quarantined-with-bucky

[quarantined-with-bucky]

American Boy

Bucky x Reader

Request: So basically buckyxreader where she is a super successful businesswomen and awfully confident but when she’s with bucky she feels insecure as many women want him and she’s insecure of nat. Based on “American Boy” by little mix where bucky is her american boy and the other girl in the song is nat. So like angst with a happy ending (maybe smut if you’re comfortable idk idk).

Words: ~ 9,700

Summary: Dating Bucky can be challenging sometimes -- all the time.

Warnings: Smut, angst

A/N: Sorry this took me so long :( I recently started work so its been hard to write -- but I’m really happy with how this one turned out!! Thank you so much for the request!

And I met him back when I was out in California He was playing in a band and she was dancing on a stage And he says that I'm the one but she's the one that got away And he never knew her real name

Nothing about tonight sounded mildly comfortable. It was going to be six hours in a too cold banquette hall, standing all night in too tall heels, a too tight dress, with your hair scraped back into a too painful bun. From the moment you stepped inside, the flesh on your arms and décolleté erupting into goosebumps – nothing a little alcohol can’t fix, you thought to yourself, snagging a glass of champagne off of the tray from the first waiter you saw.

“Y/N,” Tony called, opening his arms to greet you. His suit was perfectly pressed, a three-piece suit that cost more than twice your monthly rent. You walked up to him, giving him a side hug, checking yourself out in the reflection of his iconic red glasses. “See, I knew you’d come.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, remembering how for the past week you’d declined his numerous invitations to his party. “I hope you know that I’m charging you overtime for this.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He ushers you away while he continues mingling with his other guests.

Never in a million years had you thought you’d be an A-list guest at one of Tony Stark’s infamous parties. But, as fate would have it, you and Tony had been working together quite a bit in the recent years. What began as a little start-up from your college dorm room, quickly grew into a multinational billion-dollar company. Stark industries contracted your company out to spearhead multiple new projects – including the development of high-tech equipment for the Avengers. You had many ventures, sectors growing from technological advancement, to biometrics, to teams specializing in law, advertising, and operations.

The past few years had been a whirlwind for you. Moving to New York, managing your ever-growing company – up until now your life had been all work and no play. Once you met Tony, you knew that your world would flip upside down. You’d been in Forbes 30-Under-30 list for three years straight. Your life had grown into nothing but interviews, business deals, and fame – and you loved it. You felt like you were on top of the world at this moment in your life; nothing was going to stop your forward momentum from climbing up the ladder.

“Hey,” a smooth voice pulled you out of your fog, a figure popping up next to you.

“Hey, Steve,” you responded, smiling up at the blond man.

“You having a good night?” You’d met Steve a handful of times before through Tony, working with him a few times in the past. You don’t know if you could outright call him your close friend, but Steve was always so kind.

You could should be using tonight as a networking opportunity, but after an extremely stressful week at work, all you wanted to do was crawl into a bubble bath and relax. You couldn’t do that, so you thought you’d at least try to let loose and take it easy tonight, hoping to catch up with friends and enjoy some time partying. “I guess,” you shrugged, taking another sip of champagne.

“That makes two of us,” he replied, taking an equally long sip of his drink. “It’s hard to lay low at Tony’s parties, y’know?”

“Its hard to lay low when you’re Captain America,” you joked, nudging his arm with your elbow. He rolled his eyes again, running a hand through his short blond hair.

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, trying to find something worthwhile to talk to Steve about: maybe about the couples dancing in the center of the room, the large crowd gathered at the bar, the performers that laced their way through the influx of people. Your gaze fell upon a smaller group of people gathered around a table, laughing, telling stories and interrupting each other with more tall tales. You only recognized a couple people in the group; Sam Wilson: tall, well-built, perhaps a little tipsy, chirping away with his witty comments; Natasha Romanoff: a goddess, quiet, watching, observing, black dress so tight on her beautiful figure it looked like it was painted on; Bucky Barnes: the epitome of tall dark and handsome, at the forefront of the conversation, laughing and cussing telling his sensational war story, dark tendrils of hair hanging loosely in front of his face, obstructing the view of his blue eyes.

“Have you met Bucky?” Steve asked, interrupting your thoughts. You shook your head ‘no,’ unable to tear your eyes away from him. His black suit was complemented quite nicely with a fitted black shirt, the top buttons undone, his tanned muscle peaking out. He ran his metallic hand through his long hair – you finally were able to see his eyes, the only color on him, so bright compared to their dark surroundings. And they were looking at you.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you turned your head up to Steve. He was watching Bucky, watching him looking at you; Steve’s head turned between the two of you, almost unable to stop the smile from pulling at his lips. Steve pulled you into the group, making space for you to stand between him and Bucky. As introductions were passed around the group, you felt eyes on you. This time, the set of green eyes.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Natasha give you the up and down a few times. Your first reaction was that it wasn’t in a bad or necessarily judgmental way; she was interested in who the outsider was. She was protective, it was instinctual; she would observe said outsider, finding all of her flaws, quirks, secrets, until she was certain she wasn’t a threat. When you were introduced to her, she politely flashed you a smile with her infamous painted red lips and shook your hand.

“(Y/N), this is Bucky,” Steve finished, watching eagerly as the two of you shook hands and exchanged smiles.

“(Y/N),” Bucky whispered, your name tasting sweet on his lips; he tipped his head ever so slightly towards you in greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Everybody took the hint – that hint being Steve wiggling his eyebrows at everyone – and the group dispersed. You waved goodbye to the like, politely offering goodbyes to everyone. In your peripheral vison, you watched as the red head gave you one final up-and-down, crossing her arms over her busty chest, flitting her eyes to Bucky’s before she strutted off.

…

You hit it off with Bucky instantly, spending the night discussing everything from your future prospects to your relationship status to your past (specifically, your past). He was completely enamored by you. He was obsessed with the fact that people looked up to you; you demanded respect – so much so, in fact, that your success intimidated them; you were unapproachable to those who didn’t have their shit together. After that night, he knew he had to see you again.

And you could not feel more the same way.

It started fairly privately. Despite your constant media attention – being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company had that effect – being Tony Stark’s business partner escalated that. Usually on your commute to and from work, whether that be your corporate office or the Avenger’s tower, there would be a few paparazzi and a couple reporters following you around. They wanted information on you, your ventures, but most importantly: Tony Stark. When you were contracted to work with Stark Industries, you knew this was a possibility – in fact, it was the number one con on your pros & cons list. While you did think it was a decent opportunity for exposure, it surely came back to bite you in the ass.

You didn’t anticipate meeting Bucky Barnes – you surely didn’t anticipate dating him, either. You couldn’t be happier with Bucky; you wouldn’t let the incessant paparazzi and media attention get to you. Surely, you’d figured that dating an actual Avenger would draw some attention to yourself. However, you couldn’t have predicted the magnitude it would have on your daily life. The amount cameramen and reporters that followed you on a daily basis more than doubled.

Now, you’d never considered yourself shy, especially not camera shy – hell, all you were doing was walking from your car to and from different buildings – you could surely handle getting your picture taken. You had to admit, you were put together (and damn hot). You wore tailored suits, the tall heels; your hair and makeup were done perfectly every day.          

It’s not like you hadn’t been on the cover of magazines before; but they were articles, studies, biographies. You posed for the cover of Forbes and Wall Street Journal and Harvard Business Review. Gracing the cover of tabloid magazines, however, was new territory for you. They talked about your style, your makeup, you clothes, your hair – nothing was too surface level for them to delve into. At first, that’s all it was. Noting and pricing your style, People magazine printing a “Who is She?” issue.

Then the comparisons started.

It was a side-by-side of you and Natasha – Black Widow. How could you compete with her?

You were sitting in bed one morning, up early before dawn, checking your phone before you started your morning routine. It was supposed to be like any other Thursday: work, meetings, executive board reviews: productive. But after reading that article, your heart deflated; today would only truly be over once you get to crawl back into your bed at the end of the day and sulk under the covers.

You slowly let out a long breath as you scrolled quickly through the article. “(Y/N) Becomes Black Widow’s Replacement: Is She Good Enough or Will She Get Tangled in the Web?” leave it to Daily Mail to start off with a shitty pun to ruin your mood.

The first picture was a full body shot of you laid next to a similar image of Natasha. She was shorter, sure – but curvier. She had more muscle, obviously – and those legs. Even you wanted to be strangled to death by her thighs. (And you felt like dying at that moment, that’s for sure). Maybe she just wore tighter clothes? You did, in fact, wear well-tailored clothes – you were actually very fashion forward for the business world, taking Fall 2020 by storm. She just got the chance to wear tighter clothes more often.

The second photo was an extremely flattering behind shot. The photographer might as well have taken the camera and pointed it right up your skirt. You’d heard the tabloids comparing the asses of other famous women, surely even the English Royalty had headlines circulating about it. You actually thought you had a good ass – you do – but hers was better. Black fucking Widow and you were supposed to somehow compete?

The last shot was a close up of your faces. You had to admit, they probably could’ve picked a worse picture of you. You weren’t smiling, you weren’t frowning – it was neutral. Your brows maybe slightly narrowed. Natasha, on the other hand, was glaring at the paparazzi. They gave her space, as if they took one step too close, she would murder them (and although she was actually extremely kind to you, they were probably right in that case). Her glare exuded confidence, intimidation. That was the difference between your auras: while your success may have been intimidating to others, it was her essential being that was intimidating – she could kill you just by looking at you.

While some people may not appreciate that fact, the pure daunting atmosphere that surrounded her, there was one person that did: James Buchanan Barnes.

He, himself, had the same ambiance, after all: that is being the don’t fuck with me stare.

Oh, and I don't mean to get so caught up And insecure 'bout all the things you say Oh, and I don't mean to be jealous, it's just careless me Boy, I must drive you mad

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted, swinging open your front door, pressing a chaste kiss to the lips of the man before you.

He hummed against your lips, caught off guard as you pulled away sooner than expected. “Hey, baby,” he responded, shrugging it off stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “It smells great,” he noted regarding the pasta sauce simmering on the stove. He dipped a metallic pinky finger in the sauce, cheekily smiling at you as he licked his makeshift tasting-spoon. “Tastes great – no surprise.”

You couldn’t help but return his smile, trying to shake off the bad day you’d had, instead turning all focus to your giggle boyfriend before you. He takes two steps forward, engulfing you in his strong arms, rubbing his flesh hand up and down your back in a soothing motion. You rested your cheek against his chest, taking a deep breath in; his earthy scent calmed you down, the heat radiating off of him offering you to a level of relaxation you didn’t know was possible. “Did you have a bad day, baby?” He cooed quietly, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,” you breathed, nodding into his chest. “Bad. And busy. And annoying.”

“Annoying?” He repeated, testing the word on his tongue, but not questioning further. “Come on, why don’t we eat because I’m hungry – and I know you’re hungry – and get you to relax.” You smile up at him, giving him a proper kiss this time, unsure if he was just saying that to get dinner going, or if his supersoldier senses could actually tell that you were hungry (because you were).

Dinner went smoothly. It was quiet, moreso than usual. But it was nice. It was calm: a good change of pace from both of your busy schedules. It was tranquil: spending the evening exchanging loving glances and touches across the table, playing footstie under the table, Bucky quite literally licking pasta sauce off your cheek.

As he finished up his third serving (to which you just sip your wine while he gets his fill), you can’t help but break the silence and light conversation with a loaded question: “What’s with you and Natasha?”

You didn’t mean for the question to come out so abrupt or harsh, but it had been eating at your mind all day. You’d found yourself looking at that article during every five-minute break you got. Comparing hair, clothes, smiles, eyes, teeth – everything.

“What’s with us?” He repeated, eyebrows cocked in misunderstanding, palms raised in confusion. He didn’t understand the question.

You sighed heavily, dropping your eyes to the near empty wine glass before you. “I don’t know,” you grumbled, running your hands over your forehead, dropping them behind your head, pulling your hair a bit. “I’ve been seeing these articles about her – about her and me,” you clarified, trailing off, hoping he’d understand the picture. As he remained silent, you sat back against your chair, slouching. “Did you guys date or something?” You immediately bit the inside of your cheek. The question burned coming off your tongue.

