barnestruck

[barnestruck]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐁.𝐁.

summary | based off a request i got where i was asked to write some "spicy best friends to lover" featuring bucky ... first time ever participating in the trope, had to add my own twist. featuring somewhat of jock!bucky/frat!bucky. inbox open, requests super appreciated

pairing | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis | modern au, mentions of physical assault, mentions of violence, fighting, arguments, hurt/comfort, dubcon if you squint, grinding, make-out session, bamf bucky, protective bucky, bicep porn, childhood friends gone adult, friends to lovers, not as dark as it sounds, aka i love tagging things as if this is ao3

“Bucky.”

You call his name as loud as you dare, fixated on the third-story awning window stapled into the brick building. It was cold in Brooklyn for the six A.M. morning it was, and standing out on the sidewalk in nothing more than a sweetheart corset and a ragged denim skirt, it felt like the air was settling over your skin in a cold, all-consuming blanket. A chill racks through your arms as you hold them tight against your chest.

No reply. “Bucky.” You hiss, louder, wondering if you should just pick up a handful of pebbles from the tree-well nearest and throw a few off the glass of his window. It would be very Romeo and Juliet.

Alas - a light switches on then from inside the Barnes residence, and the need for star-crossed hijinks dissipates. The window pops open entirely and Bucky sticks the front half of his body out onto the street, bedhead on full display for all of New York to admire. He looked tired, with those sleepy blue eyes and crazy hair. A grey shirt hugged his biceps closely.

“What?” He calls down dreamily, as if the current situation required no more interrogation than the four letter word. In response, you jerk your chin over to the fire exit expectantly.

“I need you to slide the ladder down. Come on, it’s cold out here.”

Bucky stays where he is for a moment, forearms crossed on the windowsill. He doesn’t say anything for a second, enjoying the sight of you reaping the benefits of what you’ve sown from a night of evident partying, but with a heavy sigh, he wriggles his way out onto the fire escape. You watch him toe down the stairs barefoot, before releasing the ladder to a more manageable height. It jolts as it falls, making a sharp, clunky noise.

“Shh!” You call up, instinctively. “You’ll wake the whole damn building up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bucky calls back down dryly. He starts to inch the ladder back up again. “Would you rather I just…”

Laughing, you reach up for the rung closest. Bucky keeps his grip tight for a second, forcing the two of you into a game of tug-of-rope, but he releases his hold after a heartbeat and watches as you climb up.

You flip the back of your skirt down as you reach the top, following Bucky as he crawled from the ledge outside into the warm burrow of his room. Bucky Barnes arguably had the best bedroom known to man. It was small, but it worked better that way; what it lacked in size it made up for in coziness. He had a double bed shoved into one corner with a mound of pillows to nest into and thick Navajo star quilts layered over the mattress, color schemes ranging from burnt orange to deep green. Posters of Radiohead and Oasis plastered the walls - typical boy stuff. A couple of snapbacks hung on nail pegs, and the floor was littered with stuff that had once been taped up but finally fallen: empty energy drinks, and wasn’t it strange, what a trend that had become; a picture of his sister, all big eyes and black hair; a torn map of some video game landscape. There was a mess of laundry creating piles next to the rug, too, mounds of dirty socks and old shirts.

“Rough night?” Pries Bucky, feigning annoyance. His voice gave away how entertained he was. Bucky was popular. But he was more the college football, sneaking a flask into a bowling alley, tagging along to a game of golf at Chelsea Piers with his rich friends type, where you were more inclined to a night of dropping acid in some back-alley club before stumbling home with the sun and nearly giving in to the temptation of the cigarette butts that littered the gutter.

“Ugh,” you articulate, peeling your high-rise boots off. “Don’t remind me. I’m going to be hung the fuck over tomrrow.”

“You mean today.” He corrects, double checking that the latch on the window was locked properly before turning around and kicking a pile of laundry out of the way. He kept his voice low - his parents were still asleep. “It’s only six. You’ll wake up around one, moan like a wounded tiger till four, pick yourself up around five, and be back at it by eight.”

Grinning, you marvel at how well he knows you. “Don’t be mean, Buchanan.”

“I’m not. I’m being factual. I’m speaking factually.”

You turn to change, almost snorting. “Let me crash here?” It’s not really a question; you’re already undoing the back laces of your top. Bucky just turns to give you privacy.

“Are you, like, asking me?” The humor is evident in his voice. Something hits the back of your neck then, and you grope around to feel he’s thrown a spare shirt your way.

Dropping the corset to the floor, you give the bodice a swift kick under the bed in case Winnifred does any paraphernalia checks soon. You doubt she will - she wasn’t the type - but you were imposing enough already as it was; it was best not to leave Bucky with anything that might frame him in a bad light. His shirt feels deliciously cold as you slide it on over your head. The act made you nearly dizzy; you were halfway drunk yet, and sudden motions seemed to tip the equilibrium of things off.

You crane your head over your shoulder. “Can I have a pair of boxers too, please?” It was human nature for a girl of your age to be incapable of practical underwear. The kind you had on currently was a lacy thong that covered about as much as a leotard would, and the current palette of options was to either sleep in those bare next to your friend or with the skirt on. Neither seemed feasible. Besides, Bucky owned boxers that bordered on lethally comfortable, some knockoff Tom Ford silk brand that stretched over the thighs.

“Can you give me a second? I’m...looking for a clean pair.”

You stifled a gag as Bucky rooted through one of his dresser drawers. He was your best friend: a stand-up guy, a gentleman of the truest sense, even when the rest of Brooklyn seemed to prove incompetent, but sometimes it was blindingly clear he was such a guy. It was a biological imperative. Exhibit A: the all too convenient box of kleenex perched on his nightstand table. Hell, he even had a couple girls from newer Playboy covers taped to his ceiling. Sometimes when you spent the night and couldn’t sleep, their judgemental eyes stared down at you from above, all baseball tits and leather skin that suggested melanoma in ten years, tops.

“Here.” He says, finally, handing you an older blue gingham pair without meeting your eyes. “Are you decent?”

You roll your own. “Yes, Bucky. You can look.”

For someone who loved to stare at naked bodies, he sure put up one hell of a fuss when it came to potentially catching a glimpse of yours. Once, he accidentally walked in on you using the bathroom, and by the way he fell to the ground stomach-down and pretended to be stung by acid - complete with fake wails and cries of nonsense - you’d think he was a drama major at the college both of you went to.

He wasn’t. He was studying Physical Fitness, to become a therapist.

You just called him a dumbass and shut the door with your toe. He had a sister, for god sake; Lord knows he had to be all too used to hormones and tampons and having to deal with seeing her training bra fresh out of the laundry.

“That’s different,” he said once, after you brought it up. “But walking in on Rebecca taking a piss would be just as gross. You’re both like my sisters.”

With as much as he liked to play jester, there was truth in his words. Afterall, he was the one to teach you how to throw a proper punch; the one who stressed the difference between six cylinders in a vehicle’s engine and eight; the one who would glance disapprovingly at your outfits and comment “it’s like they get shorter each time,” but pinch at the bare expanse of your thighs anyways and always keep an ear out incase you came round his and needed a place to stay after a night out.

It was probably why sharing a bed and, generally, being in such close proximity while half naked wasn’t weird. There was never any stunted, awkward conversation as you’d crawl under the sheets together; never any prolonged eye contact and lapses of “experimentation.” At most, all you had to deal with was morning wood, and you did so by providing an appropriate laugh and polite ignorance as Bucky would shuffle out of sight down the hallway for a good twenty minutes until things settled.

You had been each other's first kisses, but that was more a measure of research than anything else. “Was that, like, really gross for you, too?” Bucky had asked as he pulled away from where the two of you had been sitting cross-legged in the library. It was. It was all warm spit and adolescent sloppiness and ew. It had been an act conducted with the severity of two brain surgeons poking around, and in all honesty, it sort of led to the two year arc where you didn’t exactly believe Bucky liked girls. Years later, and here he was making it a habit to shack up with Natasha Romanoff in the backseat of her Bentley.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, back in the present, as he peels the topmost layer of his bed more open to make space for two. There was still a warm divot in the mattress where he must have slept. “What would you do if, like, you were in the airport, and your flight got delayed to, like, the point of having to be imbursed one of those hotel waivers. And you’d have to spend the night.”

“Why?” You ask, stretching into the spot closest to the wall. Bucky once said if zombies ever got in, he’d be the first to die because of it and you wouldn’t care.

He ignores you. “I’d probably cry.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No.” Bucky shoots a dirty look out of the corner of his eye, like it’s your fault you don’t have his extended schedule memorized. “I was having a dream about it when you woke me up. For the record, it would be very masculine crying. Tears of frustration.”

“I’d refuse.” You retort.

“Refuse what?”

“Being deferred. If I make it halfway through a connecting flight and they try to strand me somewhere, I’d...I don’t know. I’d fly the plane myself.”

Bucky just scoffs. “Okay, Sully.”

“Wait,” you backtrack. “Why do you have nightmares about air travel?”

He flips off the overhead light then and darkness falls while the two of you whisper about potential symbolism. Mutually, it’s agreed upon that Bucky probably has some weird shit going on representing an emotional journey.

Rebecca bangs on the wall around seven to tell you both to shut the fuck up. She did it so often that she had to put up a poster of the drummer from 5 Seconds of Summer to hide the indentation it made into the wall. Bucky just flips off the air before rolling onto his stomach. “Let me know if you need any water, okay?” He whispers. “Or a bucket. There’s a spare toothbrush in the top left drawer in the bathroom, too, if you do end up throwing up.”

You grunt, flexing your toes underneath the waistband of his joggers to invade the warm skin there. Watery sunlight was starting to leak in through the heavy blinds, casting the room into a cycle of soft renewal. Letting your eyes shut softly, you could only hope the same would be said of your liver come morning.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT: a too handsy, too rowdy asshole not understanding the concept of no, and slapping you straight across the face in bed after a half-drunken meeting by chance. It left you with a bright red mark square over the cheek, the etching of each finger discernible, and Bucky absolutely livid.

“Just tell me his name.” He spoke eerily calm, but loud, as he paced the carpet of his bedroom. It had been nearly a week since you’d last spent the night. The broad stretch of Bucky’s shoulders looked borderline menacing as each tendon flexed itself taut in anger. He was in a black muscle tee, and the cutouts of his arms made his biceps look huge. “Seriously, Y/N. I don’t think this is funny. Just tell me his name.”

“Nobody is laughing, Bucky.” You complain, sitting on the very edge of his bed with your hands folded into your own lap like some sort of little schoolgirl. You were too frightened to make any sudden movements. Bucky furious = a terrifying entity. Once he had knocked some guy’s front teeth out in a game of hockey after being cross-checked in the throat with the stick. The coach had refused to penalize the other kid for doing so and you remember the in-sync gasps you and Wanda Maximoff had given as Bucky threw his helmet off onto the rink’s ice and grabbed the boy by the jersey before nailing him across the face so hard that scarlet trails splattered everywhere onto the white surroundings. He was madder now than he had been then. He was mad, mad at the guy who had hurt you, mad at you for what he dubbed “trying to protect the asshole’s undeserved privacy,” mad at the entire world, it seemed like.

He stops pacing then, and it’s almost scarier. “I just don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand.” You argue back. “Just drop it, alright? I made it out fine enough. Jesus, the last thing I want to do is think about what happened. It’s all I’m going to be able to do everytime I look into the mirror for the next week already.”

“You think I’m going to just let him get away with this?”

“You think I’m going to let you go to jail for aggravated assault?” You counter. “Get expelled from school for fighting? Besides, I don’t...know his name. I was drunk off Hennessy. It’s Connor...something, I think. Maybe Cole.”

