when you grab his hand and lift it to cover your face. He slips again, pulling you in close to pepper your forehead with a kiss or two, “Silly girl. Come, I’m hungry.”
Steve offers his hand and you greedily take it, lacing your fingers with his, bringing the back of his hand to your lips. You kiss the front of his hand, once, twice, three times, just to reassure him that you aren’t going to do what you did last time. That girl is gone.
I’m still here, bitch. You need to run. Now.
Well, she’s almost gone. You swallow hard and grip Steve’s hand harder as the two of you walk side by side, down the long corridor towards the kitchen. There’s a slight breeze as you walk— the light curtain blowing soft in the wind seeping in from the broken window. You cut your eyes towards the wall, the random piece of art that used to hang there now sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. A few shards of glass from the frame still littering the hardwood floor.
Steve tightens his grip.
The two of you push past the living room. A new lamp sits in the place of the old one you launched at his head just days before. Your feet start to sting as you move, all cut up from running through broken glass and rocks and twigs once you made it outside. It was stupid; you were stupid.
“I just want to take care of you!” you heard him scream as you ducked behind a tree, your heart pounding, “You fuckin’ bitch— I’m sorry! I’m fuckin— get back here!”
Once at the threshold of the kitchen, Steve whips you around his body, sending you deeper into the room, spinning on the balls of your feet. You laugh a little— maybe he’s lightening up. When you come to a stop, you turn to face him, your bottom lip between your teeth, a warmth spreading through your skin. You’re a little dizzy, so… light between the sleep deprivation you’ve forced on yourself and not eating for days on end.
You find him smiling softly. Head tilted a little, a dreamy look in his eyes. This is the first time you notice how nice he looks tonight. A black button down shirt tucked into gray slacks. Black dress shoes. His dark hair is parted and combed— not the usual fingers through it once or twice. He dressed up for you. That makes you smile harder, fuller.
Don’t let him win. This isn’t right and you know it. Be strong.
Your head ticks slightly. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!
Steve smiles at you bigger too and your stomach does a little flip. He’s so handsome— but within the blink of an eye, literally, his smile is gone. His eyes and lips hard again, as he crosses his arms over his chest again. He pushes his chin forward, tips his head back, his lids low over his eyes so he can glare down at you through his lashes, “Take your dress off.”
You swallow hard, “W-what?”
“You heard me. Take it off.”
The sharpness of his tone cuts you to the quick, sending a chill through you. You don’t dare take your eyes off of him as fear ripples through your body, but your fingers scratch at your thighs, bunching the material in your hands. Slowly, you pull the dress upward, over your head. Nerves fill you again as you stand stark naked in front of him, gripping the dress tight in your hands, butterflies, the nervous kind, fluttering in your stomach. Your heartbeat in your ears.
The sound of his shoes clicking against the floor floods your senses as you blink furiously at him, your mouth falling open as he steps right up to you. Towering over you. He pulls the dress from your hands and takes a deep breath, filling his nose with your scent before he speaks, “You’re going to make my dinner. Then you’re going to sit by my side and watch me eat— and if you’re a really good girl and ask nicely, I might let you lick my plate when I’m done, understand?”
Tears fill your eyes as you nod, a single hot stray slipping down your cheek. He grabs your chin again, pushing your face up towards his, “Use your words.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
A sob slips out quick, but you swallow the one behind it that threatens to follow, “Yes, I understand.”
He grabs your face in his hands again, his thumbs sweeping underneath your eyes to wipe away the wetness, “Good girls don’t cry, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. It hurts me that you still don’t trust me.”
You reach for his hands, wrapping your fingers around his wrists, holding on tight, “I trust you, I do. You’re just so mad at me.” You cry soft, dipping your head and nuzzling into his big palm.
“Oh, sweetie,” he purrs, “It’s all gonna be okay, you just have to learn to be a good girl.” Steve bops your nose with his index finger, punctuating his words, “Bad girls get eaten, and I don’t want to eat you and I certainly don’t want to sell you off to my clients,” he smiles again, kinda sinister, “This body’s too perfect to cut up.”
You smile at the compliment, “You think so?”
“Oh baby, I’m a plastic surgeon, I know so. Women pay for bodies like yours every day, you’re so lucky.” The warmth is back. Spreading like lava from the tips of your toes to the very top of your head, “But you’re going to have to learn the hard way.” He leans in real close again, his lips at your ear, “This is what punishment looks like, darling,” he whispers, “Hands, please.”
Your eyes go sad again but, you lift your hands gently, push them out and watch as he slips the brown leather cuffs over your hands and locks them up with the key. The chain between them is longer than the usual one, so you can cook and such. You’ve fucked up five months of training, of trust, but maybe you’ll work back up to walking around freely. Maybe.
Then he’s gone, back facing you as he disappears back into the living room. The radio starts seconds later, something kind of slow and old. Something you haven’t heard since you were a kid. In the car with your mom, your window down. The sun shining, wind whipping you in the face as you hum.