His chuckle almost startled you out of your fog; your stomach dropped as you felt knots pull at all your insides. “Babe.” He reaches across the table with open palms, waiting for you to place your hands in his. You hesitated, but eventually complied, his soft smile and kind eyes giving you no other choice. “No. We never had – or did – anything. Never. I promise.”

Okay, well that made you feel better. You let out a breathy sigh (this time of relief) as you gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” you repeated. “Okay.” It made you feel a little better, sure, but then why?

He raised his eyebrows once again. “You don’t believe me?”

“No – no, no, no – ” you replied quickly, reaching farther across the table, fingertips grazing his forearms. “I’m just confused. I keep seeing articles comparing me and her,” you stated very slowly, unsure of the right words, unsure of what his innate reaction would be.

“We have a… past,” he responded, slowly; it was calculated.

But in that moment, he knew he miscalculated. “A past?”

No, not like that, he thought. But like what, exactly? How was he supposed to explain it? God, his own life was complicated enough to explain – he hadn’t dared to divulge that deep, in fear of ruining your newly blossoming relationship. He owed you some sort of explanation, though, right? But he was at a loss for words at the worst time possible. “It just goes back to… a long time ago… with… well… ” With no words left to complete his fragment of a sentence, he raised his left hand and wiggled his metallic fingers.

Your lips formed an “oh” shape as you said the same word mentally. Oh, no shit, more like. The Russian spy and the Winter Soldier had intertwined pasts. You felt like an idiot – like the answer was laying right there before you, your eyes glazing right over it. “Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry but – ”

He cut you off immediately, taking one of your hands into both of his. He looked you straight in the eyes, his own blue irises staring deep into yours. “Don’t apologize, please.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want that part of my life taking over my life now. You’re not prying – I need to be open with you about it.” You nodded slowly. “I want you to be apart of my life, (Y/N),” he clarified, nearly smiling at you missing the implication of his previous sentence.

You grinned, a goofy wine-infused smile. You leaned across the table, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

That night, he began telling you about his past; nothing he wasn’t comfortable with discussing was mentioned. You didn’t push him, didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer opinion or advice. The only thing you offered was solace, comfort, and hot tea. You held him in bed, ran your fingers through his hair, rubbed small circles on his muscled back.

He told you about how he trained her, how their connected past drew scrutiny to them in the media. How their ties to Russia, Hydra, and a few not-so politically correct incidents in the past tied them closer together both in eyes of the tabloids and, subsequently, to each other.

You had no questions, no comments. There was nothing for you to say. You weren’t questioning the validity of his past and you didn’t question the fact that he and Natasha were just friends. You were confident in Bucky, confident that he was telling the truth – confident in your relationship.

The two of you fell asleep that night wiping tears off each other’s cheeks; but neither of you had felt more safe – more in love – than at that moment in your lives.

…

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing down at you – at your figure.

You were turned away from him, trying to busy yourself, acting as though bringing it up again was casual, like it was just a normal question on par with how was your day? It, in fact, was extremely loaded; there couldn’t be more of a loaded question, in Bucky’s opinion (in your own opinion, too). But, dammit, you needed validation – wasn’t that okay?

It was okay.

It was always okay. Bucky understood that. Even he, himself, needed validation in a similar way. However, there were two distinct differences about what he needed vs. what you needed.

1. He never needed validation against someone else.

Bucky was insecure – the fact of the matter was every single person in the world had insecurities, from the brightest minds to the most beautiful models; there isn’t a single person who isn’t immune to outside pressure, societal expectations, internal comparisons. Sometimes Bucky would be insecure of his arm, oftentimes he’d be insecure about his past. He’d wonder about his hair, he’d read articles about himself, comments people posted online. Bucky had a certain confidence about himself, sure. He was intimidating (that was both a good and a bad thing).

But you. You were intimidating, too – you were, in Bucky’s eyes – the baddest bitch; you controlled the business world, dominate magazine headlines, demanded the attention of every man in the room. He loved it. He loved the fact that you were all that and more, and that he got to come home to you. He got to hold you in his arms at night. He got to make love to you.

That’s why he didn’t understand your – what he determined to be – obsession with her. All the time asking him about her. Were you as good as her? Were you better than her? He understood, at first. Natasha was very intimidating – to anyone, even her own team. He didn’t mind showing you extra attention, sprinkling you with more compliments, lovingly laying his hands on the places you didn’t like about yourself. He loved you; he loved complimenting you. Nothing he ever said was a lie, so he had no problem saying them.

But as time went on, you kept asking. About. Her.

2. He believed you when you validated him.

Not only were you asking about Natasha, constantly comparing yourself to her – your body, your brains, your face, even your hair. Again, he had no problem telling you how beautiful you were; it was a service to you that he would trade anything in the world for. He loved to say that to you; complimenting your intelligence, looks, attitude – all of it.

Maybe he wasn’t complimenting you enough anymore? Even so, you had to know the way he felt about you? He tried really hard to validate it as his own fault. Like it was something he had done to cause you to suddenly be so insecure. But all it took was one walk down the bustling street-stands on the New York City’s streets for him to realize. You, after all, had graced the cover of every magazine as of lately. You and Natasha.

He wasn’t so hard on you or himself after that little piece clicked in his head.

But at the end of the day, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if you never believed him. Did you trust him? Did you love him? Those questions ran through his head at night – as much as he hated it, he couldn’t stop it.

“It’s not how many times, Bucky! It’s – it’s – ” You tripped over your own words.

“What is it, then, (Y/N)? Because I sure as hell can’t figure it out.” In fact, you didn’t know what it was. You couldn’t pinpoint it. You couldn’t put the words together.

You turned around, crossing your arms across your chest, mirroring him. You just stared back it him, biting your lip. There wasn’t anything you could say; just offered him a shrug.

“(Y/N), come on,” he began. “You can’t seriously believe the shit they say.” He was referring to the incessant media coverage. The eyes on you – 24/7 cameras. It eats away at you; it was all you could think about. “You’re too smart for them. What’s this all about, then?”

If there was anyone who could see right through you, it was him. But if there was one thing he needed to know about you, it was that you had too much pride to admit any sort of insecurity to anyone – even your boyfriend of now eight months.

It was in that moment that you wondered if he took a short tone with her the way he had been with you lately. Did she have to ask him such endless questions? Definitely not. She had nothing to worry about. She didn’t care.

That was the difference between the two of you.

You couldn’t do anything but care.

Singing, singing, singing Ooh la la, he breaks my heart I know he thinks about her when he plays guitar And ooh la la, my American boy

You and Bucky sat on the couch, the movie playing in front you now long forgotten. The past few weeks have been stressful for the both of you. You were both dealing with a lot at work; you with new projects and development issues, Bucky with compiling intel that seemly led nowhere. Last night, you’d attended another one of Tony’s parties with Bucky. You thought it was going to be a fun night, seeing all your old friends, catching up with everyone you hadn’t seen in so long. What was supposed to be a casual night of fun drinking and dancing, turned sour very quickly.

It was nice in the beginning, catching up with Sam and Steve; that is, until you caught a glimpse of Bucky from the corner of your eye. He was just meant to get a refill of drinks. All he had to do was weave through the crowd, make it to the bar, and return with the drinks. You felt that it shouldn’t have taken him that long. Maybe you should’ve offered to get them instead.

There he stood, leaning against the bar, a handful of cold drinks sitting in front of him on the tabletop. You watched as he ignored the cups the bartender placed down in front of him a few minutes ago; watched as a drop of precipitation slid down the side of the cold glass, pooling with all the others at the granite bar top.

Beside him, a tall blonde mimicked his movements, leaning against the counter. She spoke to him in a hushed tone, gazing up at him under her long eyelashes. Her perfectly manicured hands grazed up and down his arm, undoubtedly innocently asking about the strong metal underneath his shirt sleeve. You rolled your eyes, nearly scoffing at her fairly blatant attempt at flirting.

You wouldn’t be so pissed off, usually. She was beautiful, sure, but you were confident in your relationship with Bucky. You knew how he felt about you and he knew how strong your feelings were for him. There was no doubt on either end – so why shouldn’t he be able to have a conversation with some woman at a party? He had just grown comfortable enough to talk about his metal arm, finally accepting the gift that the great King T’Challa had gifted him.

So why did this interaction piss you off so much?

Because you knew that if a man had come up to you to chat so innocently with you, he’d be on him in less than one second. And if a man had come up to you to chat while also running his hand up your arm or down your back, Bucky would ensure that man would be leaving this party with nothing but then broken fingers.

But your pride took the best of you, as usual. You rolled your eyes to yourself, carrying on your conversation with Sam and Steve, trying your best not to look over Sam’s shoulder too much, staring past him and at Bucky. You held your empty cup in your hand, almost now more pissed that your new drink was sitting lonely at the bar, when you needed alcohol more than ever in this moment.

All you wanted was to go up there, rip her hand off your boyfriend, and get your damn drink. Instead, you held your tongue all night. When Bucky returned with your drink, you thanked him and took it, gulping it down fairly quickly. When his hand rested on your waist, you simply gave yourself a twist, shrugging his hand off of you. You felt him give you a questioning look, but you simply pretended not to notice, instead keeping your eyes locked on Sam’s as he told his story about what ever he was talking about (you weren’t really paying attention); just smiling and nodding and looking as engaged as possible.

When you and Bucky got home that night, you quickly showered and crawled into bed. Bucky had been trying to talk to you on the car ride home, all night while you got ready for bed. Finally giving you your peace to shower, he decided to try again once he slipped into bed beside him. “What’s going on, (Y/N),” he whispered, turning towards you; but he was met with the sight of your back turned to him.

“Nothing,” you replied, face smooshed int the pillow. “��M just tired.”

His hand found your side, rubbing over your hip bone slightly, as he moved closer to you in bed. His chest pressed up against your back, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Is that all, baby?” He kept pressing. “Let me make you feel better,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your neck, burying his face in your shoulder.

“No, Buck, stop.” You shrugged him off and lifted your shoulders in protest, pushing his head away. “I’m not in the mood – I just want to go to sleep.”

“Sorry, (Y/N),” he whispered, settling back down in the bed.

You tried to fall asleep that night, you really were tired – exhausted, in fact. But you just couldn’t calm your racing mind enough to fall asleep. You knew Bucky knew it, too. You suspected that he didn’t get much sleep either.

When you finally did get a few hours of rest, you woke up to a note left by Bucky.

Went for an early workout with Steve. Feel better, I’ll call you later.

You gave yourself a whole self-care day. Bath, face mask, manicure – the whole nine yards. You willed yourself to think of anything except Bucky and that girl – Bucky and any girl.

Every girl in the world had eyes for Bucky – why wouldn’t they? He’s absolutely gorgeous: tall, handsome, he’s got the mysterious vibe going on – basically every woman’s walking wet dream. You always gave him the benefit of the doubt when it came to women flirting with him. He was from a different time; he was just being polite. That’s what you told yourself, at least. The more Steve told you stories about him being a charmer – how he always “wooed” women back in the day – the more unsettled you became. Maybe he missed being a flirt, afterall, as he recovered, he slipped back into his old ways, whether that be an old Brooklyn accent, or his charming smile.

But how many times could you just brush it off? Blatantly flirting in front of you – sure it may have been an innocent conversation or an innocent arm touch (you know that’s how he would sell it to you) but hell, he lived in a different time now. So, he just had to get used to the fact that he had to stop letting these girls flirt with him. Was it really so hard to tell them he had a girlfriend?

Unless he thought about it and didn’t want to. He was so touch starved for the past seventy-plus years that who knows? Maybe he did enjoy all the attention – especially all the female attention. Considering the fact he was such a ladies man, maybe this is exactly what he wanted to feel like himself again, winning over all the women. And, god, all the tall women with their perfect faces and gorgeous chests, showing off more skin than they covered. They had the confidence of models, the ferociousness of catwoman – not to mention Black Widow; she was her own breed of gold-like-women.

He didn’t call you until the next day.

That’s how you ended up on your sofa, innocently watching a movie, two boxes of pizza abandoned on your coffee table. Neither of you brought up the night of Tony’s party; instead, you two sought solace in each other’s arms on the plush couch between piles of pillows.