Bucky nods slowly, pulling his phone out. “First thing tomorrow, I’m having Sam and the other guys meet me at Brower so we can hunt this freak down and knock his fucking lights out. Won’t even see it coming. Then, we’re going to the fucking police.”

“You’re taking this too far.” You explode off the bed and angrily start to snatch your things - your jacket, your phone. “I told you, I just want to forget it happened.”

“Don’t expect me to just be cool with some guy laying his hands on you.” Bucky seethes. “I’m not. I don’t exactly know why you are, but shit is not flying.”

Fuming, you try and search for the words that could provide even a sliver of an explanation that would make Bucky understand, but it’s futile. Women always get asked questions there are no good answers to - why didn’t you report it? Why didn’t you fight back?

Bucky would never understand that you did fight back. You did, and the worst you walked away with was a bruise on both your face and ego, and now you just wanted to close the chapter. It wasn’t worth it. People don’t seem to get that it’s just easier to burrow into blank nothingness for a while and let the shame and humiliation eat you whole until things smoothed over. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t your fault, but still, it felt like a layer of grime was climbing over your entire body like poison. The more the incident was acknowledged, the more the ick spread.

“This is fucking crazy.” Bucky accused, before forcing himself to calm down with a deep breath. “Look, I’m not mad at you, okay? Of course I’m not. I’m sorry for yelling. But you’re just trying to run away from everything right now. I’m not going to let some prick get away with hurting you, Y/N. He could’ve done worse. You hear about that shit all the time in these parts.”

“Look, Bucky, I appreciate you caring, you know I do, but at the end of the day, it’s not your fucking business if I don’t want it to be.”

He raises his arms to the air. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know!” You cry out, exasperated. “Home.”

“Are you going to press charges?” He prompts, following you as you stomped for the door. “Because you should.”

You swivel to face him, voice deadly serious. “Just leave it alone.”

“Who’s going to take care of you then if you’re so obviously against doing it yourself?”

That’s then you prove you can take care of yourself by throwing a punch for his jaw. You can feel it as if in slow motion - your elbow tightening, your knuckles breezing through the air. And then, in the blink of an eye, Bucky catches your fist in his own hand and slams you back against the wall by both wrists.

“Thought I taught you to throw a better one than that.” He spits.

“Let me go.” You writhe under his hold. “I will break your fucking nose with my forehead and scream till the neighbors call the cops.”

This wasn’t your first fight. Hardly. You knew him enough to know which buttons to push. Which threats worked, which didn’t. For the most part.

Bucky just leans in close, close enough that you can feel his hot breath bait across your face. There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t hurt you, but right now, he had you physically immobilized, and it made you almost madder than if he would try to wrestle you to the ground and catch your face with an elbow. “You want to scream? Fine. Go ahead. No one’s home. My parents aren’t, Rebecca isn’t, and I’m willing to bet anyone who lives close enough to hear isn’t either. It’s a Tuesday morning.”

Bucky keeps speaking, jerking his chin back by just a hair’s width. “Your manic-ass is not going to go wander the streets of Brooklyn right now. I’ll call a fucking cab if you want to go home so bad.”

“This is just like you.” You struggle, trying to angle your foot up at the right spot to nail him in the crotch. “Fighting everyone’s battles. I don’t care what you say, I’m not your sister.”

Bucky doesn’t let a beat pass. “Yeah, but you’re my best friend, and right now, you’re being an asshole.”

There’s silence then, no sound curling through the apartment except for two sets of labored breathing. Bucky’s arms remained as forceful as stone. You heave, lips curled down into a grimace, caught up in everything, in the adrenaline, and then you do something you haven’t done since you were eleven years old: you kiss him.

It’s messy, almost as messy as it was in the fifth grade. It’s more of a jerky slam of your chin hitting his as you catch Bucky’s mouth with your own than anything solid. More blunt contact than anything else. You pull back as fast as you came in, breathing even heavier as your eyes rake over his face. Poor boy, he looks absolutely startled, like a dog on the brink of both attack and breed.

“Don’t do that.” He mused, voice a soft wisp of a thing. His mouth: ruby red and shaped like a flat heart. “Don’t…” And then, he bridges the gap himself and aligns your mouths properly, making a sharp, hurt noise at the back of his throat as it happens.

Slowly, his hands relinquish the grip they had on your wrists - instead, they ghost up your arms, choosing to settle on either shoulder with a bruising squeeze. You felt an animal power course through you, and you surge Bucky backwards without breaking the kiss until the back of his knees hit the lip of his bed and the both of you went down. He took control back by rolling the two of you around on the mattress with his stockier frame until you were splayed under him, breathless, parallel with the ceiling. All at once, Bucky grinds down with his hips, a fluid roll of a movement that has you gasping. It was something you’d see straight out of a porno where the actors sort of just forget they have an audience.

He breaks off then, and it leaves you shuddering. The tips of Bucky’s fingers spider over the mark on your face and you wince, more from the soreness of your own flesh and blood versus any recoil based in fear.

“What are we doing right now?” He breathes, legs tangled between yours. One of his knees was brought up between your thighs, and you had to stop yourself from curling up against the sweet, hot pressure of it all.

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly. It was truthful; you had been acting off of instinct alone.

Bucky hesitates. “I don’t want you to think I kissed you back because I felt bad for you, or something. After what happened. Or that I think it would be...easy to take advantage right now.”

You swallow heavily. “I don’t think that.”

There’s a lapse of silence then. “But it doesn’t feel wrong, does it?” Bucky whispers, as if confessing something. And then, god, he slides his knee in tighter, just like you imagined he would.

“No.” You choke, daring to breach your fingers under the hem of his shirt, where you had never touched before, running your knuckles up his spine. It made him squeeze his eyes shut. “It doesn’t.”

Deep down, you knew it was the wrong answer. Friends don’t kiss each other like that and like it. It was breaking some sort of strictly instated, yet unspoken boundary. If Rebecca were to walk in, she’d probably scream.

“So, we should probably stop, right?” He says, even as he lets his mouth dip under your jaw and down your throat. The burn of his stubble left you raw and reeling.

“Yeah.” You agree, breathing out. It took all of your focus to do so. Bucky smelled like white tea and honey body wash - a sweet, fresh smell. It enveloped you. You could imagine crawling into his chest and staking a claim there.

Slowly - so slow it seemed like it physically pained him to do so - Bucky slides off from where he was straddled and falls to your side. For what feels like the first time ever, neither of you seem to know what to say, how to approach what, exactly, just happened. You’re still touching head to toe: Bucky’s knees were curled against your own, one of his arms lay trapped under yours, and your chests were rising and falling as if in tandem. There was a sudden warm stickiness between your thighs that felt wetly uncomfortable, and you squirm.

“I don’t really want to.” He admits. Then, he sighs. “We also can’t just pretend like that didn’t happen.”

Halfheartedly, you slam your head back into his pillow, once. “I feel like we just broke a list of rules in some sort of handbook. So much for girls and boys being able to get along without biology getting in the way, right?”

Bucky laughs, and the noise trails off. “I mean, I hope this doesn’t change anything. We’re still us, right?”

He shifts then, tucking his arms differently and swallowing. “Remember in high school when that one sub got mad because we would never separate? And that was just…us. People knew us. No matter what, I want that, still.”

“Maybe we’re still us, only now…we do other stuff, too?” You suggest, feeling somewhat juvenile as you bite your lip and pointedly glance downwards to your body to cue him in. Bucky only swallows harder, flashing a grin that bordered on frat house.

“That’s a good idea. Let’s go with that.”

You strike him with a soft backhand, and he relents. “Okay.” Bucky treads slowly. “Let me ask you something: are you doing this because you want to, or because you’re bored and worked up?”

You take a minute to try and piece together your own thoughts. “I don’t know. I think maybe this has been coming on for a while now.”

Bucky thinks, and then he shrugs. “We’ve always just felt like each other's. Guess I’ve just never really put much thought into it.”

You shift onto your side to study his face, reaching a finger out to poke the very tip of his nose. You could see every pore, every freckle, each flash of silver in his blue eyes. “Alright, let me ask you something.” You challenge. You were so close that even staring into his eyes, it was hard to focus, like everything was slightly blurry and out of shot. “Are you doing this because you’re just horny?”

You lean in to kiss him again without letting yourself think about it too much, lest a sudden shyness were to fall, and it’s not like before - it’s lazy, slow. Something meant for three A.M. and Sunday mornings. You could imagine peeling Bucky’s shirt off and sculpting your hands down and his bare skin, and suddenly, the fact that you could was exciting. It bit at your stomach like a bug.

Bucky rolls himself back on top and takes either of your wrists again, in a looser, more gentle hold. He kisses you once on the mouth, twice then, before pulling back. A thin line of spit connected you by the lips. “Yes, I am very horny right now. But I’m also thinking straight. Well, pretty straight.”

He takes a second to catch his breath. “I think...that things like this aren’t gradual. You don’t see them coming. It’s a free fall. Everything sort of hits you at once.” He takes his hands back, links his fingers through yours. He pulls your wrists up ever so slightly then, so they’re poised and connected to his by each knuckle. You were holding hands. “So, yes, I think we’re both caught up in everything, but...I don’t really want to stop. I don’t think I’ll want to stop.”

He stares down at you. He wore a chain around his neck sometimes, and the fantasy of it dangling over your face made you suddenly dizzy. “You are so fuckin’ pretty.” Bucky mumbles.

You wanted to bite his spine. Bite his cheek, his throat, any sliver of skin you could get your teeth on to claim. The feeling was very new and, frankly, very startling. Instead, you just turn your neck to the side, feeling a sort of heat flood your face. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He laughs.

“Don’t start saying some cutesy shit because that’s what you think you’re supposed to do now”

“Okay, fine.” He counters, a hint of amusement in his voice. “So sorry for calling you pretty. My apologies; it won’t happen again.”

“Asshole.” You laugh, a surprised bray of noise. The two of you are roughhousing now, leisurely, barging each other across the mattress and knocking limbs around like Tony Ferguson. The quilts burn against your skin as your bare leg runs down one.

Bucky stops you then, rearing back and holding his hand out as if to command heel with a poised look of fake seriousness on his face. He blinks, once. “You’re still going to wear my clothes, right?”

“Depends." You say, arching an eyebrow. "Are you still going to wear mine?"

[barnestruck]

For the Love of the Game - Masterlist

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader 

Summary: Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it. 

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol/drinking, Mild language, Angst, Minor injury, Smut (Minors dni, marked with **), Enemies to lovers trope!

a/n: Hi!! The main series is now complete! I’ll be posting drabbles/one-shots based on requests! :)

✶ Part One ✶ 

✶ Part Two ✶ 

✶ Part Three ✶

✶ Part Four ✶ 

✶ Part Five ✶ 

✶ Part Six ✶ 

✶ Part Seven ✶ 

Drabbles/One-shots (chronological) 

Bucky realizing he’s falling in love. Prequel one-shot.

Meet the parents 

First time**

Bucky gets injured during a game  

The fight

Going pro

In seven years

💙⚾️Playlist by @buckystarlight​​

[barnestruck]

Coming In Hot

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: When your best friend Sarah recommends you a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray to is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be. Of course, you never thought of the possibility of the mechanic being the problem. A hot, polite, gentle and silent-type of problem. Drowning in debt would be easier to navigate than the blue of Bucky Barnes’s eyes. — Word count: 8.5k — A/n: If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

◦➳ series playlist ♫ ◦➳ nyx masterlist

Series Masterlist — Previous Chapter

Waking up somewhere new is slightly disorienting, especially after a night of heavy drinking and smoking.

When you slowly come to your senses, it's due to the morning sun streaming in through the, frankly, gigantic window to your right.