So raise your hands to heaven and pray
That we’ll be back together someday
You’re on autopilot now. Moving towards the fridge, opening the door to reveal the neatly arranged refrigerator. Green kale, yellow squash, black cherries, brown eggs. White milk poured from the original carton into a crystal pitcher. Red meat. Neatly packaged and labeled with the cleanest handwriting you’ve ever seen for a doctor. You pick up the saran wrapped foam tray, fingers trembling as you bring it eye level. Three letters written in black sharpie. Noa.
You’re surprised at what floods through you as you read the name over and over again. Jealousy. He’s told you about her many times— never let the two of you see each other though. He told you how he thought she was different too. His two pretty girls. Anger flashes through you at the thought of her being in this kitchen, cooking for Steve and vice versa. Fucking Steve. Bathing with Steve.
You slam the door and turn on your heel.
Spaghetti and meatballs it is.
—
The song has changed a few times. Something upbeat plays now, West End Girls by Pet Shop Boys. This one you know well. Steve made his way back into the kitchen a song ago, humming and singing loudly, even dancing as he moves around you, plucking silverware and random utensils from the drawers to set the table. Snaps his fingers to the beat as he rolls his hips softly while standing in front of his wine cabinet, contemplating on which red to enjoy this evening.
Your spaghetti sauce bubbles in the pot as you stir it slowly, sprinkling in the fresh garlic and onion. After a dash of salt, you lift the wooden spoon to your lips, tasting the sauce and humming happily to yourself when the flavors explode on your tongue.
Eyes are on you again. The small hairs on your naked body standing on end after you start to become aware of the constant gaze again. You swallow, kinda hard, but keep your attention on the sauce, turning down the flame so you can start to form the meatballs. Clicks of expensive shoes against hardwood fills the kitchen and then there’s a chest crushed against your back. A nose in your hair, taking in another deep breath of your expensive shampoo. Warm fingers slither around your naked sides, gripping the meat of your body before pushing around to your stomach, grabbing more of you.
Another hand cups your right tit, squeezing hard, finding your nipple to roll it slowly. With his nose still in your hair, he sways you back and forth with him to the music. Hums along with it as the hand around your waist slips further down, fingers pushing between your folds, stroking gently. He releases your tit to stretch his arm over your chest and wrap his fingers over your shoulder as he takes another step into you, rubbing his cock against your ass.
You slam your eyes closed, a hum whirring in the back of your throat as your body starts to react to his touch. Slippery and wet in no time, the sound of your slick filling your ears when he pushes two fingers inside. You moan, throwing both hands outward to grip the edge of the counter.
A large palm cups your chin, fingers digging into your cheek as he yanks your head upward, “Toys don’t make noise, slut.” he growls into your ear, tone low and threatening, “This is for me, not you. Understand? Nothing tonight, or any night in the near future, is for you. Not until I say so.”
His fingers keep fucking into you. Real quick pushes. But his fingers don’t leave your body, no, he keeps them inside of you the entire time. His palm keeping a steady pressure against your clit. A thigh, Steve’s thigh, pushes between your legs to get them to open just as he drags that wet tongue back up along your neck, right to the back of your ear.
“Tell me when you’re about to come— and don’t burn my sauce.”
Only then does he pull his fingers from you, just to stroke your clit with his thumb. Your shaky arms return to stirring your tomato sauce, swallowing hard again as you check the flame, turning it even lower. Steve peeks at you over your shoulder, a small smile on his face as he watches you struggle, his fingers rubbing slow circles against you. Finding your nipples again with his free hand, knowing how sensitive they are and how much you like him to play with them.
“That meat isn’t going to cook itself,” he warns.
You nod quickly, wiping at your forehead with the back of your hand.
Little pangs of electricity start to bounce through you. Stomach going tight and then relaxing, hips bucking ever so soft as Steve starts to hit that little spot. Right when it starts to feel good. You rip into the saran wrap with two fingers and grab a chunk of the meat. It’s soft between your hands, freshly ground no doubt.
You roll it gently between your palms, grabbing just a little more to make a bigger meatball before you reach for some oil. It sizzles when you pour it into the pan, the oil. Pops with the heat. Your chest tightens suddenly, a deeper pang rippling through you as Steve flattens his fingers, thrashes them faster back and forth, back and forth, back and forth against your clit. You bare down and sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep quiet as your hips roll into his hand. Jesus.
Two meatballs, three, four, five, six. Number seven and then eight until the foam tray is empty. You plop them one by one into the hot oil, a faster, angrier sizzle filling the kitchen as the song changes again.
“Ooh,” Steve laughs, snapping his fingers, “C’est La Vie, I love this song.”
It’s all a jumbled mess to you. The music, his voice. Your heart is in your throat as your vision tunnels to the meatballs and sauce, trying to stay present. Not give in to the feeling pooling in your belly. The cool air from the air conditioning makes everything worse. Goosebumps pop up along your skin from the heat of the stove, the heat of your arousal spreading through you, and then the sudden whoosh of the cold. Steve can feel it. Knows your body pretty well after all this time. So his fingers start moving faster over your clit, teeth nibbling on your earlobe before they bite down into your shoulder.
Your hips jerk forward, your head falling back on his shoulder real quick before you throw it back forward. You’re stark still for a second, two, three. Eyes slammed closed, hands gripping the counter and the wooden spoon for dear life. The ripples are coming faster now, one not fully washed away before the second is rolling through. Sweat pops up on your brow. Breath hitches in your chest as it builds. Higher, faster as you force air out between your teeth.