You two ended up making out, his hands wrapping around your waist and up your back, yours winding their way through locks of his long hair. He leaned over you, your back meeting the sofa top and his chest pressing to yours. His pelvis touched yours, grinding lazily against yours. A mess of legs entangled with each other at the opposite end of the couch. His hand slid down your side, squeezing between your bodies to unbutton your jeans, his fingers slipping underneath your panties.

He groaned once his finger slipped between your slit, moaning at the wetness he found there. He pulled his hands up and shimmied your pants off, his own jeans following suit. He didn’t bother even taking them off all the way, instead latching himself on you with his pants and underwear pooling at his ankles.

His hands grabbed your hips, roughly pushing into you while his lips attached themselves to your neck. You gasped, the sudden entry startling to you. Your arms encased his torso, nails digging into his back as he roughly fucked you into the mattress. You hips met his as you tried to rock against him to meet his thrusts. His hands pinned your hips down, jackhammering you into the couch.

You were panting and moaning and screaming. You couldn’t help the noises that were coming out of your mouth. You and Bucky had tried some pretty not-vanilla stuff in the past, and sure, sex was maybe one of the best ways to get your anger out. But Bucky hadn’t ever been this nonattentive to you before. Or this quiet. Usually you couldn’t get him to shut up – between the dirty talk and the praise, you could never get him to shut up; and he loved it. He knew his whispers and all his egging-you on only flustered you more. That was the sex you loved.

This was different. He didn’t say anything; he just grunting to himself as he pounded into you, hips snapping into yours. God, you were going to be bruised tomorrow just from how hard he was holding you down. He wasn’t attentive, nor perceptive to you. He didn’t kiss you, just barred his teeth through heavy breaths.

This must have been all related to the night at Tony’s party. He was probably angry with you after that night – not talking to him at all. Not to mention you didn’t say anything when he clearly knew something was up with you; you definitely owed him an explanation. You couldn’t blame him or being angry. You weren’t so sure this was his best reaction. He was so dangerously quiet.

That’s when you threw your head back against the pillows, biting your lip and squeezing your eyes shut. Was he just fucking you to fuck you? He came quickly and without warning, spilling into you with nothing but another grunt.

He dropped on top of you, pelvis to pelvis, his cock still inside your warm cunt. He dropped his head to your chest, you shirt still left on from earlier. He shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around him. Your fingers found his hair, stroking his chestnut strands as he fell asleep on top of you.

Maybe he was just tired from waking up early? He probably needed to get his aggressions from the day out – not to mention the frustration from you basically ignoring him all day and night. There was a feeling in the back of your head, though, that this sudden change of pace may have been brought on by something else. His eyes were shut the whole time – hell, maybe he was thinking about that blonde girl from the party.

You said it to yourself as a joke – it was a fleeting thought. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it after that. Was he picturing someone else? He wasn’t turned on by you – you didn’t even get a chance to do anything sexy before he was fucking you with your clothes on. He’d probably rather be sleeping with someone else. Someone who made porn star noises and pulled his hair harder and –

God, you were tired of thinking like this.

So I wanna know who's on your phone Making me paranoid, making me bad Making me sad, making me crazy Making me feel like I needed to ask I wanna know if you're at home And if you're at home, baby, are you alone? Are you alone? Answer your phone Oh, baby, no no no

Things went back to normal after that. You weren’t sure what had gotten into him – and you – that day, but it was nothing but a distant memory. You were dating for about a year and a half. From that point, you two had kept everything very lowkey. Extravagant parties were few and far between, dates became even more private – no distractions, nothing to get between the two of you.

“Baby, I’m home,” you called, throwing your purse and keys on the kitchen table. You were hit with the faint smell of dinner, but as you checked the stovetop and oven, you were met with nothing – just the leftovers already cold in the fridge. You worked late tonight – tonight and every other night for the past three weeks. It was only nine, which wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t have to wake up at five tomorrow to get into the office early. Your team was being met with a deadline soon, there were a lot of extra hours being put in to get the project done. You weren’t one to complain because you were the boss. You weren’t going at this alone, you had everyone else working with you helping out. But it was your job to make sure everything got done, and that included being the first one in and the last one out.

Bucky said it never bothered him. He’d go on missions for days – sometimes weeks – at a time. He encouraged you to work hard, he loved your drive and commitment to your company. He motivated you; he knew you had drive and could get things done. He loved being able to support you, too. When Steve first introduced the idea of dating to him, he wasn’t sure he wanted someone who was only obsessed with him: who got their own recognition just by being his girlfriend. He was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.

You took the Tupper wear from the fridge, popping it in the microwave and waiting for your food. You noticed Bucky on the sofa. Kicking your heels off you made your way to the living room, calling out to him again. He sat up, his face donning a large grin as he waved to you, quickly pointing to the cell phone propped up against his ear. You gave him a shy wave back, turning back to the microwave, soon to be beeping with your meal. You ate dinner alone at the kitchen table, nothing but the sound of Bucky’s roaring laughter bouncing off your ear. By the time you finished, you tossed the bowl into the sink, making your way up to your bedroom.

“Ok, yeah, I’ve gotta go – ” Bucky said into the phone, before interrupting himself with a chuckle, laughing at whatever the person on the other end said. “Yes, I have to go. Yeah, no, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You shut the door before he could get off the couch and flopped straight into bed, groaning. All you wanted to do was fall right asleep, unbothered. That’s when Bucky came in and plopped himself right down on the bed next to you. “Hey, babe,” he greeted you, giving you a light pat on the ass.

“Hey, Buck,” you replied, tucking your arms up underneath your head, propping your head up on your hands. You offered him a tired smile, gazing into his adoring blue eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

“It was nobody,” he replied, quickly changing the subject. “How was work?”

Well that was extremely unlike him. You already knew all his friends. If it was one of them, he would’ve just said so. But it clearly wasn’t, especially considering how giggly he was on the phone. You just narrowed your eyes at him, breezing right past it. “Good – tiring,” you corrected. “But this contract closes out next week, so hopefully not that many more long days after that.”

“Good to hear, I know you can get it done, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

…

The next day, you were met with nearly the same sight. Bucky on the couch, but this time, dinner was covered on the stove. “Thanks for cooking, Buck,” you call to him, taking the lid off the pot and serving yourself a plate. He jumped from the couch and came up behind you, hugging you from behind and kissing your neck.

“Anytime, baby.” He pressed another smooch to your neck before stepping back and grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter. He poured up to glasses, situating himself at one end of the table, waiting for you to join him at the other end. Once you do, your phone rings from your purse. You drop your head back with a groan. “You should probably get that,” Bucky offered, reaching for your purse and holding it out to you.

You give him a quiet “thank you,” and answer the call. Not even before you can answer it, he’s pulling out his own phone and texting away on it. You take your call at the table, a quick last-minute question from a colleague. You tried to focus on what he was saying on the other line, but all you could do was stare at Bucky, smiling down at his phone, furiously typing away.

“No problem, Dave. Thanks for taking a look at it, we can finish up tomorrow morning,” you say into the phone, offering a quick goodbye before hanging up and digging into your food, glaring at Bucky from under your eyelashes. He still sat on his phone, laughing to himself. Once he heard your knife slide against the plate, he locked his phone, shoving it back into his pocket and looking up at you, starting another conversation about your day. You quickly changed the subject to him.

You internally rolled your eyes. All you got was talking about your day and whatever girl on the other end got giggly Bucky? Whenever work got busy, your relationship got boring. It may have been partially your fault: short tempered, tired; you put everything into your work and maybe not enough into Bucky. But your jealousy issues got the better of you. Maybe he was just talking to Sam? Or laughing at memes with Steve – they had a lot to catch up on, afterall. But if so, wouldn’t he just say that instead of saying he was talking to “nobody?”

But your paranoia was actually well placed and almost deserving. Bucky still graced the covers of magazines and newspapers. The attention people gave you quickly died down after the one-year mark on your relationship. You didn’t mind, all it was just a little more peace in your day-to-day life. That same attention never did (and never would) die down for him. He still saved the world; more importantly, he was still hot. Meaning the tabloids would continue to try to stir up trouble with him and every woman he knew. They wanted to play matchmaker, constantly shipping him with the other beautiful women he spent time with – whether that be at work or not. Thinking about all that and Bucky’s charismatic personality was almost too much for you.

…

The third night in a row where you’d come home past nine. The first night without dinner. You were met with an empty apartment, no food, no lights, not a single sign of life. You tossed your bag on the table and immediately called for takeout. As you waited for your Chinese food to arrive, you changed into your pajamas, and called Bucky.

No answer.

All you wanted was to lay on the couch and feast with him. If you were going to stuff your face, you wanted it to be with someone who really knew how to eat. After trying again with no answer, you dropped your phone on the coffee table and began flipping through the channels on TV. Not finding anything good to watch, but also deciding you didn’t have the mental capacity to watch something new, you threw on some Friends reruns. Something you could watch without having to pay attention: just what you were in the mood for.

When the doorbell rang, you jumped, almost forgetting you ordered food. You swung open the door, half expecting to find Bucky on the other side, but you were instead met with the delivery boy. You paid the guy and took the food to the living room, feasting on the couch straight from the little takeaway containers. You didn’t do this often, but damn, it was relaxing.

You picked up your phone: no notifications.

There were a few excuses you made up for him as you stuffed your face with noodles. He could be in the middle of training. You knew him and Steve too well, and knew they always had enough supersoldier energy to fit a workout in anywhere and anytime. That, or he could just be busy. Maybe a work thing came up – he does save the world for a living, afterall. He could just be at the tower. It’s not like he officially lived with you. (It was unofficial, though; he did spend nearly every other night sleeping here with you. And if he didn’t, he would at least give you a reason why he wasn’t). But you’re not his mother or his gatekeeper. There was no reason he absolutely had to tell you where he was and that he wasn’t coming over – that was crazy. But it was just…

Unlike him.

Even if he was at the tower, why wouldn’t he answer?

And as you continued onto your dumplings, you quickly began comfort eating, as your mind traveled to the worst reason you could make up.

Afterall, he never told you who he was laughing on the phone with all this time. He couldn’t even stop himself from laughing at his texts – it was blatantly obvious. There’s no way Reddit could be that funny. You scoffed. It probably was some girl – maybe that blonde from the party. You had no idea of knowing who, but you surely couldn’t stop yourself from speculating.

You called again.

Again.

Again.

You just wanted to hear his voice.

You just wanted to know he was okay.

Okay and alone.

American, my American, American boy You know it's my American boy

It wasn’t every day that you thought about Bucky in such a way. Honestly, you didn’t like to think about the other women that he might be friends (or more) with. It was just your own little fucked up indulgence.

Against your best judgement, Bucky convinced you to go to another one of Tony’s parties. “It’s Steve’s birthday party, (Y/N), you have to go!”

So, you did go. And just like the very first time you met Bucky – at one of these parties – you dragged yourself out of bed and got all dressed up to head to the event. You knew even Steve wouldn’t want such a big celebration, so you’d at least have one person to mope around with.

You held on to Bucky the whole night; your arm gripping his metal bicep as the two of you mingled. Bucky liked having you tucked into his side all night, the warmth of your body pressed up against his arm. “Hey, Stevie,” you greeted him, offering a warm hug. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, (Y/N),” he replied, hugging you, then Bucky. “Happy Independence Day,” he added.

Bucky’s hand immediately snaked around your waste, pulling your hip against his.

It wasn’t until he left to use the bathroom that you suddenly felt naked. You almost wanted to wrap your arms around yourself in comfort. You felt stupid – you were in a room full of friends, people you knew, that you liked. Yet, every time you were in this setting, you never felt more insecure.

And apparently it showed.

You were joined by none-other than the reason for your insecurity. “(Y/N),” she greeted you with a curt nod.

“Hey, Natasha,” you responded, taking a long sip of your drink. She watched you under lidded eyes, her red lips pursing slightly. She looked great, of course, her royal blue dress hugging her curves tightly, he heels adding extra height the both of you knew she didn’t need. “What’s up?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Enjoying the night?”

Now it was your turn to shrug. “As much as I can, I guess. I’ve been waiting for the fireworks show. It was the best last year.”

She nodded, this time taking a swig of her own drink. “Tony sure does know how to throw a party.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “He’s thrown enough of them.”

The two of you stood in silence for a moment; it wasn’t super comfortable for you, but she sure didn’t seem to notice – or care. “You seem a little on edge.”