Stretching your body in every direction like a cat is part of your morning routine, but your high-pitched whine and relaxing stretch comes to a halt when the reality of where you are hits you.

"Damn, Y/n, where the fuck did you learn to kiss like this, baby? I'm—outch, don't bite me—"

Memories flood back like a dem breaking and you freeze on the spot.

The previous night washes over you and you go from slowly waking up to painfully awake in a split second.

Bucky.

God, Bucky.

The images of you and him fumbling, making out like teenagers and barely making past through his threshold before you were jumping his bones flood back to you and make you turn around in embarrassment so you can muffle your tiny scream into the pillow.

Now that you're awake and the bits are coming back to you, you can't help but be thankful that Bucky is, well... him.

Even though nothing is forgotten or missing from your brain, you can tell now with your mind free from all the alcohol and the weed that you were definitely too intoxicated to do anything else other than what you two did the previous night.

And god, you two did only a couple of things, technically, but your body contorts and twists on his bed from the memory nonetheless.

Bucky pinned you to every single wall between his front door and the one on his bedroom.

You climbed him at the first given chance, straddling your legs around his waist and when he finally managed to get you two on his bed, you groan again with your face muffled against his pillow at the memory of him holding you on his lap and kissing you filthily for what felt like hours.

"This is what you wanted right baby? Make out on my lap?"

"Smugness is very unnatractive on you, you know—"

His laughter breathed against your neck tingles something inside of you.

"I'll keep that in mind. I wouldn't have figured from all the wiggling you're doing and these—" a kiss to your neck, and a lick to your chin. "Hmm these delicious little sounds."

"God, you talk too much," you laugh, breathless.

"I think you quite like it."

"I like you better with your mouth on me." You roll your hips tortuously slow against his again, just for the sharp intake of breath from him.

"Fuck, stop with these damn dancer hips, woman—"

"I'm a shit dancer."

"You might be, but you definitely know how to work these hips." Bucky kissed your neck again, both of his hands freely roaming your body.

"You love it," you tease, smiling wider.

"I sure do, doll."

"Then kiss me, Bucky."

He did. And then proceeded to suck every square inch of air out of you again, much to your delight.

This morning, you can tell just how much that man can be trusted.

Bucky was hard enough to cut glass underneath you, but no matter how much you wiggled and kissed him, his neck, or roamed your hands underneath his shirt, he never made any move to go any further.

The times when you whined at him and gave in to the desire, begging him for more with your lips brushing against his ear a little bit, Bucky had simply laughed at you—not mockingly or in any mean way, but with the delight of someone who's seeing something they enjoy very much and can't quite get enough of it. Bucky laughed and shushed your worries, whispering sweet promises on your ear and your skin, and for the time, they'd been enough.

Then, when your filthy and wet kisses had dwindled and you two grew tired of making out like horny teens on your childhood bedroom, he'd told you he was gonna take a shower so he could, "you know, actually get some sleep. can't do that if my balls are bluer than ice, i'm afraid", shushed another one of your teasing offerings ("i wanted to help with that but you someone won't let me") and then did just that.

He had also offered you some of his clothes so you could shower as well, and now here you were.

Alone — because somehow, you knew Bucky wasn't anywhere in his house —, still as horny as yesterday, but definitely ten times more sober.

Before any insecurity little goblin can decide to wake up in your head, you decide to find out if he left any clue as to why you're alone in his house.

Looking down at his navy-green t-shirt that falls all the way down to your knees and the socks that are about two sizes too big on you, you decide that's enough clothing for now and stretch properly before getting up.

The clue you're looking for is easily found in the kitchen—a sticky note pinned to the fridge.

In the (dubious) case you wake up before I come back, I'm on a run.

I meant what I said last night: Feel at home.

I'll be home soon, pretty.

You try biting down the smile that creeps on your face at the 'pretty', but it's impossible.

Bucky had allowed you to drive Bullet to his house — he'd argued he needed to be the one driving, but you were convincing enough of your abilities and told him he could 'monitor' your skills and decide if pulling up was needed — so you had the opportunity to go to your car and fetch the backpack of things you always leave on your truck.

Thank fuck Bucky hadn't locked the door.

After a much needed second shower, changing into comfortable gym shorts, a band t-shirt and properly fitting socks, you catch a glimpse of a clock and notice why you're alone.

It's six twenty in the fucking morning.

"Ugh."

He's a morning person—much like you, unfortunately, but unlike you, he's the willing type.

Sighing, you start walking around his house and explore in his absense.

'Feel at home' to you translates into exactly that—feeling at home.

You don't suppose Bucky's the type to say that to anyone without meaning it, just like you aren't. If you tell a friend they can feel at home, you mean that very much.

Since the bedroom is something you're already familiar with — and god, you hope you've magically grown accustomed with these memories before he returns because the idea of blushing every time you remember them is ludicrous — you decide to explore the rest, and if he isn't back by then, get started on breakfast without him.

Bucky's house is a lot like Steve's, you notice.

That shouldn't be much of a surprise considering how they live only ten minutes apart (deciding which house to go had been easy exactly because of that, something you were thankful for since you hated people in your apartment, actually) and just like Steve's, it had great lighting.

You wondered if it was a soldier thing.

Not liking the dark, that is.

Another common trait with Steve's house is the presence of portraits all over the house, but Bucky seems to lack Steve's desire for organization and tidiness.

There's a big and beautiful living room as soon as you cross the front door, the kitchen is adjacent and joined to it by a black marble counter top, there are three bedrooms and one main bathroom in the corridor, Bucky's suite being the last room in it at the end of the corridor.

The decor is beautiful and it screams him.

There are books everywhere, a detail you notice without much surprise, but that still delights you immensely.

There's a bookshelf both in his room and in the living room, and you find that Bucky's interests are quite diverse.

Apart from mechanics, cars and engineering in general, he seems to be quite the nerd.

A space nerd, a comics books nerd and a technology enthusiast.

A green energy technology enthusiast.

You might be wet again just looking at these book titles.

Ridiculously attractive man.

As if his physique and his wit weren't enough. No, of course his mind had to be as sexy as the rest of him.

"If you don't stop biting me—ah, fuck, why 're you so good at this—I might think you want a piece of me," he said, giggling, breathless.

"I might."

"Fuck. You can have it, just—ah, just don't spit it out later."

The memory makes you giggle again, exactly like it had the previous night.

Bucky was funny, even when in bed, which was a crazy prospect to think about.

Before him, none of your previous partners had brought as much laughter out of you when doing anything like that.

Matter-of-factly, if you remember it right, sex and attraction had never been so light.

If the myths are true and one spends their year doing what they did when the clock strikes midnight, 2022 might just be the most fun and... satisfaction, you've had in a long, long time.

When you're done exploring, fingers grazing almost every surface, you decide it's a good time as any to start breakfast, and if he's lucky, Bucky will return before you've eaten everything.

After tying your hair up and finding a JBL in Bucky's living room, cooking gets started.

That's exactly where he finds you.

Since the music is loud enough that his neighbors might wake up thinking who the fuck listens to Queen on the first day of the year, at seven in the fucking morning, loud enough to make it sound like a concert, you don't hear him coming in.

In fact, you're happily singing along to Freddy's song, dancing with your hips as you finish scrambling the eggs.

As the final notes of Another One Bites the Dust trails off, he makes his announcement.

"Alright, indeed."

His voice startles you entirely. You squeal like a wounded animal and drops the spatula on the floor, and the noise startles you even further, pushing you closer to the over and ending with your hand touching the outside of the pan.

The very hot, very dangerous side of the pan.

"Ah! Fuck, fuck!" You scream, and all you see is Bucky's eyes widened with fear before you're curling your upper body around your wounded hand.

"Fuck, Y/n I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot—" his voice is closer, and you feel the heat of his body before you see it. "C'mere, let me see. I'm so sorry, doll."

When you look up, Bucky's mere inches away from you.

His whole body is glistening with the sweat that's starting to dry off and he smells horrible — that's a first —, but his eyes swim with so much concern that it fills you up.

"'s alright," you mumble, handing out your hand.

The back of your hand is a little red, but thankfully, that seems to be all.

Bucky catches your hand between his and inspects the burn up close, brows furrowed with worry.

"I'm gonna get a pomade. Hold on."

Without waiting for a reply, he leaves in direction of the bathroom and leaves you there, catching your breath for more than one reason.

Why would I want to act like nothing happened, doll?

It's truth time.

Your chest feels heavy; it's as if his presence came with unwanted rocks being placed inside of you.

Bucky comes back with the same concerned look sewed on his face and he catches your hand between his with care, then applies the pomade with a lot more gentleness than you'd expect from someone so big, with such big hands.

"Thanks," you mumble, looking at your hand with a pout. It stings, but the pomade appears to be dulling the throbbing already.

"I'm really sorry." When you look up at his eyes, he looks every bit as sorry as he says. "I'm an idiot—I should know better than to show up like a cat and startle someone who's cooking."

"Oh shit!" His words remind you of your eggs and you push him away unceremoniously, checking on the pan and your eggs. Thankfully, they're only a little bit burned, and you sigh in relief.

As soon as you turn the oven off, you turn around and offer the sullen soldier a tentative smile.

"Let's try this again." You widen your smile purposely. "Hi! Good morning."

Bucky frowns deepens for a second, then his whole face relaxes and he starts laughing at himself, somehow surprised at your carelessness.

"Good morning," he answers, sweetly.

"I woke up quite a while ago, so I gotta ask—who the fuck runs on the first day of the year?" You ask, putting as much theatrics as you can on the question considering the time.

This time, Bucky truly laughs, and you see his shoulders relaxing even further.

"I do." He shrugs his shoulders. "I like it. It's the only activity I still do, actually."

That brings genuine surprise to your face. With his physique, you would've never imagined. "Wait—really?"

He picks up on your surprise and shrugs, smugly. "Yup."

"Why was I under the impression you went to the gym... or fought... or—something?"

Bucky walks to the fridge and opens it. "'Cause that's what most people think." He grabs a water bottle from there and opens it. "Steve goes, but I hate it. Working out feels like boring work, so no, thanks." He takes long gulps of the water and this time, you don't even try to pretend you're not watching his neck and the way his lips redden with the cold water. When he puts the bottle down, you look up at his eyes and find his watching you with amusement. "It's why I have great stamina," he adds with a wink.

Oh.

"Is that so?"

"Hmhm." Bucky puts the bottle back in the fridge. "But you don't know that." He closes the fridge, but leans against it with easy confidence. "Yet."

Okay. So he meant it.

Bucky isn't pretending last night didn't happen.

Mustering the willpower to ignore the heat on your cheeks and keep the eye contact with him, you hum thoughtfully. "Cardio is a really good way to build up stamina," you answer with mock innocence. Bucky's still watching you with that side smile, and that's what gives you the confidence to go on. "Not as good as yoga for the strength or the... flexibility, though."

His eyes widen in surprise. "You do yoga?"

You nod, putting on a fake smile of purity. "Yup. Dad and I started a few years ago with mom. Mom gave up on it, we continued. Now she's jealous of our flexibility and great posture."

Bucky laughs brightly at that, but there's a heartbeat of silence before he answers you. "You know—you confused me for a while with him."

Confused, you go back to your eggs and start plating them. "What d'you mean?"

"You call your stepdad 'dad' sometimes. Actually, you call him 'dad' most of the time, just not when you're in his presence. I noticed that during Christmas in those snaps and stories you sent me—you call him by his name to him and dad to others." Bucky hums thoughtfully behind you, then continues after a chuckle. "Confused the fuck outta me for a while there, I won't lie."

Fuck, he's observant.

Sometimes, you forget how much.

