"I kneel into a dream where I am good and loved. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones." - Natalie Wee
Bucky has to spend six months locked up with a stranger.
His teammates went on an international pres...
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Bucky was in the shower, and everything was normal. He survived breakfast with you, survived a whole day in the apartment with you, and survived another night alone. Sure, he laughed at your dumb jokes a bit more than usual, agreed with some wacky ideas he probably wouldn't have agreed to yesterday. But he was in the shower, and things were normal, and everything was going to be okay.
He lathered up, shampooed his hair and rinsed it out, all normal. But he winced when he tried to run his hand through it after; it felt dry and plasticky, easily tangled. If you felt it like this— if he was lucky enough to somehow convince you, beg you to touch him again— he would never hear the end of it. As much as he didn't want to admit it, you were right about his shitty cheap shampoo.
That purple bottle of conditioner, your conditioner, was taunting him from its spot on the ledge. You told him to use it, but he hadn't touched it— mostly out of spite. But maybe. Just maybe.
Maybe he could try it once. You didn't even have to know. He would use just a bit, and he could buy another bottle and refill yours before you even noticed. Just this once. He shot a guilty look over his shoulder, then popped the top of the bottle open and squeezed some shimmery liquid into his palm.
The fragrance that filled the air sent him reeling backwards. It wasn't strong, but it was you. The candy-coated sweetness that surrounded him when he laid on the couch with your pillow and blanket, that filled his nose and his lungs and his brain when he held you against him. He lathered it between his hands and tried to ignore how his breath hitched. He was fine, he could do this. He started to run the conditioner through his hair but he had to stop, had to brace his arm against the shower wall because he didn't trust his shaky legs to keep him upright.
"Fuck," he whispered. It was too much, too close. Too similar to when you touched him. His cock was stirring already, starting to swell and twitch, demanding his attention. Bucky whimpered as the scent mixed into the steam and overtook all of his senses. He lowered his hands from his hair and hissed when his forearm brushed against the sensitive tip of his cock. So fucking sensitive. He didn't understand how he could feel absolutely nothing for so long, and now all of a sudden the tiniest puff of air, the most featherlight of accidental touches had him throbbing. A smell. This time it was because of a smell— Christ.
He had hoped that the urges would calm after that morning. After his... release. He'd gone without for decades, after all— he couldn't even remember the last time he had gotten off. The more he thought about it, the more he decided he must've at least masturbated over the years. He just couldn't remember because they would stick him in that damn machine and erase everything whenever he started to have a sentient thought. He must have. Because if he was wrong, if he hadn't managed to indulge somehow, that meant the last time had been at their camp during the war.
That meant this was seven decades of repressed urges hitting him all at once.
He turned the shower knob hotter, let the room fill with steam like it did that time with you. When he saw you through the mist, every curve and angle and peak of you. He leaned his back against the cool tile wall, support for when his thighs inevitably began to tremble, and spread just a drop of the silky conditioner into his palm. He wrapped his fingers around his cock with a shudder and started working over his length. Even the spray of the shower couldn't drown out his whimpers and moans and the unmistakable slapping sound of skin against skin.