She wanted you to out yourself. Surely, she was going to pull it out of you somehow. “Not really my scene,” you noted, swirling the ice around in your glass.

“Look, (Y/N),” she began, obviously confirming your suspicion. “There’s never been anything between me and Bucky. In fact – ” she glanced around the room, eyes stopping on a particular man. “ – I’ve got a few skeletons of my own.” You tried to follow her line of sight, but the crowd was too thick in that direction. “He loves you so stop trying to find things wrong with your relationship. He may have been a charming guy back in the day, but you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.” She winked, a small smile building across her plump red lips.

You didn’t even know what to say in that moment. You gawked at her – at Black Widow hyping you up? Was that her way of doing it? Hell, she could tell you that you intimidated every single person in this room, and you’d take it as the biggest compliment ever. To hear about your power from her? Practically an honor.

“Hey,” Bucky spoke up from behind you as he returned. “What’s goin’ on over here?”

“Just girl talk,” Natasha replied before heading off.

Bucky turned to you, confused. “What’s that about?”

You stared at her as she walked away, swaying her hips and heading for the man she mentioned earlier. “I’m not too sure,” you said slowly, mesmerized by her walk.

Bucky’s hand in yours made you turn up towards him, meeting his blue eyes. “Ready to get out of here?” He whispered lowly.

You bit your lip and nodded, setting your glass down and squeezing his hand in both of yours.

Bucky carried you from the front door to the bed; he placed you down on top of the mattress like you were made of glass. He kissed your lips like he was going off to war, but he tasted like he’d just returned.

His hands ran furiously over your back, eventually resting on the zipper and tugging downwards; your hands ran all over his chest, tugging his shirt open, no regard for the buttons. He started peeling your dress off your body as you leaned back on the bed, working on taking off your bra while he discarded the dress on the floor. He followed suit, discarding his clothes before returning to the bed, covering your body with his warm one. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, the other holding his balance on the bed. Your arms wrapped around his neck one hand holding the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you, deepening the kiss, while the other ran through his tangled hair. You interlocked your legs around his waist, pulling yourself upwards to grind on his hard cock.

He moaned into your mouth, grinding back into you, reveling in just the feeling of your wetness gliding against his cock. His hand left your face to grab your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before he pinned your hips to the mattress with his own, humping against you. You whispered against him, pleading: “Bucky, please,” you whispered against his lips.

His mouth skidded down your cheek and past your jawline to suck a sloppy kiss onto your neck. As his face was buried in your shoulder, making his way down to your breast, his hand found its way between your hips, stroking your soaked lips. You hummed and gripped his hair as his finger split the difference, prodding its way into your soaked entrance. As two other fingers joined in, curling inside of your pussy, he licked your nipple, biting the pebbled nub softly. “You’re so wet, baby. Love how you’re always so wet for me.”

“Only for you, James,” you whispered, blissed out, head falling back against the mattress as his thumb found your clit, rubbing small circles under the hood. You felt a jolt up your body, your pussy instinctively clenching against his fingers.

He let out a deep breath, kissing your breast before planting a wet kiss to your lips, fingers not faltering. “I love you, (Y/N),” he murmured against your lips.

You opened your eyes, meeting his staring down at you, glazed over with lust. “I love you, baby,” you breathed, tilting your head up to kiss him again.

He pulled away from you, fingers stilling, long forgotten in the moment. “No, baby – ” he stopped, staring down at you, pleading with you, please understand. “Only you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Tears burning the back of your eyes. You bit your lip, nodding, not trusting your words as a few tears fell from the sides of your eyes, rolling down your skin to the mattress. He kissed you feverishly, teeth chipping against each other’s, lips and tongues sloppily sliding over each other, sharing air.

He pulled his hand away from your thighs, not moving far to line up his dick to your now soaked and desperate pussy. Your breath hitched as he pushed the tip in; all the air Bucky held in his lungs suddenly escaped him. “Fuck, extra tight for me tonight, huh?” You moaned, trying to rock your hips against his, his bodyweight pinning you down. “Eager, baby,” he groaned from the back of his throat.

“Please, baby,” you begged, fisting the sheets, using all your energy to grind against him. “Please.”

Please.

Please.

He complied, snapping his hips down into yours, his big dick stretching your walls. You yelped out, your opening burning as it welcomed his length. His cock curved upwards, hitting deep inside you as he swiftly moved his hips back and forth, quick rhythm never erring. His hand fell to your lower stomach, as he pressed his hand firmly above your public bone. “Mmm, look, baby, I can feel my dick in you,” he whispered, reveling in the feeling as his dick bottomed out inside of you. He felt the tip through the soft flesh of your belly – boy, you felt it, too. Every time he pounded into you felt your head spin. You saw nothing but black, stars blinding your vision at every thrust.

You nearly snaked your hand down to your clit for your final release, but he pulled your hand away, pinning it to the mattress above your head. He sat up on his knees, grabbing your other hand and joining it with the other, holding them both down to the mattress under the grasp on his metal hand. As he returned to leaning over you, sliding his dick back in your pussy, his flesh hand returned to your clit, rubbing in fast circles. You screamed, thighs coming together, snapping tightly against his hips.

That wouldn’t stop him. You weren’t strong enough to hold him in place; he kept fucking you into the mattress, your body shaking wildly as your legs were tied around him. Your back arched off the bed as your pussy throbbed. “Yeah, baby, squeezing my dick with your tight little pussy, huh?” You screamed out and nodded your head wildly, clenching around his cock as the pressure on your clit built up. “Fuck, you’re so good to me – made for me.”

You pulled against his metal arm, body convulsing underneath him. He watched with anticipation, biting his own lip nearly bloody as he pushed you over the edge of your orgasm. You yelped out, gasping for air as your eyes squeezed tight. Your legs shook around him, fingers clawing at his metal plated hand. Bucky could come along just from watching you tremble mid orgasm. But, god, your tight pussy quiver around him surely helped. He fucked you harder, the last few strokes hard and fast. He came with a groan, spilling his hot seed into your soaked cunt.

He whispered curse words to himself as he fucked his dick soft, mixing your own juices together before falling on top of you, pressing his lips to your neck, littering hickeys all over.

As he felt your post orgasm breathing change, he picked his head up, kissing all the way up your neck and jaw until he could look fully down at you. “Hey, baby, no,” he cooed once he caught sight of your watery eyes. “Why are you crying?” He kissed away the tears running down your cheeks.

You smiled at him, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “’M fine, Buck – I just,” you huffed, rolling your teary eyes at yourself, thinking it all suddenly stupid. “I’m sorry – ”

“’s nothing to be sorry for, baby,” he whispered against the shell of your ear.

Your fingers grazed through his hair again, scratching slightly at his scalp. He knew. He knew what you were talking about. He always did – he always understood everything you did or said. “I love you, James.”

“I love you, (Y/N),” he murmured with one final kiss. “Only you.”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Hii do you take requests for fics based on songs??

Yeah! Considering basically all my fics are song based lol you can request a song and I’ll incorporate the lyrics like I usually do! You can do just a song or if you have an idea to go along with it you can send that too!! Thanks :)

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Good Together

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 9,300 (sorry!)

Summary: You and Bucky have a very tumultuous relationship -- but you’re good together.

Warnings: Smut!! Angst maybe.

A/N: Inspired by “Good Together” by SHY Martin. This is my first time writing smut, so please let me know what you think and I’m so sorry if this is terrible!! Just let me knoowwww also sorry for making it so long!

...

I've been working on myself and on my patience But sometimes that shit don't come easy And I see you've been tryin' your best to give me explanations But words don't really cut it lately

“Buck, would you just listen to me,” you spat, emphasizing the last three words, shaking your hands in significance. He continued calmly putting the dishes away; you knew it was a façade: his relaxed shoulders, plain face, raised eyebrows – all a ruse to make him look like a victim. “Turn around.”

He spun quickly on his heel, still holding the clean plate in his hand, facing you with a strong tone of expectation: expectation that you had something really fucking good to say if you had to interrupt him putting the dishes away, especially since you ask him every day to help out with the chores. “Yes, dear?”

You rolled your eyes almost immediately as the term of less-than-endearment slipped off his tongue. “Listen to what I’m saying – ”

“I can multitask, (Y/N), thank you very much.” He continues on his merry way unloading the dishwasher, turning his back to you once again.

You shut your eyes and took a deep breath. An inhale and exhale through your mouth; so quiet yet you’re sure he heard you. Focus, you thought to yourself, shutting your eyes and finding your peace. He wants you to snap. You took another deep breath, craning your neck in a circle, listening as the top of your vertebrae cracks with a loud pop! “All I’m saying,” you begin smoothly, “is that you need to stop acting like a baby.”

He scoffs, eyebrows raising in doubt. “What part of this is being a baby, (Y/N); enlighten me.” Patronizing fuck.

You swore that talking to him took more patience than raising a puppy – hell, at least the puppy would learn to listen to you. “You’re always like acting like the victim; such a martyr. I try to bring up one thing with you – have an adult discussion – and suddenly you act like it’s all my fault and that I’m crazy? Like I’m the bad guy here.”

You can feel him roll his eyes through the back of his head. He shrugs. “Look, (Y/N), all I was saying was that you were bitchin’ over nothin’ – all I did was apologize.”

You actually laughed arrogantly, reminding him what he stated earlier, laying the sarcasm on as heavily as he did: “oh, I’m so sorry, (Y/N). Sorry that I have eyes and like to use them to look around.” You narrowed your eyes at him, finally gaining his full attention as he fisted the cutlery. “Sorry, how does having eyes justify you eye-fucking the girl behind me?”

“I wasn’t even staring – ”

And you snapped. In his defense, you maybe sounded a little shrill when you flipped out at him; your voice did, in fact, raise about twelve octaves. “You were literally undressing her with your eyes, James.” You threw up your hands in the air, exaggerating a groan as your head dropped back. “You probably have x-ray vision, don’t you?” You accused, almost jokingly. But as he narrowed his eyes as he hesitated to say something back, searching his mind for the proper response – but you were too fast. “You fucking do, don’t you, you piece of shit. Of course – ”

The sound of shattering glass cut you off immediately. You opened your eyes and straightened your stance to be faced with Bucky, butter knife in his hand, and a plate, split perfectly in half, sitting on the counter beside him. His blue eyes were squeezed tight in control, his flesh hand gripping the knife so hard that his knuckles had gone white. You stared at the porcelain dinner plate, feignedly wondering if that’s what he wanted to do to you.

Deep down, you knew he would never lay a hand on you; he always insisted on throwing or breaking something when he became so frustrated with his anger – with you. He’d gone so far as to throw a lamp at the wall (in the opposite direction of you, of course); thus, showing his intention to release his anger and not an intention to hurt you. The two of you had been working on different ways to channel his anger; however, as he stated: he was used to a life of destruction, so that’s how he vented. He found that it got the job done: it got you to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have x-ray vision, don’t be a child about it.” His voice was surprisingly calm, especially considering how he still hadn’t put the knife down. “I wasn’t even starting. I glanced at her – in her direction.”

This wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation, though. That’s the issue that he didn’t comprehend. You let out a sigh, speaking calmer than you had all night. “Bucky, I’m just sick of having this same conversation, please,” you pleaded, taking a step closer. He remained silent and still, eyeing you as you approached him. “I feel like I’m not asking for much.” Stop staring at other girls while you’re on a date with me: not much. It was not only infuriating, it was embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, putting the knife on the counter beside the pieces of plate, turning his head down. “I didn’t mean to be doing it. I just get distracted.” His voice was quiet, almost child-like as it rose in inflection.

You were torn. You could believe what he was saying, hoping that this time he’d actually be telling the truth: you knew he had a short attention span, and he did have a tendency to space out a lot. But you were caught between believing that and the fact he had spaced out in the direction of a girl with a significantly low-cut blouse. These other times, he liked to play the victim-card, blaming his less-than-appealing tendencies on his poorer qualities that, technically, nobody could refute him having.

You’d learned to read through his words, though. And this time, it was the latter.

Remember when our love was precious We thought what we had was the best, yeah Now every answer's a question Like every night is one of us is getting aggressive The other one's acting possessive Guess it's the way that we do shit now

Your fights had grown frequent.

Your relationship had grown volatile.