You take your time plating the eggs to your liking and then cleaning up the stove and the mess you made, and Bucky waits behind you patiently.

"Well. You know he's not my dad dad," you say. "That one fucked off long ago." You're numb to the fact by now, but you still don't make eye contact while telling him this 'cause it isn't something you talk about with others, usually. "And when mom remarried, I only called him by his name, but... over the years, he kinda became my dad, you know? Much more than the one who actually put me in this world but never really seemed to care about me. I call him by his name to him 'cause that's what I'm used to, but to others, it's just easier to call him dad, I guess."

"Are Flora and Rosa his?" Bucky asks, curiously.

"Yup." Your step-sisters are his spitting image, actually. "They thought it was weird I called him by his name for a while, too, so I had to explain a couple of years ago that we got the same dad but, really, we got different ones."

Bucky's eyes widen in surprise. "You talked to them about it?"

You tilt your head, eyeing Bucky curiously. "'Course I did, Buck." You smile. "They're my sisters, was I supposed to lie to them?"

"No, but—" he frowns, looking around him a little. "Aren't they a bit young?"

"To understand the intricacies of why some relationships don't work and we got different dads? Sure. To be explained that I had a dad who isn't the same one as theirs, but that left? Not really." Kindly, you add. "Kids are pretty resilient, Buck. And far smarter than people give them credit for. All it takes is a bit explaining."

For long seconds, all Bucky does is look at you.

It makes you a bit on edge until you remember a similar conversation at the boathouse, and you know this isn't just about Flora and Rosa.

"How did they take it?" He asks, finally.

"They were sad for me." The conversation is starting to make you uneasy, feeling more exposed than if you still were wearing Bucky's shirt and nothing else. You turn around to open the fridge and get some juice. "And they said they'll always share their dad with me, 'cause their dad loves me as much as he loves them." You shrug your shoulders. "It was nice, actually. A bit sad, obviously, but nice. They hate my actual father, but that's more my mom's doing than anything else, I suppose." With a look over your shoulder, you give him a tight-lipped smile. "My little flowers are the only ones I need to never abandon me in life, if I'm being honest." Then, before he can say anything else, you point at the two plates you did. "Now. If you wanna eat that, I'm gonna have to politely ask you to shower."

Bucky blinks a couple of times, not having time to absorb your words before you change the subject.

When he registers your final words, he gives you a smirk.

"What? You don't want me sweating on you?"

Oh, hell—that Bucky you're familiar with now. The slick and sultry way he says it, lowering his voice and stepping closer.

Fortunately, you're too hungry to fall for his cheap tricks.

"Not during breakfast, I don't." The grin you give back to him is made of the same lingering desire you see in his eyes. "You stink. My food doesn't deserve that. Go shower, Sargeant."

With a military salute and a not-so-subtle glance all over your body, Bucky leaves for a shower, leaving you alone to your still-tight chest.

Knowing he meant his words the previous night ease the previous worry you had about this... arrangement. Whatever it is.

You set up the table for breakfast and you cook him bacon, knowing he likes it from the several texts about Morita's heavenly bacon stripes you've gotten since you met him.

Although the uneasiness about this... situation, was gone, the exchange before Bucky left brings your attention to how much of yourself you offer to him without a thought.

Granted, Bucky never seems to keep things from you, but all that you know from his personal life were special instances in a conversation where he offered things you didn't even ask.

You don't even know how much you're allowed to ask him.

How much he'd be comfortable being asked.

God, you need to learn how to stop spilling your guts and your past to this man, as soon as possible.

He probably doesn't want to hear your woes and moans about the daddy issues you've already discussed plenty in therapy.

Bucky's a friend, sure, but he doesn't need the deep and, honestly, sometimes painful talks about the truths in life.

He isn't Sarah.

And he isn't Nat, a voice in your head offers.

A shudder runs through your body.

No one is Nat, and you wouldn't want them to be, either.

Thank god Bucky isn't Nat.

By the time he's back, the table is full, the kitchen smells amazing and you're sitting with your legs up, mind lost in thoughts.

"Better now?" He even gives a little spin, smiling widely.

The sight of his smile makes it easy for you to put all the stupid mean goblins now awake in your mind in a drawer and lock it shut.

You smile back. "Much." You turn to your food, happily digging in. "Eat before it gets cold."

Bucky takes a look at the table and smiles softly. "Thanks for breakfast, pretty." He looks up at you. "I usually just make smoothies and while they're good, they're definitely not this," he adds with a chuckle. Then, his eyes catch on the bacon stripes with a hunger that never lies. "Did you cook me bacon?"

Confused and with your mouth already full, you nod at him like duh, obviously.

"You don't eat meat," he says, sounding like a question.

When you swallow, you can laugh freely at him. "No, I don't." You wink at him. "But you do. Now shut up and eat."

Bucky's grateful smile to you is enough to make up for the fact that you had to touch meat to cook it.

You're not daft in the slightest—Bucky's aware of your distaste for the meat industry and everything that it involves it, surrounds it, incentives it.

When he discovered you were vegetarian, it was the first time he FaceTimed you.

"Why?" Was how he greeted you, face dirty with grease as it was the custom for when he was at work.

Outside of a lecture in university, you had looked at him with disblief. Snorting, you had asked. "I can see you're curious, but I don't think you wanna hear my rant of why I gave up meat, Sargeant."

"Indulge me." He had shrugged his shoulders. "You're one of the smartest people I know, I'd like your insight."

So you'd told him.

Bucky had hung up saying ("fuck, now I have a lot to think about") and ruefully, a week later, had told you he one day would like the inner strength to give it up, too.

You two eat in comfortable silence with Freddy playing in the background, and when you're finishing your mashed bananas, he speaks up again.

"Did you hear the news?" He asks, eating the papaya you had placed in front of his plates.

Noticing you hadn't checked your phone yet, you frown. "What news?"

Bucky smiles with the spoon inside his mouth. "Midnight magic is real, I'm afraid."

"I don't follow..."

"You and I weren't the only ones startin' the year in a... good way," he says, arching only one eyebrow.

You search your brain looking for whatever on earth he means and when the pin drops, so does your jaw. "No fucking way!"

Bucky bursts out laughing. "Yes, way."

"Noooooo fucking way!"

Bucky only laughs harder at your surprise. "Yup. The couple of the year has sailed." He laughs so earnestly that his nose scrunches—your favorite laugh of his. "There are bets on the AutoBoys group chat already about how long 'till there's a wedding. Wanna hop on the poll?"

"Fuck yes, I do." You realize in that moment someone else who must've messaged you 'till your phone blew up, which makes you get up like something shocked you. "Hold on!" You run off towards the bedroom, hearing only Bucky's laughter behind.

Just like you expected, when you find your phone and unlock it, there it is.

S <3

19 Notifications

Oh, this should be good.

You walk back to the kitchen reading her messages.

alright my lvoe ahsv funnnnnnn pls message mem when u wake up tho omg y/n Y/N I CANTBELIEVE YOU 'RE NOT HERE TOS EE THIS ITS BETTER THAN THE MOVIES THEY'RE MAKGIN OUT AN D EVERYONES ESCREAMING THIS IS FO FUNNY ALKJHSLKJKA oh ew okaya that got grosss really yyyy fast thats my brother no thank u okay. theyer officialy not idiots in love anymore only in love <333 heres ot a great year off r us babeb i love u so MUCH so much ure elike the best girl u deservee hte world <33 dont be late tomrrow for the wilson pizza night u have to come now caus tis as much tradition as stevge's nye party kay i ly Wow. Not even autocorrect saved me last night, huh? Morning, babe I hope you had GREAT NIGHT Hope you used protection. U don't want kids, never forget Tell me everything when u wake up I'm waiting bitch and I'm curious Curiosity isnt good for my soul OR my skin Im gonna go get the kids I'll see you later If he doesnt give u an orgasm Im suing him. :) LOVE YOU ! HAPPY 1ST DAY ! HERE'S TO A GREAT FUCKING YEAR !

You manage to reply before entering the kitchen, but Bucky catches on to your giggles.

"Were the news properly reported?" He asks.

"Apparently, everyone cheered like it was a movie scene," you sit down again on the chair.

Bucky smiles and nods. "Seems about right." He looks up, and his expression is so fucking fond of his friends' happiness that it makes your heart ache in a good way. "Fucking finally."

"Hey, they did it on their time," you come to their defense. Since last night in the backyard when you and Steve had come for each other's defense when everyone else on the circle was trying to come for you two, something sparked inside of you in regards to Rogers. "Can't rush these things. If you pull too hard, it snaps like a band."

Bucky frowns at you with delight. "Who said that?"

You grin. "I did."

"Of course," he nods solemnly, still smiling. "You believe in the natural flow of life, then?"

You pout your lips as you think. "I believe... that forcing anything, even things that we totally think need some... brute force, is useless. Nothing in nature that you bend too hard stays intact. It breaks. It snaps." You shrug your shoulders, ducking your head when you notice you're doing it again. Talking too much. "People are the same."

With Bucky, the silences always say as much as he does.

For the long few seconds he stays quiet, you're still thinking about what you believe in, but eventually missing his answer, you look up despite feeling your cheeks red.

Bucky's staring at you intensely, the hint of a smile on his face. "You're so smart it's scary sometimes," he whispers out loud, like a thought he's blurting out.

It only makes you blush harder. "I'm not that smart," you say in mock-humbleness.

"You know you are." He smiles wider, then takes a deep breath. "And as usual, you're right." Bucky starts putting together the plates to clear the table, but when you extend your arms to start helping, he genuinely slaps your hands. "Ah," he chastises, ignoring completely your slack-jaw at his audacity. "The one who cooks doesn't clean. Don't you dare."

Well, you can work with that. "Fine." You pull your knees back up again, fighting against a smile.

"You just sit there and look pretty. Shouldn't be hard." So it seems the flirting not only got worse, but it's not going away anytime soon. The smile you're fighting starts escaping at the seams with that line, and Bucky clearly catches it. "I'll clean this up," he states.

"Alright."

"Alright," he echoes, teasing you. With Bucky's back to you, it's easier to breathe.

And to talk. "Are you going to the Wilson 1?" You ask.

Another tradition you were — gladly — being dragged into was, apparently, the Wilson 1: The pizza night Sarah and her brother held for only the closest friends after Steve's infamous party. It was supposed to put some much-needed grease and food back into a bunch of adults who drank way too much the previous night and, of course, gossip as much as possible about the party held.

Bucky chuckles. "Y/n, every single tradition involving Sam has directly involved Steve for as long as we've met in the army, twenty years ago or somethin'." He throws you a charming look over his shoulder. "Being Steve's best friend, I'm at every single one of them. You're the newbie one around here, doll."

You scoff and roll your eyes at him, but no matter how hard you fight against a smile, Bucky's is contagious.

"The way you talk it doesn't even sound like you and Sam are friends."

"Force of habit," Bucky laughs, knowing what you mean.

"Was Steve technically your and Sam's boss?" You ask, letting your curiosity peek for once with a question that doesn't feel too invasive.

"Yeah. Captain Rogers." Bucky's shoulders is still as relaxed as before as he washes the dishes, and you don't expect anything else, but he does go on. "We were all thrown in the same unit. Rhodey was our superior for the first years, 'till his injury. Then Steve rose to Captain and it was him, me, Sam, Morita. Then came Gabe. Then Peter and Kim."

Your throat suddenly closes at the mention of Kim.

His face in the picture pops on your mind and for some reason, not talking about him feels disrespectful.

"I saw him on one of Steve's pictures," you whisper.

Bucky catches it, of course.

For someone who technically has horrible hearing — his words, not yours — Bucky always seems to catch your words, even when you barely say them.

He turns around slowly with his posture a little stiffer, but when his eyes lock on yours, he slowly relaxes. "Yeah?" He asks.