A low hum slips out, vibrates in your throat as your eyes flutter. Your clit stings from the constant contact, jumps once or twice at the onslaught. It’s so close you can taste it. Lurking just below the surface, a minute more and you’ll be a howling, squirting mess. That’s okay, baby. I like a squirter.
“I’m gonna come,” you force out between heavy panting, “S-Steve, I’m g-gonna come.”
And just like that. All the pressure, the touching, his chest crammed to your back, hard cock rubbing. It’s all gone. You find the energy to push the meatball around the pan before leaning forward, resting your palms on the counter as your hot, wet cunt throbs— begs for a release. Steve sucks his fingers clean behind you, loudly, with a little pop as he pulls them from his mouth and wipes them dry on your thigh.
There’s no praise. No sweet epithets or words of encouragement for doing the right thing and telling him you were about to come. No. There’s just a slap on the ass before he throws his arm around your neck, catching your chin in the crook of his arm, “I own you. This cunt,” he grabs your sex, cups it real hard, “I own this filthy little cunt, got it? You are mine to do with what I please.” he falls silent, blinking at the side of your face a few times, “Good girl or bad girl, you’re mine.”
His fingers start rubbing again, real slow, slipping along your clit and teasing your opening, “How much longer until dinner’s ready?”
“Um,” you stutter, “Uh, I just uh,” you shut your eyes again quick, humming soft, “I just gotta cook the noodles. Not long.”
“Enough time for me to use you?”
Your brown eyes pop open. Chest still rising and falling hard as the sound of his belt buckle being undone stuffs your ears, “Yes.” It’s simple, your answer. Quick and quiet, “Just let me get the water boiling.”
He allows you to slip out from between him and the counter, over to the sink. Shaky hands hold the glass measuring cup underneath the stream of water before pouring it into the pan. Purposed steps carry you back to the stove, Steve still standing there, watching every move you make as you set the pot on the back burner and turn the knob, igniting the flame underneath it. You add a dash of salt to help it boil and then you both just wait. Stand there, staring at it. Almost willing it to start bubbling.
Once the water is dancing, bubbling soft, there’s movement behind you again. The sound of his belt sliding against the material of his slacks, in and out of each loop. The pop of a button, the slow zip of his zipper coming down. All the while you reach for the box of spaghetti noodles, breaking it open and dumping them into the water.
Warm hands are on your hips. Guiding you over a step or two before fingers slide up your spine and slip over your shoulder. He lifts your leg. Bends it at the knee and places it on the counter before bending you forward. Another round of shivers ripple down your spine and throughout your body as his warm cockhead pushes through your sticky folds. Then he’s pushing, just at your opening. He grabs the back of your neck, squeezes, as he pushes inside so easy.
“What a fucking whore,” he muses, letting out a deep breath, “This is all—” he grunts low as he slips all the way in, his stomach flat against your ass, “ —all you’re good for—” sucks a gulp of air in through his teeth before pushing it out real slow, “ —this is all bad girls are good for, understand?”
You nod again. Quickly. Keeping your bottom lip between your teeth as you take him. He fills you up good. Deep. And you’re so ready, needy and wet, hot and swollen. Extra sensitive to his fingers playing with your clit again. But you don’t dare make a sound, nope. Not one. You just knaw on your lip as you bounce off of Steve’s stomach, your nipples grazing the marble countertop with each pass, adding to the sensation of it all.
“This fuckhole,” he pants, his hands moving back down to grip your waist, “This dirty little needy hole was made for me and only me. You know that deep down, don’t you— ah, fuck.”
It’s getting unbearable. You’re hot all over, tingly, sweaty. The urge to reach between your legs and rub your clit, to tease that little nub until it spasms, until your walls are clamping about Steve’s cock so you can milk him… it’s… hard to ignore. You have to ball your fists to physically stop yourself. Slow breaths, in and out, in and out. This isn’t for you.
Steve yanks you up suddenly, crushing his chest into your back, craning your head towards the ceiling, a fist full of your hair. Teeth are on your skin again. Nipping and biting as he fucks into you. Fingers finding your tits again, groping and squeezing, tweaking thick nipples until you're grinding your teeth, trying to keep quiet— trying to be a good girl.
You’re convinced Steve can read your mind. Months of his training is working both ways. He snakes his long arm down your body, real slow, between your tits, down your soft belly, right until his fingers are hovering above your sex— the tips just barely touching your clit. He keeps them there, just there, to tease you more. His pounding hips thrusting you forward, pushing you into the smallest, sweetest, delicate little touch from the pads of his fingers against your tingly clit. And with it comes the pangs in your stomach, the electric charges racing through your veins.
You curl your lips to speak his name, to let him know you’re about to come again but there’s no need. Steve grips your waist, hard, his nails digging into the meat of your sides. His octave raises just a hair, his grunts louder, hips losing control of their smooth delivery. He slams into you one last time and just holds there for a second, cock rooted deep as he starts to spurt.
He starts fucking into you again, ribbon after ribbon of silk filling you up as he releases. You flatten your palms on the countertop to hold your weight, letting your mouth fall open and silently counting to ten to keep the mere sound of him coming from making you come all over him. The chain between the leather handcuffs slapping against the wooden cabinets below.