Not that it wasn’t based on your tumultuous roots – but it had just gotten so much worse lately.

This relationship started off fairly normal, however, the cherished affair the two of you shared quickly became tainted through the media. Countless news outlets had gotten word of the coupling instantaneously, leaving the two of you swamped with paparazzi and yelling passerby’s every time either of you left your houses. It was quite the shock that James Buchanan Barnes had a girlfriend – a regular girlfriend, too; a non-Avenger. People were quick to sell you out, too. Close friends and even some family selling information about your relationship (and even just material about you) to make a quick buck.

It had gotten the best of the both of you early on. Bucky was tired of being constantly followed and photographed. He was a man who had grown used to solitude and, while he was slowly but surely adapting to twenty-first century life and everything that came along with that, all of the flashing lights and constant yelling made him want to climb into a hole and live in the dark forever.

You, similarly, were extremely unaccustomed to this. Suddenly, you were on the cover of magazines, reading articles about yourself in People & Us magazines, scrolling through stories of yourself on Snapchat. Old friends, people from college, even some work colleagues sold stories about you to the tabloids. Maybe some of the resentment that you held towards them reflected upon Bucky. You didn’t think about it often, but maybe there was a correlation – an unfair correlation, obviously. Your hatred on the outside world didn’t equate to hatred towards Bucky, but you still aimed it towards him quite a bit.

Bucky, never slow to defend himself, returned said animosity right back at you. The two of you picked each other apart until you were both bloody and raw.

Tonight was no different.

The entire evening, meant to be romantic, turned into a fight. You both intended for event at Stark Industries to be uneventful: a night of mingling with friends, reminiscing in old stories, and drinking expensive champagne. It started off halfway decent, that is, until you started meeting more of the people that worked at the Tower.

You had no problem hanging out with the rest of the Avengers – especially Sam, who you bonded with through teasing Bucky (nothing but love, of course), but when it came to meeting a couple other supporting agents, you were a little out of you element.

Take, for example, Agent Toller, who came up to you and Bucky early on, greeting him kindly with a hug and introducing herself to you with a handshake.  “Nice to meet you, (Y/N)! Bucky’s told me so much about you!” You smiled genuinely at her statement, responding and continuing the conversation. It, of course, came to a point where she slung her arm around his and stated matter-of-factly: “You better keep him locked up. I know a lot of ladies wanting to get their hands on him.”

Your lungs deflated. Including herself, apparently. “I’ll do my best,” you reply through gritted teeth.

Then there was Agent Rivers, who straight off the bat ignored you. She came up to Bucky telling him she finally mastered the thigh-grip, a move, she later clarified, made notorious through Black Widow. “All that time in the gym finally paid off, huh,” Bucky teased.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she beamed back, touching a hand to his arm.

He rolled his eyes playfully, chuckling. “Please, just playing the dummy – as usual.”

She merrily smacked his arm, grinning. “Don’t say that, Buck.”

You stood next to Bucky, staring up at the man blankly. Rivers trotted off once she caught wind of you glaring at Bucky. Plucking another glass of champagne from the passing server, you took a long sip, finally asking: “So, Buck, what would be your part in her mastering this thigh grip?” It was a bit condescending, a little irked, and extremely sarcastic. The image of her perfect legs around your boyfriends neck did not sit right with you.

Was he more of a flirt than you remembered? It had been ages since he’s properly flirted with you. It was nothing to get angsty about; its not like you had anything to truly worry about. He came home every evening, spent the night in your bed with you; save for when he went on missions, but surely, he wasn’t accompanied by any women you had to worry about, at least – Natasha and Wanda had your full confidence. But it wasn’t the women that bothered you; you shouldn’t have to worry about Bucky. No matter how many beautiful, strong, talented women flirted with him, he should shut them down �� not flirt back literally in front of you.

A few more introductions played out exactly like that, so a few more glasses of champagne were necessary for you to get through the evening. At one point you actually started having a good time. You’d left Bucky to chat with the boys while you found sanctuary in your girlfriends off to the side. You were able to air out your grievances, confidential information falling onto open ears. They took your mind off it by bringing up their own drama, in which you all openly made jokes and critiques, the liquor now fully streaming through all of your bloodstreams.

Once the party started to clear out and even some of the Avengers began to leave, Bucky swooped by your pow-wow and wrapped his arm around your waist, whispering a quiet “ready to go?” in your ear. You and Bucky walked out with Sam and his girlfriend, chatting casually.

As you expected, as soon as the pair spilt off from you two, everything fell silent. Not the good silent: the silence that swirled around you two as your gazed at stars together, the silence as you laid napping in each other’s arms on the couch, the silence that comforted him after a nightmare, accompanied by your fingers curling through his hair. No; this was the silence filled with tension; it was the kind of silence that you’d rather die than have to ride home in the car with him not talking to you.

You bit your lip when you brought it up.

He actually laughed, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on his lap. He turned his head to you momentarily, a glint in his eye as his smile mocked you. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“They’re all throwing themselves at you!” You clarify, exasperated, throwing your hands in your lap, turning towards him underneath your seatbelt.

“I can’t help that, can I?” He shrugged it off, turning back to the road, reclining farther in his seat, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling. Smug bastard.

“Yes, James. It’s called personal space and we all have it.” You spoke slowly, enunciating each work clearly. “It would really kill you to tell these girls to stop touching you?” He pulled into a parking spot in front of your apartment and got out of the car without even letting you finish. You followed suit, trialing him up the few steps to the front door. “Every single woman you talked to had her hands all over you.”

He shoves the door open, leaving it wide open for you. “I wasn’t touching them, was I?” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back. He groaned and pulled at the tips, acting as if any sort of physical torture would be more preferable to this conversation. “No, my hand was on you the whole entire time, (Y/N). It’s not an issue.”

You slammed the door, crossing your arms over your chest. “Really?” You questioned, tone and volume raising significantly. “So, you don’t care about them touching you in front of your girlfriend? It’s not an issue? Forget it just pissing me off – you don’t think that was fucking embarrassing for me?”

He shrugged earnestly, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips.

Taking a page out of his book, you pick up the closest thing in arms-length: the half-empty wine bottle you’d left on the table from earlier. You don’t intentionally aim for Bucky, but maybe you weren’t seeing as clearly as you thought you were. It narrowly swipes past him as you drive it into the wall, only marginally missing him because he took a step sideways. His eyes are wide momentarily, turning his head from the large red splotch dripping down the white wall back to focus on you. Instantly, his posture changes: he’s standing upright, more alert – no longer seeing you as annoying instead of nonthreatening; his chest puffs out, his eyebrows knit together, lips pressed into a firm line as he glowers at you. “What. The. Fuck.” His teeth are barred, the words coming out bitterly.

“Oh,” you scoffed, unable to hide the smirk forming on your lips. “You don’t like it when I do it to you?” If you were in his position, you’d want to slap yourself. You were only taunting the beast, speaking to him in such a patronizing tone. You couldn’t help yourself, though; it was finally a taste of his own medicine: to be treated like a child. You bit your lip, trying to smother the smile pulling your lips as you watched with half-lidded eyes as he strutted towards you.

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

You raised your eyebrows in challenge. “Says who?”

He stares down at you, another stride forward, consuming all the space left between the both of you. Taking one more step, he backs you into the wall. Your shoulder blades make contact with the cold plaster. “I do.” His voice was rough, about six octaves lower than usual, volume barely above a whisper, yet so much anger in his tone. You laugh, breathing out, sneering at him. “You better wipe that smile off those pretty little lips.” His voice did not waver; there was no inflection nor cadence of amusement.

Your smirk does not faulter. “Make me.” His metal hand snakes around the base of your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck. He watches in amusement as your smile quickly drops into an open mouth, gasping as you struggle to take in a sharp breath in shock.

His hips press into yours, hip bones jamming into each other’s. His breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans in closer to you, chest against chest. “Not so funny now, is it, baby?”

You and me we never say we're sorry Hands around my body Fucking 'til we're good Fucking 'til we're good And we promise we'll do better Both go down together Fucking 'til we're good

You stare up at him under your eyelashes and focus all your energy on inhaling and exhaling through your nose – this wasn’t your first rodeo.

He watches you, jaw tense, flexing at the sharp contour under his ears. You feel his angered breath as it warms the air over your nose. He grinds his hips up against yours, just moving ever so slightly, pushing his thigh in between your legs. You narrow your eyes at him, clenching your own jaw and huffing out a sharp breath. Your hands flew up to his metal forearm to have something you could hold onto as your oxygen left your lungs.

He leans in once again to whisper in your ear. “What’s that, baby?” He coos condescendingly. He kisses the spot just under your earlobe, the sensitive skin sending a jolt through your body. He trails a few more kisses under your jaw, just above his hand; each kiss becoming progressively longer and sloppier. He makes his way to your other ear, now pressing his lips right up against the cartilage. “You got more to say to me?” His metal fingers and his left leg. His thigh hitches farther up, you’re now practically sitting on his leg – trying to stabilize yourself on your tiptoes. His fingers squeeze your throat, causing you to shut your eyes as you release the breath from your lungs with a whine. He hums in response – you can feel his smile pressing into your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Your eyes open at the sudden loss of contact as his grip loosens and he shifts back in front of you, face-to-face. He stares at you through the dark strands of hair that had fallen loose in front of his face, his eyes dark and clouded over with lust. You imagine you looked the same way, completely disheveled, staring up at him with nothing but desire. Your legs clench around his thigh, pulling yourself farther down onto his muscle-bound leg.

Bucky leans down, slowly diving in for the kiss.

But he stops too soon, his bottom lip just brushing yours. You try to meet him halfway, struggling against the sturdy grip on your throat. You can’t help but groan, eyebrows pulling together in need as he beams down at your joyfully. “You wanna tell me what you need, baby?”

“Touch me,” you whine, hips now moving ever so slightly against his thigh. You couldn’t move much, considering you were barely balanced on there, but you could manage.

“Touch you?” He questioned, quickly swooping forward, pressing his lips to yours chastely. As soon as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, he tore himself far enough from your lips to speak in a hushed tone: “Touch you like those girls were touching me?”

Fuck. Immediately without thinking, you release his forearm where your hands previously rested, pushing back on his chest as hard as you absolutely could. He stumbled back a couple steps, completely taken off guard. God, you were so hot when you were aggressive like that. He loved pushing you to your breaking point: to the point where you’d begin to assert yourself towards him. He loved when you stood up to him, reeling in anger, just so he could take charge and show you who was boss.

It was an adrenaline rush for him.

For you, too.

You stood before him, fists clenched in rage, staring at him. He was just barely smirking, eyelids half shut, a hungry look on his face. Ever the challenge, he would conquer you.

You nearly jumped when he pounced, taking him up against you, legs twined around his back, arms locked behind his neck. His tongue was hot on yours, meeting in a seething hot kiss. His hands immediately palmed at your ass underneath your cocktail dress that had now ridden up to pool at your waist.

As he began up the stairs towards the bedroom, you broke the kiss – with a displeased groan from Bucky – and laid a sloppy trail of kisses and licks along his throat and to his ear. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw (his weak spot), touching your tongue to his hot skin, following it with another kiss. His steps stuttered, his knees buckling as he took the next step. He groaned deep somewhere in the back of his throat, pinching your ass, a quick slap ensuing afterwards as he regained his footing and kicked open the bedroom door.

He tossed you on the bed, wasting no time in grabbing the back collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head and onto the floor in one swift motion, completely disregarding the row of buttons sewed along the front. You took the hint, shimmying off your tight dress while laying on the mattress. He followed suit with his pants and underwear off next. As soon as the cool bedroom air hit his body, he was throwing himself on top of you, pulling your dress off the rest of the way and unhooking your bra. He discarded your underwear next, pitching it over his shoulder, fingers immediately finding your pussy and sinking in.

He took you by surprise, eyes squeezing shut and knees involuntarily closing together. Bucky used his hand to hold one leg down, prying them apart completely. He looked between his hand – his fingers pushing in and out of you completely soaked – and your face – eyebrows knitted together and mouth hanging open. He didn’t know which view he liked better. “Shit, baby, you been this wet the whole time?”