You nod, biting hardly on your lip. "Hmhm." You don't know if you can ask or say anything further.

Your mouth runs a little dry with Bucky's eyes on you and for the first time, you feel cold on the inside around him.

Bucky licks his lips and turns back to the dishes. "He was one of the best kids I've ever met." His voice is rougher, like he ate sand, and you imagine if it's the taste of the memories.

Your instinct had been right. The pit of your stomach feels like a desert because of it.

"He looked really nice," you add in a soft whisper. "What was he like?"

Bucky glances over his shoulder again to look at you funnily, but when he goes back to the dishes, his voice carries less of the strain it had before.

"Nerdy as hell." He snorts. "He got me into a bunch of nerd shit."

"I saw."

Bucky's entire upper body turns around now, and his smile is both curious and smug. "Did you, now?" He asks, and it sounds like: someone was walking around the house, huh?

"Yeah." You giggle. "You're into comics."

"I'll have you know, they're amazing," he points an accusatory soapy finger in your direction.

"I never said they weren't." You were into manga for a few years when you were a teenager, but Bucky doesn't need to know that. You giggle again, unable to swallow it down. "You're really into spy comics, though. It's cute."

Bucky sighs exasperated, dramatically turning back around. "No respect, the youth these days."

That makes you laugh harder. "Shut up." You wanna say he's not that much older than you, but the reality of the fact he is hits you right now, thinking of the twenty years Bucky had in the army. That's almost your whole fucking life. "What else? He was a nerdy nerd..."

Scoffing, Bucky goes on. "As mouthy as you, actually," he says, with a quick glance to you. "Super shy with people he didn't know. Took him a whole month to stop calling us 'sir' and shit—fuck," he laughs. "Steve's face every time that kid called him 'sir' was awesome," he adds, sounding like another loud thought. Bucky hums and continues. "He liked plants. Really into herbology and stuff like that—you two would've had your nerd hard-ons talking about shit; he and Steve were always walking around the base having intellectual skits about capitalism and the lie we served and what-not." Bucky gives another snort and places the last dish on the drier. "He was a good, good kid, Y/n." He turns around to you and gives you a sad smile. "Heart of gold."

"Hearts of gold, lead by sweet golden cosmic paths," you recite.

Bucky frowns curiously. "Is that you too?"

You shake your head. "Nah. Grandma." You could see her in the kitchen talking about the hurts and the goods in life. "She said that when I asked about mom's older sister—she died when she was a kid. Leukemia." Bucky's eyes widen at that, so you keep going. "When I asked her if she was sad about it, Nana said she lost too many years being sad about it 'till a Priestess taught her that mantra. She said the Priestess did a ritual with her that...I'm sorry, you don't wanna know all this, do you?" You interrupt yourself mid-sentence, feeling again the acidic insecurity bubbling up, but making itself vocal this time.

Bucky frowns at you, seeming genuinely confused. "What? No! Of course I do." He gestures with his hand, and the metal gleams with the morning sunlight. "Please finish?" He asks in a sweet tone.

Swallowing down the thoughts and choosing to believe his words, you finish.

You clear your throat. "Grandma had a tough time dealing with that loss so she went to this Priestess and she did a ritual with her. Nana said after the ritual, where she cried, like—buckets, she told me, that Nana felt lighter somehow 'cause she saw mom's older sister in a river made of gold light, but she didn't know what that meant." The memory is fresh as a daisy on your brain, and you close your eyes. "The Priestess asked Nana: "Did your baby have a heart of gold?", and Nana answered yes. The priestess said the core of some souls are made of gold, and that's why they're too heavy for this earth, sometimes. They leave too soon. It seems unfair to us, but their mission was temporary and we shouldn't hurt ourselves too much over it. She said they have easier passing, and that their hearts bear no pain of this world, anyway. Hearts of gold, lead by sweet golden paths." You open your eyes. "Like angels... I guess."

Bucky's quiet, and the silence feels necessary this time.

He looks away from you, fixing his blue eyes outside. The sunlight illuminates the blue beautifully, and you don't feel so heavy anymore.

So much for keeping your mouth shut around him, you guess.

At least you asked him if he wanted to hear it, this time.

Bucky looks back at you, shaking his head at himself. The smile that shows on his face is a little incredulous, and when he gestures you to come forth with his hand, you feel momentarily stuck to your chair.

"C'mere," he whispers to you.

The words spring you to action, and unglue you from your place.

You get up and walk to stand in front of him, feeling your heart already starting to speed up at the proximity.

Bucky keeps looking at you with those intense eyes made up of a whole storm.

When he lifts his left hand to push a strand of hair away from your face, your whole body shivers.

"You have a way with words," he whispers to you, looking at every inch of your face.

His touch and his words, mixed together, are more effective than most kisses you've had your whole life. "Was just quoting someone else," you shrug, trying to go for nonchalant, but Bucky seems to see past it.

With a lower and darker tone, Bucky whispers. "You know damn well you have a mouth on you."

The words are echoed by the other times Bucky complimented your mouth the previous night.

Hours ago.

Over and over again, cursing at your mouth and how it kissed, how it bit, how it talked. "I seem to reckon you like it a lot," you find yourself answering with more braveness than you imagined.

Bucky's smile turns predatory, and his right arm circles your waist, pulling your body closer to his. "I fucking loved it." He brings his lips in a deliberately slow motion to your neck and starts pressing feather-light kisses there. "And I..." another kiss. "Seem to reckon I said something..." a kiss with a suck to your earlobe, and your body melts against his, pressing fully on him. "About what'd happen if you used it on me today."

You talk like this to me tomorrow and Imma make you cum so hard you pass out, Y/n.

This time, when the moan comes up your throat, you don't bite it down.

"Promises, promises..." you whisper boldly, teasing and pulling his strings.

Bucky's strings are an easy game for you. He moans as he kisses your neck much like he kissed you for the first time, and heat spreads all over your body like you stepped under the hot stream of a shower. "Say it."

You swallow down another moan, and bear your neck wider for him to have access. Playing dumb, you ask. "Say what?"

"You know exactly what," he chuckles, giving a final kiss on your neck. You can feel the slight beard-burn, and it pleases you immensely. Bucky pulls your chin down with his fingers delicately so he can look you in the eye. "Say it."

You smile at him, opening your mouth wider and sticking your tongue out to lick at his thumb on your chin, and as it does, his finger ends up inside your mouth.

You suck on it happily, closing your eyes and humming in pure delight.

When he pulls the finger out of your mouth, you open your eyes to find his looking back at you almost entirely black, his jaw fell open, and his chest breathing a little heavier.

"Make me cum." With the sweetest smile you can muster, you add. "Please?"

Bucky picks you up with the ease of a freaking super-soldier.

It makes you squeal in surprise, which gathers laughter out of him, but the mood quickly goes back to what it was when he starts walking to his room with fingers gripping your ass tight and his eyes boring holes into yours.

He closes his bedroom door behind him with his feet, and anticipation floods every cell on your body.

You're aware of each step you took to get where you are right now, but somehow you still question 'how the hell did I get here', smiling giddily at the man who's lying your body slowly on his bed.

Bucky removes your socks and climbs on top of your body.

"You don't like socks?" You ask with a giggle.

Surprisingly to you, it makes him giggle too. "Nope."

Closing your legs around his waist, your run your feet on the back of his thigh.

"If you ask to kiss my feet or somethin' I'm gonna smack you," you joke.

Bucky hides his laughter on your shoulder. "Duly noted." He supports himself on his elbows, both arms next to your head. "If you ask to kiss mine I'm gonna have to do the same, I'm afraid."

"Oh my god, shut up," you stifle your next laughter right on his mouth.

If there were any lingering doubts on whether kissing Bucky would be different once sober, he puts them all to rest.

Bucky licks his way into your mouth the same way he did last night in Steve's backyard, sending your mind into a frenzy and your body alight, only this time, you can pull his weight on top of yours and grind your body against his as much as you want to.

And god, you want to.

He's even more patient and a tease when he's in bed, though.

The same way you like biting, Bucky enjoys smelling. You noticed the night before and thought it to be strange for a moment, but then he sniffed right under your earlobe and you got so aroused at the way he moaned in your ear that it awoke something in you.

His interest almost feels primal.

His kisses certainly do. Bucky's hands treat your body like play-do under him, massaging and getting a feel of everything, and you do exactly the same to him.

This time you get to discover how much strength you have over him—taking him by surprise must help, when you test pushing his back against the mattress using the strength of your hips and legs wrapped tight around him, Bucky goes with a surprised huff and falls on his back with a smile.

His swollen lips make you want to bite so bad.

So you do. You bite his lips while your hands under his shirt get a feel of his beautiful stomach, and when they travel down further to cup his fully erect cock, both of you moan at the same time.

Right.

You might be a bit of a size-kink whore.

And Bucky is packed. "Fuck." You moan louder, gripping his dick through the fabric of his jogger, and you know technically this is about him proving something to you, but you've never been a passive lover. "Can I please, please suck your dick? Fuck, I wanted it so bad last night—" you kiss his mouth again hungrily, and Bucky's pressing his hips higher to get closer to your hands.

"I don't think I can say no to—nhgn, to that."

"Great. You shouldn't." You remove his shorts at his approval and when the sight of Bucky's cock is right in front of you, your mouth waters.

You look up, and he's watching you closely. Gripping his cock by the base and giving it a tentative lick, you keep your eyes open just to see his reaction, and are rewarded by the sight of Bucky's mouth falling open in pleasure and his head falling back on the pillow as he moans loudly.

Then, he bites down on his lip and you stop licking immediately, so he looks down at you again. "Every time you swallow my sounds I'm gonna stop," you warn.

Bucky groans even louder.

Sucking him off is as good as you pictured as you sat and ground on his lap last night.

Bucky's responsive and his hand on your hair is only there for support. He doesn't push you to go deeper like other guys and lays there with his hips glued to the bed while you take him deeper, slowly, bit by bit.

Giving oral is a pleasure you relish in, no matter who is lying underneath you, and with Bucky it's no different.

With Bucky, it's amazing.

After your warning, he lets out all the pretty sounds inside his mouth and as soon as he realizes just how much being vocal eggs you on, he looks like he found a golden mine. "Fuck—just like that; oh god, yeah. Yeah, like that, baby." He moans at the rhythm you set, and the praise makes you moan around his dick, keeping it just the way he likes it. "Oh fuck, you like it when I tell you, don't you?"

It's the eye contact this time that makes you moan loudly around his dick, and you know the vibrations must do wonders for how much louder Bucky is getting.

"You deserve to, ah... to hear it. You do—that's so good. So fucking good, doll," he's starting to sound out of himself, and that's all it takes for both of you to start getting lost in the pleasure.

Soon, Bucky's shining in a thin layer of sweat again, and both of you are moaning for each other.

You, because now that he found out how much praise is fuel for your fire, keeps every single thought flying out of his mouth, and him, because you are great at following instructions when they come from pleased moans.

Bucky starts to warn you he's about to cum, and you only pull out to say. "In my mouth. Okay?" And you're back with your lips wrapped around him.

He's apparently very good at obeying, too. Bucky's brows crease and you look up into his eyes, sucking it just the way he likes it. When he cums, Bucky can't keep eye contact with you, but watching him is more than enough.

It takes him a couple of seconds to get himself back together but when he does—you squeal higher than before.

He pulls you up and flips you over with impressive strength, and when Bucky pulls your shorts down, he gives you only a look of warning before licking his way up on your inner thighs.

Bucky licks them like he's christening the doors for something, and when he finally takes off your panties, of course the first thing that half-wolf man does is run his nose on the hood of your pussy.

He's licking his goddamn lips.