After he’s done, milked, his heavy head falls to your shoulder, lips grazing your shoulder blade, “Whew,” he mutters before pushing out a quick breath and shaking his head, “Mmm.”
He pulls out of you and stumbles back into the island, leaving a string of cum and slick hanging from your cunt. You swallow hard again, tilting your head towards the ceiling, blinking as you focus your breaths. Then, you pick up the wooden spoon. Stir the cooking pasta— albeit with a shaky hand. Check the sauce to make sure it’s not burning.
Like a good girl.
There’s no more talking between the two of you as you finish up his dinner. Steve cleans himself up and moves back towards the kitchen table, leaving you a mess while plating his food. Cum dribbles from your cunt. Slips down the inside of your thigh, strings of your slick hanging between your swollen, hot folds. It’s degrading, the whole scene. You, bare naked, him fully dressed. Cum dripping from your used cunt as he just sits there, all dressed up and clean, watching you approach with his spaghetti.
You set his plate in front of him, leave again for just a moment to slice into the fresh loaf of French bread, butter them up and bring him two slices. Pour his wine.
Steve smiles up at you, “Thank you, bunny,” he says, picking up his knife and fork. Then he just points, down at the floor by his side.
You fall to your knees. Scootch a little closer to his side.
“Aht, aht,” he tisks gently, spinning his plate to get it just right before picking up his fork and knife. He taps on the table, “I wanna be in your mouth while I eat.” You stare at him with wide eyes, lips parting a little as he slices into a meatball and pops it into his mouth.
Your eyes drift down his side and to his lap, his pants still splayed open from his use of you in the kitchen. You can’t help but blink back up at him as he sits there, spinning his fork looped with spaghetti into his spoon. He keeps his eyes straight forward, as if you aren’t even there, as he takes another bite. Chewing slow. Exhaling happily. The song in the background changes again— something slower. Richard Marx maybe?
Next thing you know, you’re crawling. Underneath the table, propping up on your knees again in front of him. The clinks and scrapes of his silverware against the plate sound from above, the soft click of his wine glass connecting with the tabletop after he takes a sip.
Your fingers take over, skipping up his thighs and to his open fly, warmth finding warmth. Steve doesn’t skip a beat when you pull him from his boxers, still semi hard, veins just barely pressing against the delicate, thin skin. You open up and take him in. Just like that. Pushing forward, so close now that his knees press into your shoulders.
It takes a minute for you to adjust. Find the right position that’s comfortable. The awkwardness of what to do with your hands fading as you just rest them in your lap. You blink steadily as he takes up the space in your mouth and flattens your tongue to the bottom of your mouth. It’s strange, just having his cock there, without sucking, licking, spitting, slobbering on it. You raise your eyes a bit, just to his chest, focus on the soft inhales and exhales he takes. The silverware on the plate, the wine glass lifting and clicking back down, him moaning a little as he devours the meal you’ve prepared. Almost as if he’s completely unaware that his cock is in your mouth and that he’s eating a woman.
Something in you, somewhere deep, starts to stir. Warmth blooms in your belly, across your flesh as you start to go all slick again. There’s something intimate about this. About the degradation of it. You could curl your tongue around him right now. Really form your lips around his cock and get him all hard and ready again. Lick him to his mushroom head, and then pull him all the way inside again. Right until he’s at the back of your throat. You could use your hands— grip his thighs, dig your nails in. Hold that little waist of his as you suck him off while he eats.
Maybe he wouldn’t even acknowledge it. Just keep eating, keep humming right along to the song as he pushes his bread around the plate, sopping up the rest of your sauce and whatever’s left of Noa. Yeah. Something deep starts to stir.
Or maybe he’d be angry. Maybe he’d yank you up from your place on the floor, grab you up in his big hands, tell you how bad of a girl you are— how you just don’t learn. Then he’d throw you on the table. Spread your legs real wide and run his fingers through your folds. Push them in real slow, tease your asshole with his thumb. Without warning, he’d just slam into you, a hand against the back of your head, pinning you down. Using you like the little doll you are.
A moan escapes at the thought of it and you feel Steve hitches just a bit. The vibration of your little noise sending a tremor up his spine and right to his balls. He even jumps a little in your mouth. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
You’re a mess again. All wet and drippy, stomach tight. You adjust and then readjust under the table, thighs starting to burn. Steve likes to savor each and every one of his meals, you see. There’s a clattering of his utensils onto the plate, the slurp of the last drop of wine being swallowed and then he just pushes away from the table. Out of your mouth. You fall forward and catch yourself with your hands. The fantasy in your head dissolves like a sugar cube in water.
Turning your head, you watch him move into the kitchen, pour another glass of wine. He washes his plate. Pops back into the fridge and starts pulling things out, “You’re a lucky girl,” he calls, “A very, very lucky girl. Come, sit.”
You crawl out, move to the bar, slide into the seat as something starts to sizzle in the pan in front of him. A lobster tail.
“Ah, no, I don’t do meat,” you smiled back at him in that dim little bar, “Pescatarian.”
You feel his eyes on you again and pull yours up, blink quick, “A very lucky girl, indeed.” He smiles.