That was the thing about Bucky – he was a talker. If he wasn’t egging you on, then he was filling the room with his vulgar commentary and dirty talk. He added another finger, pumping in and out of you faster, obscene sounds blocking out anything and everything he said. He moved his metal hand from your knee to your clit, rubbing in slow circles, contrasting to his other movements. His metal hand was great – sensitive, temperature resistant; better than his flesh hand – but, god, there was something about feeling your wet cunt on his own skin drove him crazy.

You gasped, quickly biting your lip in anticipation of your orgasm. “Oh yeah, baby? That feel good?” He huffed, thumb whirling on your clit faster. He hunched to lay a kiss on your breast, meeting you hallway sitting-up to capture his lips with yours. You released the sheets you’d been clutching, instead opting to fist his hair, pulling his mouth hungrily to yours. As your body throbbed and your pussy clenched around his fingers, you moan into his mouth, falling back onto the bed.

Bucky sat upright on the bed and watched you as you laid on the bed completely blissed out; hair splayed across the mattress around your head, chest heaving up and down, legs shut – shaking ­– but knees pulled together, arms once pulling taught at his hair now limp on either side of you.

He waited patiently for about forty-five seconds for you to open your eyes. As soon as you did – without enough time for your eyes to even focus on him, he grabbed your waist, flipping you on the bed, gripping your hips to pull you ass to his face. He truly was a face-down ass-up kind of guy. Not that you minded.

You squeaked, burying your face in the sheets as his hand slapped your ass; his palm following to rub away the burning hot sensation it left behind. You felt his tongue drag a long line up from your clit to your tight hole, taking extra note to curl inside your leaking pussy.

Bucky wasted no more time in straightening up and giving his cock a few pumps, smearing his precum all the way down to the base. He grabbed your hip in one hand, guiding his dick to drive into you with the other. He sighed, your soaking wet, tight cunt squeezing him as he pounded into you from behind. He took hold of both your hips, balancing himself on his knees, pulling you backwards on his dick as he rifled his hips forward.

His momentum drove him forward, nearly folding on top of you, your ass pushed dangerously high in the air, tits and face pressed firmly into the mattress, muffling the sounds that escaped you every time the tip of his cock drove into you. His metal hand remained gripping your hipbone, his other palm pressing flat into the curve at the small of your back, pressing your arch deeper and ass further up as your ribcage met the top of the mattress.

He pounded relentlessly into you, the tiniest change in position making your pussy even tighter around him. “Take it,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Take my fucking dick, baby.” You couldn’t help but release a short breathy moan every time his dick brushed against the very edge of your cervix.

Bucky gathered a fistful of your hair in his metal hand, half slipping out, the other half tangled dangerously in between the death grip of his fingers. He hauled you up, causing you to yelp as you tried desperately to push yourself up. He never let go of your hair, instead using it as a vice to keep your back pressed firmly against his sweaty chest, yelping as he did so.

The pain subsided quickly as his other hand found your still sensitive clit, rubbing it with fast, loose circles. You dropped your head, no longer resisting him pulling it back, falling against his shoulder. “That’s my good girl,” he cooed, driving his dick upwards into your wet cunt; the soft pants you made egging him on.

He waited until he could sense your orgasm – feeling your muscles clench, your body stiffen, temperature rise – before he let himself cum, pumping thick ropes of his cum deep into you. His fingers didn’t stop working on your clit – in fact, they moved even faster even harder. You came with a shriek, his hand finally releasing your hair, allowing you to drop forward onto the mattress.

You didn’t move – couldn’t move – but Bucky followed suit, hovering lowly over you, pressing kisses down your spine, reveling in the feeling of his cum dripping out of your pussy around his dick still warm inside of you.

We don't do no, we don't do no conversations We don't talk the way we used to You act like we're all good sometimes, you know I hate it 'Cause it's so obvious it ain't true

“Hey, Buck,” you called from the kitchen as he walked through the front door. He didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even look in your remote direction. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his keys on the table, and walked directly past you to grab a snack from the fridge. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen,” you mention, watching as he already began devouring the left-over chicken legs from the other day.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he had a bad day. You continued chopping the onion, minding your business, silently cursing him out. He can’t even give you a simple hello back? Yes, a bad day makes anyone want to come home and eat a whole meal, but does it really give him the excuse to eat a whole meal right as you’re working on dinner in front of him? If you knew his plan was to eat cold chicken for dinner, you would’ve gone out to eat by yourself instead of making supper for the both of you.

As you started working on mincing the garlic, you mulled over last nights’ events. The two of you had it out, sure, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. You’d fought, made up, even cuddled when you went to sleep. Now today he was going to flat out ignore you with no rhyme or reason. Unless something did happen – something regarding his coworkers? It wouldn’t be impossible, you thought to yourself, bitterly slamming the knife on the cutting board.

“Can you chill with that?” Bucky grumbled, finally looking in your direction, mouth full as he spoke to you in an irritated tone.

“I’m chill,” you mumbled, scraping the contents of the chopping block into the pan, a sizzle filling the silence that now washed over the two of you.

“What’s your problem?” He muttered, mostly to himself, as he took another bite.

“You’re my fucking problem.” You earnestly didn’t mean for him to hear it; if it weren’t for his goddamn super soldier hearing, he wouldn’t have.

He sighed heavily. “What did I do? I’ve been home all of two-minutes.”

You abandoned your pan, turning on your heel to face him. “You’re always ignoring me.”

“What?” He questioned, dropping the container on the counter and raising his hands up. “I can’t enjoy silence anymore? Do you want me to hate every aspect of my life?” He bit his tongue, immediately regretting what he said, but lacking the filter to be able to stop himself. He just wanted for once to be able to have a conversation – actually, he wanted for once to not have to have a conversation – but to have one without arguing would be a gift from god.

You lay the wooden spoon on the island counter between the two of you, the smell of burning onions and garlic now very fragrant in the space between you. “Damn, I wish I knew you hated your life earlier,” you sigh. He rolls his eyes, preparing a refute about how you always seem to blow things out of proportion, but you cut him off before he can open his mouth. “I would’ve left a long time ago.”

He’s the one who was always incapable of talking. One small thing ticks him off and suddenly the only thing he’s capable of doing is shutting himself in a dark room alone. He’s always shutting you out and pushing you away; and all you every try to do is something nice for him – making him dinner, offering an open ear to ramble off some steam – but he always ends up throwing your good deeds back in his face.

Not anymore.

You simply walk out the door. You took your purse, your keys, put on your shoes, and left him standing alone in the kitchen with his chicken.

Maybe it was an overreaction. However, you felt that it was fine based on how he acts like this every day. Was he doing it so you’d fight, and he could just have angry sex with you to make it okay later? Did he genuinely not want to talk to you – ever? If he really hated his life – and you in it – he would surely let you know? Unless this was the actual way he was letting you know? He didn’t call out after you, he just rolled his eyes and let you walk out the door.

Not extremely surprising, but it did hurt your feelings a bit. How could it not? The man you loved for the past two years, put up with this tumultuous relationship for, dealt with his mood swings, waited for him to come back home to you  – all that for him to tell you he hated his life? His life that you entered and made so much better; at least, that’s what you thought.

So, you gave him a day. If silence and peace was what he truly wanted, you’d give it to him. You crashed at your friend’s place that evening, taking that bumpy couch so Bucky would have his time alone.

The only issue is that he didn’t call you the next day. He didn’t call or text.

He was waiting for you to come back to him. Understandable but annoying – aggravating. You (and your friend) hatched out a plan. You waited until he left for work before you returned home, grabbing a few necessities: clothes, toothbrush, the works, and heading back out to her place. There was no doubt that he would know you were gone. This happened twice before. That you became so irritated with him that you left for the night. But you went back the next day, coming home to him lounging on the couch with not a care in the world, hindsight told you that much. You’d simply laid on top of him, his arms snaking around your waist and your face buried in his neck. He waited for you to come back because that’s what he knew you’d do.

This time, you wanted him to reach out. To see if you were okay. To see if you were coming home. You felt like the only one putting in effort and you were so tired. That effort, of course, was shown in the fights the two of you had. You might be able to pin 75% of said arguments on you; but yelling at him was the only way to get through to him. Boy, he loved to fight. You’d honestly never seen him show off such emotion. You brought everything up – the other women all over him, his attitude problems, everything that bothered you. But he never said anything to you. He was so apathetic towards you that he barely spoke to you anymore. He didn’t ask how your day was, he didn’t get jealous when another guy flirted with you, he didn’t even respond to you saying hello – he was completely apathetic.

You waited four days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

Monday, actually, you called in sick for work. You were caught between sobbing to your friend about how much Bucky didn’t care about you and wanting to show up to the Avengers Tower with your fists clenched and a certain red-headed Russian spy to back you up. There was no word from him. He obviously saw some of your things were missing; hell, he probably knew exactly where you were, too. He just didn’t do anything about it.

He obviously didn’t care, so you wouldn’t either.

So good together Maybe I'm crazy Maybe we're crazy No one loves me better Than you, you, you, you

It was clear that you were broken up. Neither of you said anything, but you slowly started to move out of your shared apartment, taking small amounts every day while he was at work until you were fully moved out and into the spare bedroom at your sister’s place on the other side of the city. It made your commute to work a little harder, now having to take two trains and walk a couple blocks; but you learned to appreciate the city, the architecture, the weather. Living with her was great – she was a built-in friend; but it wasn’t living with Bucky.

You were a little heartbroken – maybe more bitter. He just let you go without a fight.

Without a single word.

It was four months of binge-eating, wine-drinking and moping around about Bucky before you had a date. The date itself was fine. The guy was cute enough, funny enough, sweet enough. Your sister convinced you to go out with him again. You almost used him just to take your mind off Bucky. You felt bad about it, but he technically knew you and Bucky dated not long ago.

Everybody knew. It was in the tabloids. They photographed the two of you separately. They connected the dots after they hadn’t seen you and him together for a few weeks. Instead, they only got photos of you or him doing mundane things: you grocery shopping, Bucky going for a run around Central Park; you sitting on the train on your way home from work, Bucky saving the world.

Although you never grew to like having paparazzi take photos of your every step, you’d grown accustomed to it. You never made the front page or headline news, more reserved to as a style-guide or just a few Buzzfeed articles about yourself. Bucky, however, made headlines a lot. You had to speed walk past the newspaper and magazine stands around the city because you didn’t want to see him: whether he was decked out in armor, fighting bad guys, or simply smiling alongside Steve and Sam as they enjoyed one rare night out – you didn’t want to know about any of it.

You continued to see Oliver, almost seriously now, but trying to see past the whole using-him-as-a-rebound mentality. You’d gone on a few more dates, and, before you knew it, he had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. He was awkward in a cute sort of way – couldn’t be more of the polar opposite of Bucky.

Bucky had a demanding, intimidating presence; Oliver stood lanky and slender. Bucky was every bit of tall-dark-and-handsome; Oliver was fair and pale. Bucky’s attitude read toxic, masculine, and provocative; Oliver read like a nerdy-teenager, meekly quiet.

While there was nothing wrong with Oliver, he just wasn’t Bucky.

There was another aspect in which Oliver didn’t hold a candle to Bucky.

In. The. Bedroom.

You may not have been in love with Oliver, but, damn, after six months a bitch gets horny. It was fine at first, you were going to throw a dog a bone and not judge him too much the first round. After all, he was genuinely nice and seemed to care about you a lot, so you weren’t about to crush his heart just because he couldn’t make you cum the first time.

You’d grown to a certain level of intimacy with Bucky. One minute you could be making love – softly, sensually; the next minute he could be choking you and fucking you senseless. A long time was spent building the light affection between the two of you, before either of you even got comfortable with the toxicity and animosity that surrounded you – that egged you on, riling each other up until it was too much and you’d just explode. And maybe that was your problem. Each of you had too much pride and hidden hostility that it engulfed you. You’d lost touch with your younger selves. That became your downfall.

You tried not to think about it too much. Especially when you were in Oliver’s bed and he was kissing your neck. Exactly the position you were in at that exact moment.

His lips were sucking a hickey on your neck as he fucked you slowly. You laid flat on the bed, his elbows bent on either side of your ribcage, head tucked under your jaw. “You like that?” He whispered, dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers desperately trying to find your clit.

You laid there like a dead fish. There was no way you were going to be able to stand this for any longer. You stopped him, pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him off your body. “Let’s switch,” you suggested.