"Bucky."

"Shhhh," he shushes, licking his lips again. "Tell me if it gets too much, okay?"

Before you can ask what he means, Bucky smiles at you and for the first time that year, you feel like his prey.

He starts slowly and deliberately, but it takes you only a couple of minutes to realize what on earth he meant by too much.

Bucky Barnes eats pussy like it's food for his soul.

It's the only fucking way you can explain it, and if that fact alone wasn't enough to nearly drive up his walls to live in his damn ceiling, seeing him grind his hips down on his bed as he eats you like a meal surely is.

Bucky moans, slurps, sucks on your clit and tongue-fucks your pussy until you're on edge three times.

He hears you say you're about to cum, looks up at you with a smile and slows down his licking and sucking, pulling you back from the edge.

His sheets are about drenched in sweat by the time you plead him to let you cum.

And he does.

He lets you — quite literally, "Cum, doll, cum on my tongue, let me taste it," — and keeps licking you until you have to push his face away from oversensitivity.

Your legs are shaking.

Bucky climbs up your body with his lips redder than ever before and slick glistening around his mouth, so you crash yours against his.

It takes two minutes for both of you to calm down from your orgasm, and when Bucky pulls back from the kiss to pull off your t-shirt which he'd only pushed up, he picks you up again and turns you around.

Just like he promised, he circles your body with his arm and his hand goes down to your pussy, his fingers touching you lightly so you don't feel too oversensitive.

You notice when his naked chest presses against yours that he'd removed his shirt, too, and you sigh in relief when he whispers, "I just wanna see..." and then starts moving his fingers to catch your body responses.

He waits until you're squirming again to breathe on your neck the question. "Can I fuck you, doll?"

"Please."

For the third time that night, Bucky gives you what he promised.

He opens the drawer to get a condom, rolls it on himself and with deliberately slow movements, starts fucking you slowly. You're so wet from your orgasm, his tongue, him, that no lube is necessary.

He slides in with terrifying ease and even though he's big, he's not big enough to hurt.

"Oh," you breathe out, smiling against your arm. "Feel so full, Buck..." you whisper.

"Fucking hell, Y/n."

"'s nice," you slur the words, brain fucked-out on how good it feels. "Love feeling like this." You wiggle your hips to get him deeper and Bucky bottoms out inside of you, groaning against your nape. "Do it slow, first? Wanna feel it real good," you mumble.

"I'll do anything you want, baby," he slurs back, bucking his hips in slow and full movements.

That's how Bucky pulls you apart.

By the seams.

He pulls you apart by listening to your words and to your body language—he catches on the hitches on your breath and repeats the movements you appear to like until he's cataloged exactly what pushes your buttons, and fucks you just like that.

He picks you apart by allowing you to put his hand around your neck and, understanding the message, starting to choke you as he fucks into you harder and harder, letting every moan and grunt be heard on your neck and your ear.

He puts you back together by letting you dictate the pace, whispering filthy nothings that you swim on against your skin. His words are as silky as his sweaty skin, and he gives all the praise to you freely, like he's done it a thousand times before.

In return, you do what he asks. "That's it, doll, just take it—does it feel good? Like this?" When you moan back a yes, he hums happily, almost laughing on your shoulder. "So good to hear that; fuck. Wanna turn you into a pillow princess, just see you cum all day, just take it like a good girl and feel so fucking good..."

It's impossible to not crumble, and it's impossible not to pull him with you.

When you cum around his dick, shaking with the force of your orgasm and screaming his name, Bucky only has to piston his hips a couple of times more before he's spilling inside the condom and groaning your name, biting on your neck as he keeps on cumming.

You two need several minutes to recover from that.

When you finally do, you notice that it took you both more than an hour to get your hands off of each other.

Bucky turns around, lying beside you, and smiling dopey asks. "Wanna see how many fees I can pay before we have socializing to do?"

His grin is so carefree and seductive that you can't help but laugh.

Who knew the ever-so-serious Bucky Barnes would be the one making you laugh so much while giving you so many orgasms?

"Please, please do."

He laughs with you, and claiming he'll cook lunch — "can't do the dirty deeds if we got no fuel, right?" — Bucky leaves you on the bed, still riding aftershocks of one of the best sex of your life.

Not touching this man when you two aren't rolling in bed, sweaty and tangled together, is going to be harder than you imagined.

Swallowing down that thought you put on the first t-shirt you find and get up to join him in the kitchen.

That's a problem for future you to deal with.

Taglist ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @fanofalltheficsx ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fairytalebucky ; @bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; @iamtheonewhocares ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @carmellasworld ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @bahama-mama-llama ; @sstan-hoe ; @hawsx3 ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; PART ONE ♥

[barnestruck]

HAILEE STEINFELD as KATE BISHOP in HAWKEYE (2021) Official Trailer

[barnestruck]

Rogers: The Musical in “Hawkeye” (2021-)

[barnestruck]

WHAT THE FUCK starring WHAT THE FUCK feat. sambucky

[barnestruck]

the warmth of your love

summary -> there are more ways to say i love you than just i love you. you and bucky share a few.

words -> 2.2k

warnings -> pining, friends to lovers, back to my fluffy bucky roots, female!reader

notes -> i wrote a harry s. piece similar to this years ago & it’s so interesting to see how my writing has changed since then. based off of this list. items from the list are italicized!

— ➶ —

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

They’re simple words that Bucky has become accustomed to.

Steve Rogers departure has left a hole in the world and a gap in Bucky’s chest that aches. They were best friends, brothers, and Bucky wasn’t sure how to navigate this world without him.

Bucky has grown used to the pity filled eyes of the Avengers, or at least what’s left of them, and the apologetic tone of voice.

The way the words came from your mouth though was different. Your eyes full of kindness and a small smile on your face that offered comfort.

Keep reading

[barnestruck]

this was a premonition, i think

Summary: Sometimes you wish you had never fallen in love with Bucky. Screw that “it’s better to have loved and lost” bullshit. You wish you had never fallen in love with Bucky Barnes.

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), possible TFATWS SPOILERS, strong language, enemies to lovers, past relationship, past death and grieving, canon typical violence, some angst with a happy ending, idiots in love, wound metaphors, poorly translated Italian

Word Count: 6083

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is a commissioned fic for @blackberrybucky! Thank you so much for your commission, Rebecca! I hope you enjoy! If you would like to commission a fic from me, please visit my commission post to find out more. The beautiful header for this fic was made by @elijahs-wife my dearest love! 💖

main masterlist

“What is she doing here?”

You glance over your shoulder to look at Sam, ignoring the familiar outline of a man standing in the doorway, shocked still.

“I see you haven’t managed to teach him any manners these last few years,” you address Sam, who barks out a laugh with his head thrown back and a smile stretched wide over his mouth.

“Hey,” he says, shrugging. “If you couldn’t do it, who am I to even try?”

You giggle, hiding it behind your hand. “Guess that’s fair.”

“Sam,” the silhouette of black, outlined in the sunny rays of Genoa, calls out. “What is she doing here?”

Before Sam can answer, you spring up from the loveseat and clasp your hands together, stretching your arms over your head with a groan of stiff joints as all the disks in your back crack with realignment. Then, you spin on your heel to face him down—the man you haven’t seen in nearly two years since the day he left you.

And you can still remember that day, where your knees hit the wooden floor of your apartment like they wanted to break themselves, your palms scraping the grooves, fingers scratching to get under the floorboards as if you could hide beneath them. Tears dripped from your eyes like the burn of salt in a wound as you dared yourself to watch him walk away, heavy boots leaving a trail of dirt through the entryway as he opened the door and locked it behind him, the promise of not coming back.

Bucky takes a step inside the house, jaw clenched, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when his eyes meet yours and he has to swallow.

He looks different, now that he isn’t shadowed by the daylight streaming through the door. The long, curling locks you remember braiding bedside after he awoke from a nightmare are now gone, replaced by a short, cropped style that shows the severity of his cheekbones. The thick beard your fingers wove into has been trimmed, kept to a neat five o’clock shadow that makes his lips look fuller somehow. Dressed simply in a black t-shirt beneath a gray, unzipped hoodie with jeans and a pair of boots, you can tell he’s lost a little weight, more lean muscle than bulk these days.

The one thing that hasn’t changed is his face—all grievous angles, strict and tight, eyes hardened as he stares ahead. He’s still beautiful.

You want to bring him to his knees and stomp on his throat until he suffocates the way you thought you might the day he left, crushing his windpipe beneath your foot until he can’t even wheeze out an apology for the way he broke you.

Your tongue runs over your pearly teeth, bared in a vicious grin. “Hey Barnes.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but you know better. “Thought you were in Bordeaux.”

“I was ‘till Sam called me. Funny how a guy called U.S. Agent can cause so many issues overseas.” You inspect your nails, knowing the simple act will serve to piss him off further. “I guess you just got good at slacking, huh, what with all that time off?”

“Time off?” You can practically hear his teeth grind. He marches over to you, leaving only two steps between your bodies. “What time off do you think I got? Or are you still delusional?”

“Excuse me?” The words leave your lips like a song, high-pitched and astounded.

Before you two can get much further, Sam slips between you and places his large, warm hands on your shoulders, steering you away.

“Okay,” he says calmly, glancing back at Bucky who hasn’t moved an inch. “I think that’s enough of a warm welcome. Why don’t you sit with me—” he gently guides you back down onto the sofa, “—and Buck can sit over there.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you let Sam seat you and promptly sink back into the pillows like an irritated child. Bucky, still grumbling about something under his breath, throws himself into the armchair that Sam pointed at, knees spread wide as he stares across the sitting room at you. Sam falls in place beside you, like he said he would, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I know you haven’t worked together in two years—”

“Seven,” you interrupt coolly. “Or did you forget that the two of you died for five of ‘em?”

If possible, Bucky’s jaw tightens even more at your words, tendon in his neck jumping as his cheek flexes with annoyance. His gloved fingers encase the arms of the chair, finding purchase in the cushions. And if looks could kill, you aren’t sure who would be buried first—you or Sam.

“No one’s forgetting that, sugar,” Sam says, hands raised. His eyes are wounded when he looks at you, an apology swimming in their dark depths. “Bottom line is it’s been a while, but I need you both on this mission. Can you please be civil for five minutes?”

From across the coffee table, Bucky mumbles, “You didn’t tell me she’d be here.”

You simply toss your hair away from your face and look anywhere but at him.

“Great,” Sam says, and his lips ease back in a knowing smile. “Let’s talk John Walker.”

“This is a bad idea,” you hear Bucky seethe under his breath. “What are you thinkin’?”

“I’m thinking that Walker is a man who loves his country, loves being a hero, and isn’t working alone,” Sam hisses back. “Whatever he’s planning—whoever he’s planning it with—it’s gonna be bad. Call it intuition or call it being cautious, but I’m not taking any chances with him.”

“Why couldn’t it have been just you and me?”

Sam pauses. Your back is pressed against a wall just around the corner from the hallway where they speak lowly, hidden from their view, and all the muscles in your body tense in fear. But there’s no sound of movement, and then Sam lets out a sigh.

“Because we can’t keep doing it alone, Buck. You and me and Torres. She’s the best free agent we have connections to. And you and her need to get over whatever happened because with Walker taking on this U.S. Agent bullshit, we’re gonna need her. So kiss and make up or, hell, ignore each other for all I care, but find a way to work together.”

The sound of heavy, quick footsteps ignites anxiety in your bones. Silently, you slip back into the room you’ve been given in the Genoa complex, closing the door behind you slowly so you don’t chance it alerting the others. But as soon as you’re enclosed in darkness, heavy curtains blocking out the natural light of the Italian coast that threatens to burst through the cracks, your legs give way beneath you and you slide down the door until your bottom hits the tile.

