Smallnotsorry - Soft-ass Thot

he is warm

I guess it is

bucky barnes: sunscreen assassin

Bucky never thought he’d wind up using his latent skills like this.

“They invented sunscreen for a reason,” he reminded Steve acidly.

“I know,” Steve replied. He’d tried to sound nonchalant, but the fact is that even with the serum, he still burns faster and with more intensity than anyone Bucky’s ever met. After a long six hours at the beach, that day, Steve was in agony, lying on the floor in the living room because it was the coldest room in the house and the tiles were always a little bit chilly no matter what season it was.

He was trying to wait out the desperate hour before the serum got with the program and washed him out again. “UV rays are real,” Bucky said. “They’re out there.”

“I know.”

“People have died of sunburn.”

“I doubt that’s true, and even if it was, it wouldn’t kill me.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Bucky prodded Steve’s shoulder with his toe just to hear him hiss. “This is a preventable affliction. You would disrespect countless sunburn sufferers across the world by choosing this fate when some people would die to have the sunscreen resources—”

“I’m not wearing sunscreen,” Steve said flatly.

Steve now denies this constituted ‘issuing a challenge,’ but Bucky knows a mission objective when he hears one.

“Uh,” Sam says next time they’re at the beach, when Bucky flies out of nowhere to wrestle Steve to the ground with his sunscreen-covered hands.

“No,” Steve says sternly, fighting back. It’s not even about the sunscreen anymore, it’s about Steve being a stubborn fucking bastard. Bucky’s also not sure he can take another day of watching Steve stand in the bathroom, rolling the peeling skin off his person with an expression of vague distaste, as though molting an entire layer of skin is an unpleasant but normal human behavior after passing an afternoon at the goddamned beach.

“You,” Bucky seethes through his teeth, “will—slather—”

“Go slather yourself,” Steve hisses back, and if Bucky does get a few solid smears in, Steve throws him handily halfway down the beach, leaving Bucky skidding through the sand in a stopping crouch. He’ll have sand in his prosthetic for days now.

“Let it go, Buck,” Steve tells him, and all Bucky’s efforts wind up achieving is that Steve gets a much more mottled sunburn, like a cow, or like a dog rolled in pink mud. A lot more crankiness gets directed at Bucky when it starts to peel as a result, like it’s his fault Steve thinks he’s too good not to roast half to death.

“Ahh,” Steve hisses, rolling the skin off his shoulders. “This is so much worse. I don’t know where the burn begins or ends—”

“Then wear,” Bucky says mildly, turning the page on his book, “fucking, sunscreen.”

“No.”

“Guess your skin is gonna keep peeling off in weird streaks then.”

“You would do this to me again?”

“I will do this,” Bucky promises, “as many times as it takes for you to get the goddamn picture and put this stuff on—”

“It’s disgusting! It’s wet, and it smells like… chemical coconuts.”

“Less disgusting than shedding your fucking skin?”

“Leave it alone, Bucky!”

“No,” Bucky shoots back; and Bucky always keeps his promises.

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