He laid down in your place, allowing you to hop on, reverse cowgirl, fucking yourself the way you wanted.

Bucky liked it when you did that. And you liked the way that Bucky would’ve let you use his dick to get yourself off, smacking your ass along the way, spurring you on. “Fuck, I love it when you ride me like this, baby,” he’d groan, snapping his hips up to match yours.

Oliver stayed quiet, breathing heavily as he watched your perky ass bounce up and down in front of him. You were just getting into rhythm when he began to groan behind you. No, no, no, please. One more minute, you begged, cadence not faltering. Before long – before you came­ – Oliver finished, leaving you with no other choice than to lay on the bed beside him. He pressed a breathless kiss to your lips. “That was amazing,” he mumbled against your lips. “Did you cum?”

Yeah fucking right. You kissed him again, humming in neither confirmation nor opposition. He got up and shimmied to the bathroom to dispose of the used condom. You shut your eyes and nearly face-palmed yourself.

God, Bucky had ruined you.

Ruined your emotions, your life, your perception of love.

Ruined you for any other man.

So, laying in Oliver’s bed, unsatisfied, you couldn’t help but think about how much you’d want to off yourself if Bucky slept with someone else – especially Toller or Rivers. You were broken up. It had been months – nearly a year. Hell, even you were technically sleeping with someone else.

But just the thought of him treating someone else the way he did you – pulling her hair, fucking her, eating her out, making her scream his name like it was the only word she knew – it devastated you.

You promise yourself not to ask and never to find out.

If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good? If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good together? If it isn't love, tell me why do we feel so good? If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good together? So good together

You broke up with Oliver that night. It was better for everyone.

You felt it best to take this time to focus on yourself. Hell, you spent your whole past relationship focusing on Bucky, you spent all of your time with Oliver focusing on how he wasn’t Bucky.

This was about you. It was about your career, your health, your sanity.

Your broken heart.

No matter how hard you threw yourself into your work, how much you worked out, how much you refined your cooking, how many self-help books you read – you felt empty.

You got promoted at work, you built your confidence up, your pallet refined, you loved yourself more than you ever had – something was still missing.

And that’s how you ended up with your phone ringing against your ear, Bucky sitting silently on the other end.

He agreed to meet you. As you walked up the stairs from the subways station, your heartstrings tightened as you walked around your old neighborhood. It had been a year since you’d really been back here; you’d passed through occasionally, but never wanted to take your time travelling down the streets, as it was too painful. There were too many memories of you and Bucky walking hand-in-hand down these streets.

You strolled down your old block, stopping in front of your old apartment. Books and plants cluttered the front windowsill, CDs stacked along the side, bright lights shining across the windowpane, a shadow cast over the glass.

Of course Bucky sold the place. You left. He had no reason to keep it. He had a place at the Tower. He had people there. He had a life there.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing the collar of your coat higher around your neck, shielding yourself from the cold New York winter evening. You turned the corner at the end of the block, seeking shelter in the coffee shop. Bucky agreed to meet you here; it was neutral ground for the both of you. You’d had plenty of dates there, Sundays spent catching up on work and getting coffee. There were no bad memories here, no fights, no fowl words, no animosity. Only hand holding, hot coffee, and shy smiles passed from over the small tables.

You pulled open the door to the shop, sighing in relief as the warm air hit your cheeks. You stopped suddenly in your tracks, breath hitching in the back of your throat.

There he sat, fifteen minutes earlier than you planned, wrapped in that navy-blue sweater you loved – you loved to wear – waiting for you. You couldn’t feel your legs. You couldn’t take a step forward.

You barely recognized him. Obviously, you’d never miss him. He just looked so different. His hair was cut – short. He was clean shaven. He was a completely different man.

He stared you up and down. You looked good, he could tell even with your thick winter jacket and tall boots. He missed your face, your eyes, your lips, your hair, your smell – everything. He waited for you to walk over to the table; it took about two more minutes of you staring at him before you even made your first step closer.

You finally took a seat at the opposite side of his table, a large latte already waiting for you. Your hands were shaking as your held it against the porcelain cup. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes. His handsome blue eyes. His chestnut locks brushed back nearly away from his face, showing off his chiseled cheekbones and jawline. You loved his long hair, you loved grabbing it, you loved the way it hung in his eyes, contrasting his blue eyes; it made him look so edgy. But this Bucky. Ladies’ man, charming, mesmerizing. You’d only seen pictures of Bucky like this, but you couldn’t believe how alluring he actually looked in real life.

Bucky with long hair would fuck you raw until you screamed yourself raw – Bucky with short hair would smile while doing it.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice failing you as you dropped your eyes to your latte.

You saw him nod at you from under your eyelashes. He lifted his own coffee to his mouth, taking a long sip before clearing his throat, gaining his full attention. You bit your bottom lip, staring at him wide-eyed. “So…” he began softly, giving you a half smile. “You’re the one that called me here.”

You stared blankly at him. He was right. It had been over a year and you’d called him up. Why? The answer escaped even your own mind. You didn’t know what compelled you to call him or what your plan was going to be once you actually sat down in front of him. “I guess…” you sighed loudly, dropping your eyes again. “I – I was wondering…” You lost your voice again.

“Why I never called?” He finished for you. He looked sad, once you finally gained the courage to raise your head again. He stared blankly at you, very matter-of-factly. You nodded, not trusting your own voice. He confirmed your nod with one of his own, taking another sip of his coffee. “I didn’t think I should drag you down anymore.”

You rolled your eyes. Just like old times. “Stop playing the victim, James. That’s why I walked.” You took the first sip of your latte, cooled now after it had been sitting out.

He narrowed his eyes at you, but you were right. Just like old times. He shrugged casually, trying to keep his cards close to his chest. “I just thought you’d be better off without me.” He stops himself from reaching across the table and taking your hand. “And that’s being honest.”

You nodded, processing his words. “We weren’t good for each other, huh,” you muttered over the rim of your glass.

“It was kind of toxic,” he admitted, a nervous chuckle following after. He tugged his knit sleeve farther up his arm, flexing it behind his head and pulling at the tips of his hair at the top of his neck.

“You hair looks nice,” you throw in, filling the silence that had fallen between you.

“Thanks. Just needed a change-up,” he replied, dropping his hand to the tabletop.

You nodded softly. You leaving his life wasn’t enough change? “I just wanted you to want me to come back,” you blurt. That’s the change you were waiting for.

He slowly let out his breath, shifting in his chair. His eyebrows raised at the accusation. “I don’t know how you could think that I didn’t want you back.”

“Buy you didn’t say anything,” you protested, laying your hands on the table, trying to keep your voice calm and steady. “Every time I left – you never tried to call, text – nothing.”

He brought his hand up to his chin, rubbing his jaw firmly. It was his old habit dying hard; back when he had a beard, he used to scratch at it all the time, you used to run your fingers against it, used to revel in the feeling of it brushing roughly against your thighs. “(Y/N),” he sighed. “I didn’t know what I was doing – I was stupid. Look, I thought about what I said to you for days; Every day that you’ve been done, actually. I treated you like shit.”

“Well,” you interjected. “It goes both ways.”

Neither of you could hold back your smiles. God, you treated each other like shit. But that didn’t stop either of you from loving each other as much as you did. “A little pain with the pleasure,” he mumbled, drinking his coffee. “So, you called me just to ask me that?”

You sighed, now your turn to awkwardly scratch the back of your head. “I missed you.”

And that’s how you ended up at the Avenger’s Tower, Bucky throwing you on his bed. He laid on top of you, bringing his lips to yours. You fisted at his sweater, trying to tug it off of him, Bucky breaking off the kiss just to pull it off his back, his lips finding yours once again. You kicked off your boots as Bucky unbuttoned your jeans, making quick work pulling them off your legs. You sweater followed suit, lifting your torso off the bed so he could peel it off you. As soon as your skin was exposed, Bucky’s lips attached to your warm flesh.

He trailed his tongue and wet lips against your collarbone, trailing it down your chest, then between the valley of your breasts. He quickly pulled off your bra, throwing it on the ground beside the bed. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking softly, flicking the tip of his tongue over your nipple. He continued downwards, kissing the underside of your breast and down your ribcage.

Your breath hitched as his tongue dragged across your warm slit; he let out a low moan, reveling in the taste he’d been missing for so long. His hands found your inner thighs, pushing them apart, pinning them to the bed. Your hands slid through his hair, grabbing handfuls of his chestnut locks, short strands slipping through your fingers.

He laid his tongue flat against your slit, pointing the tip to curl between your lips to taste your juice. He circled his tongue gently at your clit, his hand finding your lips, spreading open your pussy and spreading you open with two fingers. He pumped in and out of you slowly, indulging himself in your velvet cunt.

He hummed against your clit, kissing it softly before groaning into your folds. He added a third finger, joining them with his tongue as he stretched you open, licking his fingers clean afterwards. He ate you out with vigor, rapidly fucking you with his tongue and fingers.

As he continued tongue-fucking you, he pulled his fingers out, holding them up to your face. He looked up at your from over your pussy, holding his fingers to your mouth. “You taste so good, baby,” he whispered against your clit.

You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. You shut your eyes, swirling your tongue around his first two fingers as you sucked of the salty taste. You moaned around his fingers, Bucky’s face burying itself deeper into your pussy. As he sucked your clit, you sighed, dropping your head against the mattress and shutting your eyes tightly. You were surrounded by darkness and a sudden bright light.

He kissed your sensitive clit, kissing up your pubic bone and making his way up to your lips. “I missed your sweet pussy, baby.” You moaned, something about his low voice whispering against your lips, talking about how good you tasted that made you melt.

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, fingers dragging through his hair, pulling at the ends. “I need you.”

He sighed, staring down at you. You were glowing. Sweat beading along your hairline, eyes glazed over and shining, skin luminous. “I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered, gazing into your eyes in admiration. “And I want you to know that I’m not letting you leave again – ” he pressed a firm kiss to your lips, his tongue running against your bottom lip. You parted your lips to accommodate his tongue, although he pulled away from you. “And I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

Your heart was heavy as it leaped into the back of your throat. Your breathing shallowed – and it wasn’t because of Bucky’s bodyweight laying on your chest. You blinked the tears away from your eyes, willing for them to not fall in this exact moment. “I love you, James.”

After two chaste kisses to your lips, he buried his head in the crook of you neck, lining up his cock with your entrance. As he pushed into you, he sighed against your collarbone, his hot breath tickling your skin. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He bit into your shoulder, you eyes rolling to the back of your head as he bottomed out inside of you.

You hadn’t been stretched like this in so long. You felt like you could be torn in two as he impaled you. It hurt in all the best ways.

You gasped as he pulled out of you, quickly shoving back in – he bit his lip, nearly cumming in that exact moment. You were so tight, so wet. Nobody could fuck you like this – nobody could make love to you like this.

He took hold of your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders, calves resting against his collarbones. He took a hold of your upper thigh with one hand, intertwining his fingers with yours in his other hand, pressing it into the mattress. He angled his hips directly on top of yours, pounding straight on top of you. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the hot, steamy room, your sounds muffled by Bucky as he swallowed your moans.

He kissed you sloppily, his cock pulsating in your pussy, you writing underneath him – it was driving him crazy. It had been over a year since he had you under him: a squirming mess. You almost had to push him off of you – out of you – it was nearly too much. His wet lips on yours, his hot breath on your skin, his words whispered in your ear, you overly sensitive clit. This is what you’d been missing: all the pleasure that made the pain so worth it. The endless fights, the ruthless words, the meaningless fights.

Unbeknownst to either of you, it was the moment in which you both came simultaneously, in which you both silently promised each other to love each other forever – to never make the other hurt that badly again.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Shopping

Bodyguard!Bucky x Reader

Request: Hi! May I ask for a hc or scenario in wich Bucky falls for the reader who has a "spoiled brat" stereotype...u know? Like a Regina George from Mean Girls type of attitude, Maybe the reader is the daughter of someone important who Bucky needs to protect idk I thought it could be quite fun, anyway...loved your writing so much in "Dichotomy" ❤

Words: ~ 4,500

Summary: Bucky’s paid to be your bodyguard and you’re, well, kind of a bitch.

Warnings: None! For once ;)

...

There is three things men want in life.