—
Steve watches you eat, pushes you to finish it all— the lobster, the little bit of pasta that was left over now doused with olive oil and a little basil, the small side salad. Makes you drink a full glass of water— gotta replenish your fluids, baby.
“Good girl,” he smiles when you finish the glass, “Now, I want you to wash your dishes, one by one.”
“Ok—”
“ — I’m not finished,” he warns, his tone making you snap your lips shut again, “Between each dish, I want you to touch yourself, but you don’t get to come, understand?”
You swallow hard. Blink nervously back at him, before dropping your head, “O-okay. Yes.”
Steve reaches out, catches your chin with his knuckles and tilts your head back up. His thumb caresses your chin as his eyes bounce back and forth between yours, “You were a bad girl and this is how bad girls get treated.” You nod, try and drop your head again but he yanks it back into place, squeezes your cheeks, “I trusted you and you disappointed me, remember?”
Tears cloud your eyes as you nod again, “I remember, I’m sorry—”
“ — shh, shh, shh, don’t cry,” he whispers, “Just do as I say.”
He drops your chin from his hand. Leans back into his chair and rests his arm over the back of the stool. Cocks his head. That’s your cue.
You draw your right leg up first, flattening your foot on the seat of the barstool. Then the other, spreading yourself open, putting your used cunt on full display. Shaky fingers find your clit, your soft touch rather calming as your nerves and anxiety starts to peak again. It won’t take long, you’re so worked up and ready after being teased and touched and denied for the evening. You start rubbing anyway, electricity sparking in your stomach instantly.
Pat, pat, pat, your fingers flat against your clit as you slap at yourself before rubbing again, slick coating your digits. Your tits bounce and jiggle as your hand gets faster, the feeling building hard and quick. You cup your left tit, pull on your nipple as your hips push forward into your thrashing hand— up and down, back and forth, flesh hot and sticky and swollen.
Steve’s trusting you to get this right. The very thought makes you moan. You want to make him happy, gain his trust back so you push further. Push yourself right to the brink. Right to where you can feel your heart in the back of your throat. Right to where your release is rippling up and down your spine. Right to where the synapses are snapping so quick, so hard that there’s no time for the feeling to recede, another wave of electricity rolling in on top of the other.
You’re moaning and gasping, the filthy sound of your wet cunt filling the kitchen, hips pushing and pulling and when it’s right there— right where one more thrash, rub, slap would pluck you like a ripe fruit— you stop. You let your head fall back and your mouth hang as you drag in deep breaths, humming low while you exhale, trying to bring yourself back down. Your two feet hit the floor and you stand— with help, having to brace your still handcuffed hands on the counter to steady yourself. Two blue eyes follow you around the counter and to the sink.
It continues like that for every utensil you used for dinner. Plate, fork, knife, cup, bowl. You’re trembling now, hot all over, needy, achy— confused. Your mind is spinning, blurry, fuzzy. The heat, the wet between your legs, the sting. Those eyes. Unwavering. Just staring at you as you hold your hands underneath the warm stream of water, trying to finish cleaning this stupid bowl.
A sob chokes up in your throat, honestly catching you by surprise. The bowl in your hands clanks against the sink when you drop it, your hands flying to your mouth and face so you can hide. You’re sobbing, all six months of this hell culminating into this moment and spilling over.
“I ca-can’t do this,” you sob, the words barely discernible, “I’m sor-sorry, i’m— i’m so confused— i’m so,”
A warmth wraps around you within seconds. Arms, a chest, lips. A soft murmur in your ear. You’re lifted right off of your feet, your legs pulled around his waist, a large palm cradling the back of your head while the other slips up and down your naked back. You wrap your suddenly heavy arms around his neck and bury your face into him, let him carry you away. Down another hallway. Into a room— his room.
A softness then surrounds you, a comforter and pillows. They smell like him. It’s nice. Steve disappears into the bathroom, leaving you all alone in this big bed… the door cracked.
Now’s your chance! Run!
“I’m sorry, bunny,” you turn your head towards his voice wafting from the bathroom, “I pushed too hard tonight, didn’t I?”
You blink, your eyes stinging and puffy, and then he’s there, leaning against the door frame. Greedy eyes skip down his bare frame. Smooth, bare skin. Abs. Little black boxer briefs hugging his small waist… and that nagging voice, the last little bit of fight you had left, sinks away.
“I don’t,” he sighs before rubbing his forehead with his fingers, “I don’t like doing this to you, but you make me. You know that right? You make me do these things.”
You just start to cry harder.
Steve pushes away from the door frame, keeping his eyes on you as he saunters towards the bed and lays next to you. He cradles your cheek in his palm again, his thumb pushing back and forth over your lips as he blinks back at you. Then he kisses you, real soft. Slow. It makes your eyes flutter all stupid. He rolls on top of you, his weight pinning you to the mattress as his tongue pushes into your mouth, massages yours, licks at the roof.
You feel like a feather as Steve works his way down your body. His lips and mouth nipping at your skin, licking, kissing down, down, down. Between your breasts, down your stomach as he spreads your legs with his knees. He sits up, up on his knees and tilts his head again as he looks down at you, a soft smile on his face.