“You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

“Only if you promise to come get ‘em, Rogers.”

Are you still allowed to be mad? Almost a decade later, are you still allowed to be fucking mad?

Because Steven Grant Rogers is dead now and you’ve got no one to be pissed at anymore. Nobody but Bucky. And Bucky’s got nobody to be pissed at now, either. Except for you.

When Steve dropped you off in Wakanda, a brainwashed assassin in one hand and a fleeting promise to be back soon in the other, you didn’t expect much. Well, you expected to babysit Barnes for a couple of months—not two years. And you expected Steve to come back and get him—not to come back with a war on the horizon. And you expected—

Well, you didn’t expect to fall in love.

And when you fell in love, you never could have expected that the love of your life would turn to dust in front of your very eyes, leaving you shattered on a battlefield of shrapnel and blood.

But it’s been almost a decade. You shouldn’t be mad anymore. Steve’s dead. Things have changed.

Things have changed but Bucky Barnes is still the same.

A knock on your door pulls you from the reel of memories, playing like a soundless movie in your mind, and you push yourself off the floor and to your feet to open it. Sam’s standing behind it, a grin wide enough to show the cute little gap in his teeth. It’s a familiar smile—one that makes you want to throw yourself into his arms now that you’re finally alone.

So you do.

“Woah,” Sam huffs a laugh as he catches you, arms sliding around your waist as you loop your arms around his neck and press your face into his chest. “What’s gotten into you, sugar?”

“Missed you,” you murmur against his soft shirt. “Can’t believe you didn’t—didn’t call me when Karli got out of hand, y’know.”

In the before days—before the snap, when you were running with Steve—Sam was your rock. The one who kept you sane. You loved Steve, and you loved fighting with him, but Sam was the one to remind you why you were fighting. Bucky Barnes wasn’t even in your equation until Steve took you to Wakanda and asked you to be Bucky’s “ambassador.”

A cheap, fancy word for babysitter.

Sam kept you grounded. Always said you reminded him of Sarah, his sister. And when Sam died in the snap too, you went and found Sarah and you grieved together. She grieved for her brother and her world as she knew it, grieved for her sons who wouldn’t know their uncle. You grieved for your brother and your lover and cursed Steve Roger’s name to the wind and to whoever might listen.

It stung like a bitch when they all magically came back and you—

Sam was the only one who visited you after Steve’s funeral. Said Bucky—Bucky couldn’t fly all the way to France. Too skittish.

Not even six months later they were flying all the way to Madripoor and hunting down Flag Smashers and no one even bothered to pick up the phone and call you. And when you finally swallowed your own pride and called, no one answered.

“Missed you too, honey.” Sam’s hand rubs wide paths up and down your back, soothing you. “I didn’t wanna get you all swept up in it. Too dangerous.”

“Liar,” you accuse, but your voice is soft. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have called me to come to Italy.”

You feel Sam inhale against you, warm breath leaving him in a sigh.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, squeezing you tighter.

“S’okay,” you tell him. “How’s Sarah and the boys? I haven’t seen ‘em in almost a year now.”

“Good.” His voice is all clipped, like he wants to say something else. And when you pull away from his embrace to peer up at him, you know you’ve caught him, a frown marring his face.

“What?” you ask, searching the depths of his dark eyes.

“Are you and Barnes gonna be okay?”

You push off him immediately, breaking his hold on you to stalk further into your room.

“Dunno,” you say nonchalantly. “Maybe you should have called me to help out with all the Flag Smashers bullshit. But I get it. Bucky’s more fragile than me, right? So I’m the one who has to stay away. I’m the one who had to move to France so he could stay in Brooklyn. I’m the one—”

“You’re hurt,” Sam interrupts. You whirl on him.

“I’m angry.”

“You’re hurt,” he repeats. “And you need to talk to him about it, not me.”

“Whatever.” Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Sam laughs at this. “When does Barnes ever want to talk?”

But you remember the long nights and early mornings that you sat outside in the fields of Wakanda, watching as the stars faded into the black of the sky and how the horizon would birth the sun anew each day, and you remember the sound of Bucky’s voice as he told you stories from the forties—the trouble him and Steve always got into together—and you remember how there were times you would listen until his voice was hoarse from use and you would soothe his throat with open-mouthed kisses, bruises painting his skin until he was confident enough to paint yours back.

You smile, and keep that memory tucked close to your heart.

“Never,” you lie, fingers curling into a fist like you can keep your hold on that Bucky forever.

You avoid talking to Bucky completely for about three days, communicating in glares and grunts to get by. Sam constantly looks like he wants to strangle you both, but never mentions it, content to let you both work out what you need to work out on your own. Torres, when he stops by to check in, he takes one step inside, announces that there’s a lot of tension in the room, and takes one step back outside.

Sam follows him and they have their little meeting far away from you and Bucky.

It’s the fourth day when the problem begins, really. On the fourth day, Sam finds you both in the kitchen of the complex, pointedly ignoring one another, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m sending you two to do surveillance out on the Amalfi coast.”

Your phone, on which you’ve been scrolling down some social media app, slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor. Bucky chokes on the orange juice he was drinking, sending him into a coughing fit. Sam reams him on the back, looking all too gleeful about doing it.

“What are you talking about?” you hear yourself ask. “We’ve been on surveillance.”

“And what’s in Amalfi that’s so important?” Bucky adds. “It’s a tourist trap.”

“The perfect place for a guy like Walker to hide,” Sam says. “Tall, blond, goofy-looking. He’ll blend right in. Torres has intel that says he’s there—or he’s been there recently—and that’s enough of a lead to send you two out.”

“You don’t need us both for that,” you say, crouching down to pick up your phone. “Just send Barnes out there.”

“No way,” Bucky scoffs. “Why don’t you go, princess?”

“Because I’m a data analyst, not a recon expert.”

“Sounds perfect for surveillance.”

“I’m not an assassin trained in stealth, Barnes.”

“Yeah, but you can do all the work onsite.”

“Enough!” Sam barks, a command. Immediately, both you and Bucky stiffen in place. “I don’t care what either of you think. Both of you are going. Walker is an extremely dangerous agent, and if either of you are caught alone, it’s not gonna end pretty. Especially when the rest of your team is in Palermo, which is miles away.”

“You and Joaquin are going to Palermo?” you ask, brows pulled together. Sam begins to shrug his jacket on, slipping his things into his pants pocket.

“Another ping on the map that Torres picked up. Dunno what Walker’s doing coastal, but we need to figure it out. Now I’m going into town for a couple last minute supplies. Can you guys be adults long enough to pack your shit and get a move on?”

It’s quiet in the Genoa complex, the melody of birds and wind chimes and everything Italian that you love. And then you glance over at Bucky, hoping to catch his attention, but he’s already staring at you and you hold his gaze for a second too long, a shiver crawling up your spine.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’ll be fine.”

So on the fourth day, you and Bucky pack your things and pack yourselves into a tiny little Italian car and pack your feelings up along with everything else. The only thing said between the two of you, all day long, is when you fight over who gets to drive. Barnes wins out of sheer stubbornness and a promise that you get to listen to whatever you want.

You retaliate, like a child, by blasting the most obnoxious rock playlist you have, grinning every time he winces.

The Amalfi house is much smaller than you expected—a family room, a small kitchen space with a breakfast nook, one bedroom and one bathroom. Immediately, you throw your bag on the one bed, leaning against the doorframe with your hands on your hips as Bucky comes through, a glare on your visage that almost dares him to try you.

Bucky throws his bag on the couch, rubs his eyes, and groans.

The Italian coast has felt warm the entire time you’ve been there. Even while Bucky sped down the winding roads, you rolled the windows down and let the sun beat down on your skin, heating you from the outside in as the wind blew your hair back from your face. You swear you even saw him smiling at the feeling.

But once the sun finishes sinking beneath the earth, as the two of you rush through a silent dinner and darkness sets in, the house grows cold. Colder than you could have expected. The sleep shorts you brought to wear aren’t going to cut it, especially with the thin sheets pulled over the old mattress.

You search through the hall closet, shivering as the chill sets into the safehouse, rummaging through baskets of old, threadbare linens to find some thicker blankets. In the very back, with the rest of the winter quilts and comforters, there are some woolen things that you grab and drag out, pressing the material to your face to make sure they’re fresh enough to use. You can always wash them tomorrow, but tonight, you’re freezing.

Without thinking, you grab one for Bucky too, knowing that he hates the cold. He told you that once, when you were in Wakanda, how even the barest chill could make him shiver uncontrollably and spring tears from his eyes. Muscle memory, like how his muscles all tense and his mouth opens to bite into a guard whenever a hand gets close to his face. How his teeth clench down when he’s caught in the rain, remembering how it felt to be hosed down.

And, of course, when you creep into the living room where he’s stretched over the tiny couch, legs hanging over the arm, he’s shivering under the two thin sheets you gave him. Your heart breaks, just a little, and you carefully shake the blanket out to drape over him.

Until his hand shoots out, like a bullet, and grabs your wrist. You gasp.

“Bucky,” you whisper, even though his blue eyes are wide and staring at you. “It’s just me.”

He blinks the sleep away, gaze darting between your face and the blanket that’s now covering his body, and then relaxes back onto the couch. His fingers loosen around your hand, but don’t pull away, and you don’t mind. You sit on your knees beside the sofa as he stares up at the ceiling, still gaining his bearings, and in your own tiredness, you lay your head on his stomach in a familiar gesture.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name,” Bucky murmurs.

You sigh, but you can’t come up with an answer. There’s no excuse. No mystery. No nothing. He may not know it, but you know it far too well.

You’re still in love with Bucky Barnes.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look at you. “Why’d you do this?”

“You were cold,” you tell him.

“No. Why did you agree to come on the mission when you knew I’d be here?”

His face turns to you, all sharp, hard angles and hardened looks but soft, such soft lips. You know, firsthand, just how soft they are as they travel over your skin like they’re your personal cartographer, mapping out pleasure points and ticklish vistas and sweet, sugary stops. Your eyes flutter closed as you remember, and you press to your feet, pulling the blanket further up Bucky’s body and to his chin.

But when you move to walk away, his grip on your wrist tightens again. This time, without looking back, you tug your arm away from him and feel the burn of his calloused fingers as they fall, and you disappear down the hallway of the little Amalfi house.

In the lonely cell of your room, you wonder if this is how he felt when he left you.

“Steve’s gone, sweetheart.”

“Everyone’s fucking gone! What do you mean, Bucky? What do you mean?”

“I think—I just think it’s better this way.”

“To disappear like the rest of them?”

“It’s better this way, baby.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.”

At least when Steve was alive, you think, tucked under the wool blanket and crying, you had someone to be pissed at. Because you could never bring yourself to be pissed at Bucky. Not when he would cry at night, just like this, and tell you that his brain was no better than baby food and that he couldn’t think straight sometimes and that it wasn’t about the words anymore, it was about the shattering of memories and the sharp edges that sliced into his mind, cut the backs of his eyes, severed his spine. You could never be mad at that.

But now you can’t be mad at a dead man, either. And there’s so much mad inside of you.

As the sun rises, dawning a new day, you think Sam might’ve been right. Maybe it’s not mad. Maybe it’s hurt, all rotten and oozing, producing a heat that you can’t help but mistake for the heat of anger. Maybe it’s hurt. Maybe it’ll just keep festering along.

Sometimes you wish you had never fallen in love with Bucky. Screw that “it’s better to have loved and lost” bullshit. You wish you had never fallen in love with Bucky Barnes.

It might be your lack of sleep, or it might be what happened last night, but the tension is thick in the Amalfi house as you and Bucky start setting up your surveillance equipment. It’s not much, and it shouldn’t be that hard, but there’s an argument at every single turn.