“This is what it’s about you know,” he says soft, running his fingers between your tits, “It’s about giving.”
Steve grabs your bound hands and pulls them toward him, resting them over his heart. You sit up, your eyes wide as you blink at him.
“It’s about giving yourself over to somebody. Becoming one with somebody else, forever and that’s…” Steve drops his head, his eyes following your hands as they slide down his sides and dip into his boxers. A sharp breath pulls through his teeth when your lips meet his stomach, right above the band of his boxers as you start to pull them down, “That’s a beautiful thing.”
He cups your face in his hands and kisses you again, “That’s surrender,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours he’s so close, “That’s love.”
You nod, all stupid and naive, batting your big eyes and breathing heavy, “I understand.”
Steve kisses you again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding along the roof of your mouth. He grabs your top lip between his and sucks real soft, “Do you love me, bunny?” He whispers.
A hum vibrates in your throat, through your chest that’s now rising and falling harder and faster. He’s so hot and cold, you’re angry and scared but so needy and clingy all wrapped up into one. You want all of his attention, but none of it at all. You want to go home but when you have the chance to run, you stay.
You want to hate him. Hate his hands around your neck, his lips on your skin… but your cunt aches for him now. Tightens around nothing but the thoughts of him moving down that corridor for you in the middle of the night. Wets with the longing for his fingers in your mouth. Clenches for those filthy names that roll off his tongue.
You have to blink away from him. The tears are filling your eyes again and god, you don’t want to disappoint him again. It’s just so confusing.
Steve laughs at the sight of your internal struggle. It’s low, rumbles through his chest, but he’s so delighted, “Aw honey,” he purrs as his thumbs sweep underneath your eyes, wiping away the wetness, “Honey, honey, honey, it’s okay— it’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”
The words still don’t come. They’re stuck between your mind and throat somewhere. Maybe the fight isn’t all the way dead yet.
“I know what you need,” Steve nods slow before he bops your nose with his finger.
He lays you back, his big hand cupping the back of your head all the way until it meets the pillow. Then he’s crawling over you. Knocking your knees apart with his so he can muzzle in between. Collects your legs with his hands, throws them over his shoulders as he flattens his body against the mattress. You gasp when he drags the tip of his nose along your stomach, from hip to hip, his lips snagging your skin at random intervals.
“Look at you,” he whispers after kissing the inside of your thigh, “You’re so,” he kisses you again, this time a little lower, closer to your swollen sex, “Wet for me.”
You draw your legs together around his head as he punctuates his words with his fingers— slipping three of them all the way in, “God, you always take me so easy, sweetheart.”
Steve’s wet tongue joins the party before you’re even ready for it, your brain already turning to mush from just his fingers. It slips through your folds as he pumps his fingers slowly and flicks against your achy clit before he sucks the nub into his mouth. Your hips push into his face, a long, breathy moan escaping your mouth as you finally start to get a little pleasure after the past few days.
His fingers curl inside to stroke your wet, soft walls. He leans back a little, disconnecting his face from your pussy with a smack to watch his thick fingers go in and out, his thumb taking the place of his tongue and lips on your clit. Steel eyes skipping up to your face as he puckers his lips, blowing warm air against sticky skin. Warm, wet lips find your thigh again. Steve presses one, two, three, four sloppy kisses before his teeth snag your skin— a quick nip before he sits up and drags you down to the edge of the bed.
On his knees, he grabs your right leg and throws it over his shoulder while hooking his arm under your left, his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh. You push up onto your elbows to watch as he buries his face in your cunt again, shaking his head back and forth, smacking on you loud. He starts flicking his tongue again as your hips roll. Pushes his three fingers back in and jams them harder and faster.
Your head falls back as you squeak from the pressure building in your stomach. Your hips take on a rhythm of their own, bucking into Steve’s face as you pull yourself up, cupping his head in your palm. He hums against your skin to send vibrations through you, sending your octave higher and higher. You start pulling at your nipple, rolling it gently as you bite down into your bottom lip. Curse words and hisses fall from your mouth as the coil inside starts to unravel with every lick, every suck, every jab of his fingers.
Strained thighs start to shake from the tension building in your body. You’re a moaning mess; your hips almost uncontrollable as his tongue starts sneaking inside your slit, right along with his fingers. Steve’s making a meal of you all the while, smacking loud, shaking his head back and forth, leaving back just long enough to slap your pussy with his wet fingers before rubbing your clit and plunging back into you with them.
You gasp when his tongue travels to your taint and circles your rim, causing your hips to snap again. He’s lapping at your cunt within seconds, pushing that sneaky tongue down to your taint and asshole every so often, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of your collapse.
“Fuck, Steve,” you breathe, letting your head fall again, “I’m gonna cum, baby— I’m gonna—” just as you're about to give into it— the electricity, the rushing pressure— you freeze. Your fuzzy brain sharpening in an instant.
You’re unsure of what to do.
He hasn’t… told you what to do yet.
You try and relax— pull it back by releasing a slow, steady breath between your teeth. This is a test. He’s testing you. If you weren’t sure before, you certainly are now that those eyes are on you again, his fingers slowing just a tad, his lips still wrapped around your clit. He pushes his fingers deep, keeps them there real still for a second or two before he curls them again and just starts stroking your insides. Quick and repeatedly against the same little spot. All the while, staring up at you as he sucks on your sweet little nub.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip again, hips pushing hard into his face before you can stop them, “I’m, mmph, I’m close. Ca-can I cum this time?”
“Mmm,” he groans, pulling away from your pussy, chin and mouth wet and shiny as he flips his eyes down to your puffy cunt, “Ask me nic—”
“—Please? Can I cum this time, Steve? Pleaseplease?”
He chuckles at your eagerness, “What a good girl you are. Yes bunny, you can cum this time.”
Your heart soars at the news. Steve slaps your clit again before diving back in, flattening his tongue against your slit, the tip just catching the edge of your little hole. He’s moaning against you as he sucks your clit back into his mouth, shaking his head back and further with furver. You cradle the top of his head with your hand again and finally give yourself permission to relax, to give all the way in. That you deserve this after being a bad girl.
Within minutes, you’re soaring again, like Icarus against the sun. You’re panting, squirming, writhing, hips snapping against his tongue and lips and mouth. When it snaps, that little, hot coil that’s buried deep inside, it’s heavenly. Your hips snap one last time and stay there, thighs shaking, the soft meat of your belly jiggling as your clit jumps with each convulsion of your pussy.
Steve jumps back as you start to squirt, puckering his lips as he exhales and continues to pound into you, clearly very pleased, “That’s right, baby,” he eggs on, slapping at your clit with his free hand, “That’s right, this little filthy hole is all mine, isn’t it? You sweet thing, you.”
It splats against the carpet, gushing like a geyser as you finally get to release all this pent up emotion. Your hips jerk with each wave, each squirt until your limbs turn to liquid. You fall back against the mattress, unable to hold yourself up any longer, your body jerking with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You can’t catch your breath fast enough as you drag in air.
“You’re so pathetic it’s adorable, you know that?” Steve pipes up after a minute or two, now standing at the side of the bed, his hard cock in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, from base to tip, rolling his palm over his red cockhead, “I could smell it on you that night at the grocery store. I just knew I had to have you.”
Just seeing him there, fucking himself with his hand, his tits and biceps flexing with each stroke, his breath just barely hitching, eyelids fluttering just a tad— makes you clench. You blink at him with wide eyes before dropping them to his cock in his hand, a little moan sneaking through. You are pathetic. You want him. You hate him. You need him. You want to kill him.
You want him.
Everywhere. In your mouth, in your hands, in your soaked cunt and tight ass. You’d almost beg.
Steve holds out his hand to you. His head cocked, a barely there smile painted on his lips as he blinks at you. You slide your small hand into his and let him pull you off the bed, turn you in his hands so his chest is crushed against your back. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, rubbing his nose along your shoulder as he presses his lips against your shoulder blade. Strong, soft hands travel down your body, groping your stomach and thighs as he drags his nose up your neck and into your hair, breathing you in.
Then he’s bending you forward, just a bit. Hard cock pushing through your folds and along your clit as he grabs a handful of your ass in his hands. He keeps sliding himself against you, using your slick to coat his cock until his tip just catches on your hole. But he doesn’t push any further. Doesn’t force his way in. He just waits. Waits for you to reach behind and grab him, stroke him a few times before you guide him back towards your opening and push back against him, your mouth falling open as he fills the void.
He grabs your arms and forces them behind you, folding them up against the small of your back. Then, and only then, does he start to move. Your skin slaps against his as you bounce off his cock and stomach, your eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. You’re still sensitive, just minutes post-orgasm, so every stroke, every snap of his hips hits that deep, used tight spot, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. He reaches over your shoulder and grabs your bouncing tit, squeezes hard before he starts prodding at your tight nipple. Rolling it, pulling on it, squeezing and tweaking it.
Steve’s a quiet lover when he’s in the midst of it. Always was, but when he does sound, every so often, it sends you high. Steve’s a picky man and he likes how you feel. Loves how you fit him like a glove. How warm and wet and soft your insides are. How your body closes around him, clenches him tight. He grabs your hips again, holds them tight as he fucks into you, deep, steady, calm strokes.
He untangles your arms and pulls one of them back, lets it rest on his hip before he grabs your shoulder. You hang on to him— dig your fingers into his flesh, the top of his ass— and he groans a bit, just as your nails bite into his skin. The notion makes your body clench; your walls instinctively clamping around him.
“Mmm,” he groans, picking up his pace, “I told you, this little hole is mine” he murmurs, “See how you react to daddy’s cock? Huh? You’ve been begging for daddy’s cock for days, haven’t you?”
You can’t even answer. Cock drunk, your head hangs, tits bouncing, nothing but little squeaks and moans and whimpers, a few curse words slipping through.
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, reaching down your body again, his fingers prodding at your clit, “Such a dumb little whore begging for daddy’s cock.”
You rest your hands, your still chained hands on the bed and close your eyes as you start to float again. Your body going all fuzzy, brain nothing but static as the warmth spreads through your veins. Steve’s hips start to go a little wayward. He starts to lose the smooth strokes. They get a little harder and haphazard, the rhythm of them gone. He palms your ass again and you get a little louder, your stomach tightening as the rope starts to uncoil slowly.