“The computers shouldn’t be that close to the window,” Bucky points out as he’s tweaking the comms units you’ll both be using.

“I like the view,” you say with a shrug.

“Yeah, and the view—” he gestures at the rolling sea just past a crumbling stone wall, “—is what’ll ruin the tech. Sea salt’s bad for tech. You should know this, princess.” Bucky smirks back at you.

“You should know that I’m gonna shove my foot up your ass if you don’t shut up, Barnes,” you seethe.

Not even twenty minutes later, there’s another argument.

“I don’t see why you’re even fighting me on this! You’re the one who didn’t want to come with me in the first place.”

“‘Cause it’s too dangerous,” Bucky grits through clenched teeth. “You can’t just go walkin’ the streets alone. If anyone’s gonna go lookin’ for trouble, it’s gonna be me, princess.”

“Fine,” you huff. “Then you go do surveillance and transfer the data here, and I’ll stay and analyze it in real time.”

“No, ‘cause m’not leaving you here by yourself either. That’s askin’ for an ambush.”

“You’re being ridiculous!” You throw your arms up in frustration. “You didn’t even want to come to Amalfi with me!”

“And you’re being a brat,” he snaps back. “This discussion is over.”

“Fine!” you shout again, shoving away from the table and grabbing your keys.

“Where the hell are you going?” he calls after you, trailing two steps behind you as you head for the door.

“To get some lunch, ‘cause you’re pissing me off.”

“You can’t go alone—”

You turn on your heel so quickly Bucky almost slams right into you. When he reaches out to grab your arm, you slap his hand away.

“If you had any concern for me, you wouldn’t have left in the first place,” you snarl, losing control of your mouth. “You would’ve cared that I just lost Steve, too. And if you cared, you would’ve come with Sam to visit me after his funeral. But you didn’t.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. Afraid.

“I’m sorry your best friend left you. I’m sorry you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. I’m sorry you had to make amends.” Your voice has dropped lower and lower and lower, now barely a whisper. “But you had one person who loved you and who was never going to leave you. And you let Steve’s choice destroy that. So don’t act like you’re concerned about my wellbeing, because if you were, you would’ve at least picked up the goddamn phone.”

You leave before he has a chance to make words, locking the door behind you. It reminds you of the sound he made when he left, Steve’s betrayal still fresh in the hot tears that stained his palms.

The market is busy. Just like Sam said, it’s full of big, blond, goofy-looking tourists. You try to act like a regular person, not an ex-SHIELD agent. But it’s second-nature, the sweeping of your eyes over the crowd, looking for Walker. Taking well-walked paths and keeping aware of your surroundings. It helps a little, to concentrate on surveying the area instead of the racing beat of your heart.

But there’s something about the market’s energy, the sea breeze in your hair, the smell of fresh fruit and salt and sunlight that relaxes you. You browse through the stalls, greeting the vendors with a grin splitting your lips. It’s the first time you’ve really smiled since your plane landed in Italy at all, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. Quite literally.

In a hand-woven bag you bought from a kind-eyed woman, you’re already hauling two loaves of fresh bread, some heirloom tomatoes you picked up from an old farmer and his son, and a few jars of pesto, jam, and infused oils that have caught your eye as you’ve walked through. You’re already excited to go home and share it with Bucky, knowing he’ll ease up on being a grump if you feed him well. And you’re already planning to swing by the butcher you saw near town. Super soldiers need protein.

It feels like the old days, you realize, and you try to shake the thought. But you pass by a stall selling little bronze trinkets and jewelry made of shells and you almost turn around to show Bucky, to give him your puppy dog eyes and ask if you could get one.

But this isn’t New York. And it isn’t your usual Sunday farmer’s market trip. And Bucky isn’t—He isn’t yours anymore.

You swallow that realization and smile at the vendor, fingers passing over the jewelry, and walk away.

There’s a stall not three stops away that you nearly breeze by until you realize it’s full of fat, juicy plums, all ripe and needing a home. You head there, promising yourself it’ll be your last stop, and start to look through the box. They’re Bucky’s favorites, you know. He used to beg for a whole bag of them every Sunday, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d help him pick out the perfect ones.

Now, you do the same, hand passing over bruised ones, small ones, imperfect ones. It’s like a ritual. The woman behind the stall smiles at you, and you smile back.

“Quanto costa?” you ask her.

“Quanto costa l'amore?” she answers, grin widening. How much does love cost?

“Troppo,” you say with a laugh, but you hand her a twenty Euro banknote. “Questo lo coprirà?”

She waves her hands, gesturing that it’s too much for a couple of plums, but you slide it toward her anyway, picking your perfect plums and putting them in your bag, excited to take them home to Bucky.

‘Cause even if he isn’t yours, even if his smile doesn’t belong to you anymore, you still fucking love to see it. Love costs so much, yeah, but god it’s worth it.

And when you get back to that little Amalfi house, carrying your offerings inside with a fat grin on your visage, Bucky is standing at the door to greet you with a scowl on his face.

“You shouldn’t have left without me.” He talks as you move past him, sliding your bag off your shoulder.

“Brought you lunch,” you say, flashing him a smile. ‘Cause at this point, you’ve accepted it. You’ve accepted the pain. The hurt. The anger. You’ve swallowed it and you’ve accepted that Bucky’s not yours. And all you can do, at this point, is try to get along with him.

Otherwise, you’ll continue to fester.

And you’d rather remember how much you loved him instead of how much you hate him.

“You’re lucky Walker wasn’t out there! You didn’t even have an earpiece, or a gun, or anything. What’re you trying to prove, princess?”

You shrug. “Nothing anymore. Why don’t you come eat lunch?”

“Why—” Suddenly, Bucky stops, jaw shutting with a click of teeth as you pull the plums out one by one and place them on the counter to be washed. “Are those… You bought… plums?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you see him staring at the plums like he’s horrified. You almost laugh.

“They’re your favorite,” you say nonchalantly. “Of course I did.”

“But you hate me,” Bucky says quietly.

“I don’t hate you.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “I was hurt. Or I am hurt, or whatever. But I could never—I don’t hate you.”

The silence balloons like someone forcing helium down your throat. You feel like you might float away, lose consciousness, like you aren’t real and the room is changing and moving and Bucky is just a vision, like the ones you had after he left. The ones that made you question whose brain was more fucked up.

It feels like you’re about to pop from the inside out.

“You hate going to the market alone,” Bucky says with a smile. You can hear it in the words. “You hate carrying the bag.”

“Makes my shoulder ache,” you say.

“You always buy too much, princess.”

You shrug. “Always feeding a super soldier.”

When you turn away from the counter to face him, he’s moved forward in the silence, damned assassin. Bucky is close enough to touch, now. Close enough that you can smell him, the unique blend of leather and mint and sage, a metallic tang, mixed with the sea and salt of the coast. It’s familiar and yet different, fitting for this new Bucky who stands before you with cropped hair and a thin smile.

“I used to dream of this,” Bucky admits suddenly, his face sobering. “Dream of you and me moving outta Brooklyn. Somewhere near the ocean. You always talked about moving to Bordeaux and I thought—” his voice breaks, “—I thought I’d take you there one day.”

“Bucky,” you warn, feeling a rush of emotion choking you.

“And you ‘n me, we’d go to the market like this, like we did in New York. You’d buy me plums and I’d sneak somethin’ sweet in the bag for you.” He reaches around you to take a plum from the counter in his vibranium hand, holding it up to the light that streams through the kitchen window.

You swallow, tears stinging the backs of your eyes.

“We’d be happy,” he whispers. “We were happy and I ruined it, didn’t I, sweetheart?”

“I thought we were,” you say, so quietly. “I wondered what I did wrong when you left.”

“Oh baby,” Bucky breathes out. He takes your cheek in his flesh palm and you press further into his touch. “I’m sorry I made you think it was your fault.”

You almost think Bucky is magic at this point, the way he so easily tears your heart into pieces and puts it back together, filling all the broken veins with pretty words. For someone who has spilled so much blood, he sure knows how to stitch you back together, to cleanse the wounds he’s left within you. You never bothered to heal yourself when he left. You just wallowed in the pain of loving and losing him.

“Why’d you leave?” A tear slips down your face and is caught by Bucky’s roaming thumb. “You—Bucky, you died and I grieved you. And then when I had you back, you left me again.”

“Because I thought you would move on,” he says, blue eyes all depthless and sad. “I thought you had moved on after I found out I was gone for five years, baby. And when Steve left, when he chose to go back, I thought it would be better if you moved on anyway. I was broken, baby. I’m a broken man. You knew this. You know this.”

“And you know that I fell in love with you anyway,” you whisper. “Are you fixed now? Did it fix you when you left me?”

Bucky falls silent. Your heart cracks once again by his own hand, his own words, and you feel like you never should have come on this mission. You should’ve told Sam no. Should’ve made an excuse. Shouldn’t have opened your heart up to Bucky again.

It hurts. How much does love cost? Troppo. Too much.

But Bucky simply cradles your face in both hands and makes you look up at him, into his eyes, and he holds you so gently and so familiarly that you sink into the touch. Even if brief, you want to enjoy it before he pulls away again.

“You are the only thing that makes me whole,” Bucky says. “You don’t fix me. You can’t fix a broken man. But you make me fuckin’ whole.”

“I love you, Bucky. I do. I love you.”

“You shouldn’t love someone like me.”

“You can’t decide that for me, Bucky. Only we get to decide who makes us happy. Who makes us whole. Who we love.”

“Then… Then I love you, too.”

In the here and now, on the Amalfi Coast instead of sitting by the lake in Wakanda, hot tears coursing down your cheeks, your hand runs up the length of Bucky’s chest, up his throat, and cups his jaw the way he’s holding yours.

“Do you still love me?” you ask, lips trembling.

“Never stopped, princess,” he says with a lopsided grin, but his eyes are wet with unshed tears.

“Then I think you should kiss me,” you say, and it makes him laugh. “Can’t let an old man like you get rusty.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” Bucky huffs. “Whatever you say.”

His lips meet yours like a magnet seeking out its mate, slow at first, and then his tongue finds the seam of your lips and breaks them apart like he’s tearing through all the bandages you tried to wrap your wounds in. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to heal all the damage he’s caused, teeth grazing over your bottom lip and tongue tracing the patterns he’s left. He steals all your breath, pulls your body against him until he’s squeezing you like he’s never gonna let you go. His mouth is stitching your heart back together, you swear.

And when he pulls away to let you catch your breath, your chests heaving in a rhythm with one another, you can’t help but laugh. Bucky frowns.

“Was it that bad?” he asks, the seriousness on his brow making you giggle even harder.

“No, I was just thinking…” you trail off, burying your nose in his neck.

“What?” His arms wrap around you, somehow tighter than before.

“I love you, Bucky.” You smile up at him. One kiss, two kisses, a hundred kisses won’t fix you. And it won’t fix him. “I love you so much.”

But one kiss, two kisses, a hundred kisses might start to soothe the scar, and you think that’s worth the pain.

Bucky grins a boyish grin that you’ve never seen before, looking more like the man from the black and white photos you have stashed away in a box collecting dust—a box full of things that you haven't had the courage to sift through just yet. Until now.

“I love you,” Bucky says against your lips. “So fuckin’ much.”

[barnestruck]

When you just want to enjoy some fluffy x reader fanfics but the entire tag is filled with horndogs

[barnestruck]

[barnestruck]

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“Fashions fade, style is eternal.” -Yves Saint Laurent

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(insp.)

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AGHG I NEED THISSS

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happiness looks so good on him

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bucky with soft curls

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Worst Case vs. Best Case Scenarios by Karina Farek.