Steve grabs you shoulder suddenly— hard, his nails digging into your skin. Then he exhales, real quick at first, real shaky before a long, low moan rumbles through his chest and throat. He slams into you one, two more times, grabbing your hips and pushing deep and hard. You feel his cock jump, damn near think you feel his veins pulse inside of you and at the first shot of cum, you lose it again. Cumming around him as he fills you with his silk, ribbon after hot ribbon.
Your fingers find your convulsing clit, thrash against it as you ride the high, each little synapse firing off a pang of electricity. You’re squirting again, not quite as much as before, but just as hard. It feels good taking him like this. Like a needy little cumslut, wanting each and every spurt, every ounce and drop of his hot cum. He starts to fuck into you again, pumping, pumping, pumping each jet of his spunk real deep and you’re just greedy enough to clench your muscles, to keep it all inside.
Cock dizzy and full of warmth, you smile. All the heaviness you’ve been carrying around since you tried to run is all gone. The thoughts, the screams telling you to go, to run, all gone as his heavy, tight balls slap against you. You’re a mess again, but now so is Steve, his thighs and balls, lower stomach and the thick, dark, wiry hair all wet from your slick and your squirt. Steve levels a few slaps against your ass and you giggle abruptly, wiggling your ass as he finally pulls out and slaps his slippery cock on your asscheek.
He pulls you up and spins you around to face him with one quick motion, kissing you hard, shoving his tongue in deep. You take it all. Kiss him back just as hard and moan into him, his lips and mouth still tangy from tasting your cunt— but you like how you taste on him.
Steve lays you down and curls around you, playing with the ends of your hair before pushing his hand down your chest. You’re a happy little mess, smiling and humming at his touch, the cold chain of your bound hands laying across your stomach. He splays his hand across your tummy and holds it there, his eyes on the side of your face.
“That should do the trick, huh?”
You hum again, turning your head to nuzzle against his nose as sleep starts to invade, “Mmm, what do you mean?”
Steve pulls away just long enough to grab his phone from the dresser before he starts fumbling with it and places his hand back on your stomach, “You’re ovulating, yeah? Yeah, you started thirteen days ago.” Your eyes pop open at the words, just in time to catch him turn the phone towards you, the fertility tracker filling your vision.
He smiles wide and then kisses your cheek, “That should do the trick.”
Since that new show about Pamela Anderson and her abuser is out (starring lily james and sebastian stan), I wanted to remind everyone not to watch it. It’s marketed through a feminist lens, with the people involved saying it’s about a women ‘reclaiming her story’, when in reality Pamela herself was not involved at all throughout the show and it was all made without her consent or narrative. It’s not a women ‘reclaiming her story’, it’s Hollywood stealing and using a women’s abusive past for money.
I was wondering if you knew of any fics where the reader is pregnant and when she goes to tell Bucky, Bucky reacts badly?
hey there sorry I took so long to answer but I only could find a few fics fo this. I apologize but hopefully others my have some recommendations as well.
Need More of That Blue In My Life by @foreverindreamlandd
Full disclosure for whoever asked, I haven’t updated Some & Others in a long time cause my brain wants to die instead of write, but it exists and I hope you find what you’re looking for!!
WARNINGS: friends to lovers, minor angst, brief discussion of therapy, mention of divorce, flirting, smut
NOTE: This fic takes place between Avengers: Endgame and the events of Falcon & the Winter Soldier. The reader has a nickname - “Tricks.” I haven’t posted a fic in several months, so please rb and comment on this one to boost it a little!
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I do not consent to minors (17-) reading my work. This story is 18+ only. Do not save, download, or repost my work on any other sites.
It’s late when your phone dings. It’s been a few days since you got any messages, and the high-pitched beeping startles you from your resting place on your couch. It’s Bucky, funnily enough. The man hasn’t texted you for weeks, probably because the government’s watching him close and nobody in their right mind likes that level of privacy invasion.
The text is simple, short and to the point. No hello’s or how are you’s.
> Are you busy?
You text back quickly, watching the DELIVERED notification almost instantly turn to READ.
< no. why?
> Want to come over? Got pizza.
You chew on your lower lip, contemplating whether or not to say yes. You were looking forward to a quiet night in, avoiding people that only want you around if you can save the day or if you can tell some basement-dwelling conspiracy theorist about what really happened at the Avengers compound.
The number of times you used rutting is the number of times I painted my pants, feel me?
Not to get too distracted from the DEED
I’ll truly never get over how natural all your interactions with Bucky feel. It’s just… I mean, I can’t think of better ones. Little pockets of time that feel so real and so raw. They’re nerve wracking. Some people write and you can see where a conversation is going from a mile away. Not you. Never you. I’m nervously reading every word, living the conversation right along with them. Your characters are so full of life and truly could go any direction at any time. I love it. They’re my friends, no one can tell me otherwise.
Tbh. Your shit just hits different. I feel in my heart.
And my pants
(Insert Ciara gif Bc her tunes and your smuts make me feel the same. I dedicate “Ride” to Bucky. May we break in your bed -in the words of Ludacris- “Let the 808 thump and the beat go bump ‘cause she ride it like a thoroughbred”)
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