1.     They want to see if they can fuck you.

2.     They want to see if they can fuck you over.

3.     They want to get you out the fucking picture.

That was simply a fact of life. It was especially accurate in the world you grew up in: the world of powerful men, fast cars, vast mansions, and extravagant wardrobes. There was something about everyone’s cut-throat attitude that also seemed to drag along these luxuries. It was all about showing off: who had the most expensive car, whose house was bigger – whose wife was hotter.

This is the climate you grew up in: constant competition, envious friends, malicious enemies. There was a certain image you were expected to maintain, so you did exactly that. Not only did you have the weight of one day taking over your father’s company on your shoulders, you had the paparazzi stalking your every move. There wasn’t a single moment of peace in your life. You couldn’t go to the mall or the grocery store without at least one picture of you showing up on Daily Mail.

You’d grown up with it and, for the most part, you didn’t have to do things like that anyway. There was always someone to do those menial tasks for you.

Until you moved out of your parents’ house. You finally graduated college; a twenty-something kid finally ready to jump into the world on your own two feet. You were eagerly awaiting your move into your New York City apartment – a swanky two-bedroom on the top floor of a building in Soho.

Everything was going swimmingly well until you had an altercation with paparazzi. It was hard to navigate the narrow streets and sidewalks of the city, and as you were meeting your friend at a restaurant, you found it was a little too easy for the cameramen to push you around on the street. However, while you were thinking more along the lines of a restraining order against them, your father had other ideas.

“No way,” you interrupted, holding your hands up to your father. “That’s not happening.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “It is happening. Unless you want this to happen again.” He tossed the stack of newspapers onto your dining table, the photo of you on the front page sliding across the table towards you. The title read “(Y/N) Falters – Will She Fumble Daddy’s Company?” You bit the inside of your cheek, the photo immortalized you trying to push past the group of people photographing your every step, the bright flashes causing you to hold your hands in front of your eyes. “This won’t be happening again.”

…

That’s how you met Bucky. At first, it was nice to have him around. He shook your hand once as he introduced himself. It was months before he even said anything else to you. He stood posted up in the doorway of every room you walked into. He wore a smart looking suit ever day, the top few buttons of his shirt undone to show off his tanned muscles underneath.

He walked you to restaurants, taking the lead, keeping the paparazzi at a far distance away from you. He followed you around shopping, carrying your Gucci, Dior, and Balenciaga bags to your car for you. God, it was a dream. What was even dreamier were his eyes. Before anyone approached you to speak with you, he stopped them, turning his head to look at you for your nod of approval before letting them past. And holy fuck those two seconds of fleeting eye contact made you absolutely melt. You almost started scheduling unnecessary appointments into your schedule just so he could face you again for confirmation. You stared back at him as seductively as possible, eyes half lidded, glossy, staring back at him and tilting your head in the slightest nod.

That was the only time he ever acknowledged you. That, and when he opened your car door for you. He never said much – if anything – at all. But his presence was so demanding: his shoulders were so broad, his chest constantly puffed out, his jaw clenched, and eyebrows narrowed in challenge. It took every bit of willpower not to jump his bones.

…

You had a certain mentality when it came to work. There was a certain image to be portrayed. You always dressed to the nines: a fitted suit, usually Balmain or Chanel, complete with gold jewelry and tall heels. Your makeup was done every day: a neutral pallet, something that unsuspecting peers would assume to be natural. Your hair was always perfectly in place: either cascading smoothly down your back or pinned neatly into a bun. Not only were you running the company, but you were also the face of the company.

You walked around with your head held high, shoulders back, and with determination in your step. People watched you as you walked down the hallway. Maybe some in admiration, others envy, even a few with desire. You always heard their whispers, though.  

Bucky walked in-toe with you always remaining a cool two steps behind you; you could feel his gaze burning into the back of his head. You entered your office, Bucky taking his usual post by the door. You plopped down in your large leather chair, preparing yourself for your meeting.

Your morning got progressively worse as the meetings progressed, people not cooperating, work not being done, no conflicts getting resolved. As you last meeting ended, and the particularly patronizing man left your office, you couldn’t hold back muttering a “fucking prick” as the door shut behind him.

Bucky pinched is lips together, holding back a smirk. You reclined in your chair, watching him regain his poise quickly, eyes not moving from the fixed position on the wall in front of him. “You know, James,” you spoke up, instantly getting his attention. “That was my last meeting today; you can sit, if you’d like.” You gestured to the seating area across the room.

He nodded in thanks, strutting across the room and sitting on the black couch in front of you. All you wanted was to join him on the couch. The things you could do to him on that couch – the things he could do to you on that couch. “You can call me Bucky,” he stated, reclining against the back, legs spreading open a tad bit.

You nodded stiffly and bit your bottom lip, unable to tear your eyes away from his splayed posture. “Bucky,” you whispered, testing his name on your tongue. And, damn, it tasted good.

You snapped yourself out of your fixation, pulling your laptop in front of you, pretending to work as you couldn’t get that image out of your head. The face that you could still see his propped-up figure over the top of your laptop screen; his eyes had not drifted from your person.

…

Your were temporarily blinded, gripping the back of Bucky’s jacket as he pushed through the crowd of people, shoving open the door to the lobby of your apartment. Calling the elevator, he watched as you smoothed down the ends of your hair, trying to rub the light spots out of your eyes as best you could without smudging mascara all over your face. He ushered you in once the doors opened, holding a hand lightly to your waist.

You dropped your back against the shiny elevator walls, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at the reflection on the wall in front of you. You looked tired, makeup wearing off under your eyes, purple circles under your eyes becoming prominent; a few flyaways framed your face, curling and unruly. The doors opened and you pushed your way through before Bucky. You shoved open the apartment door, throwing your purse on the table, viciously kicking of your heels. You heard Bucky shut the door softly and he paused before entering the kitchen behind you.

Today had been effectively one of the worst days of your life. Work was terrible: your day was run with meetings and disrespectful colleagues, bulldozing over all your ideas and suggestions; it rained during lunch, completely ruining the Coach heels you were wearing to attend the business luncheon; afterwards was much worse. You were highlighted in the issue of Forbes Magazine. You’d been waiting for this for months: you’d done multiple interviews, had photoshoots, the whole nine yards. You were excited for the world to see the underlying factors of what made you you; for them to finally recognize not only your past academic achievements, but also all you have accomplished thus far with the company, for them to see that you were capable – qualified – to run this company.

Boy were you hopeful.

You were met, in fact, with quite the opposite.

Waves upon waves of criticism washed upon you after the release. You were met with all kinds of backtalk: everything from you inheriting the company, to being accepted into college because of your dads’ money, to “stick to makeup, honey.” People began commenting on how they thought you walked all over people, how you rarely seemed friendly in the workplace, how you “used men.”

It couldn’t be more the opposite.

While you liked to maintain a certain image and always have a presentable appearance, despite any men or women that sought after you, you’d turned them downs. In fact, you’d never had a boyfriend – let alone any friends.

You worked hard to retain a respectable image. The problem with working and living in a dog-eat-dog world is the sacrifices you had to make to maintain such an image. You couldn’t simply allow people to walk all over you – achieving this took years. You had to speak up in times others would cower, use your voice when there was an issue other did not seem to care about. You had to walk with your head held high and your shoulders back.

Once you obtained dominance in the workplace, you had to conquer the world of love. It could make you gag. You wanted to intimidate the men that once patronized you. You wanted them to want you, fight over you, worship you. But you’d ever let them have you. Nobody could see you vulnerable, nobody could love you, touch you, blackmail you. That’s the way it had to be.

But you couldn’t always be so ruthless. Right now, you leaned against the counter, dropping your hands onto the cold marble surface. It was one of those days like today where everything got the best of you. Everyone tore you apart, you’d spent the last half of the day just reading tweets about yourself.

“She looks like such a bitch.”

“Would it kill her to smile? Not the kind of boss I’d want to work for.”

“My friend worked for her and said she has everyone else do her work for her.”

“Forbes, is this issue recognizing daddy’s money?”

Bucky placing a mug next to you pulled you out of your thoughts. You stared down at the steaming mug, Bucking suddenly speaking up: “maybe if you drank something, you’d feel better.”

You pushed past him, shoving him away from you as you headed to your bedroom. God, all you wanted was to be alone. Did he have to be here every second of the day? All you wanted was silence and he picks this one time to start babying you? You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing throughout the vast apartment. You stripped your nice clothes, opting for a shower and large t-shirt for bed.

Bucky sat in the living room, listening to you shuffle around your bedroom. He finally stood, ready to head home, when he heard the softest sound come from you bedroom. A sniffle. Followed by another.

He leaned against the doorframe, listening to the noises that he’d never heard from you before – hell, he never thought you were capable of that emotion. He weighed his options carefully: go inside and comfort you, it didn’t seem like you had a lot of close friends or even family that checked in on you, you must’ve felt so alone, and everyone attacking you definitely didn’t feel nice; he could leave and let you deal with this on you own – which is probably what you wanted, considering he knew how long it took you to create your façade. However, Bucky could see right through it – he could always see through it. No matter how intimidating and powerful you wanted yourself to be, he and everyone else knew that you were a spoilt brat trying to live up to daddy’s expectations, but only he knew that at your deepest core, you were a tired, lonely, sad little girl, wishing for just one day of invisibility, in which nobody knew who you were, nobody care about you – like you didn’t exist.

…

You and Bucky continued your usual routines from then on, nothing changed. He didn’t talk to you; you didn’t talk to him. He spent his time pushing people out of your way, and you went along pretending nobody existed.

It was two weeks after that when you spoke to him for the third time. You and Bucky were walking from the parking garage to your place. That’s when a masked man came out from behind you and grabbed a hold of your purse. You helped in surprise as he tried to run past you, one hand loosely gripping your Birkin. Before you could even turn to the direction he ran off in, Bucky’s hand hit him square in the jaw. You gasped, holding your hands up to your open mouth as Bucky knelt on top of the man, continuously hitting him and holding him down.

You saw a flash simmer as you saw Bucky’s hand move, holding the other man to the sidewalk. Metal? Did he have a prosthetic arm? When did that happen? And why didn’t you ever notice it before?

In the mixture of bystanders, paparazzi, and doormen, the police quickly pushed through. Bucky was relieved of his post as the man was taken away. The policeman escorted the two of you to the lobby, where he took the information and returned your purse to you.

Eventually, Bucky took you upstairs to your floor. “Are you okay,” he asked, following you through the door.

You nodded, turning around to face him – face his arm. You stared at it, the metal coils formed in the shape of  a perfect hand, winding upwards all the way up to where his shirt sleeve was pushed up past his elbow. It shimmered in the soft lighting, reflecting the moonlight that cascaded in through your windows. He held his hands behind his back, tilting his jaw upwards slightly as he stared you down. Your eyes flitted to his narrow ones; his eyebrows narrowed between pieces of dark hair that fell over his forehead. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Yes,” you clarified, clearing your throat.

“Do you need me to stay with you? Or are you fine for the night?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “Stay?” It came out more of a question than you expected.  He nodded, not moving any other muscle. You quickly thought of something to break the silence and pulled your phone from your bag. “Takeout?”

He cracked a smile, nodding again. “Sounds good.”

After calling it in, you shifted away to the kitchen as Bucky sat in the living room. You didn’t know what to do to fill the silence. You’d never talked to him. You fumbled around with a wine bottle, popping it open and taking a long pull straight from the bottle before heading towards Bucky with two glasses. Hopefully some liquid courage would kick in quickly. You poured him a glass, another for yourself, and sat beside him on the plush sofa.

It was quiet. It was awkward.

“Thank you for, y’know,” you murmured over the rim of your wine glass, eyes falling to the red liquid swirling in your glass.

“No problem, it’s my job,” he replied casually. “To protect you.” You nodded; lips pressed tight in a line. You looked around the room, trying to find anything to look at. Your gaze landed on the metal arm propped up on the side of the couch. “You wanna take a picture of it, doll?” He chuckles lightly, tapping his fingers on the fabric of the sofa.

“Oh!” You snapped out of your gaze, jumping slightly on the couch. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to stare, I just – just – ” you stuttered over your words, reaching out slightly towards him.

He smiled, genuinely smiled this time, tongue running over his bottom lip. “It’s okay, (Y/N) – ” your name sounded so good on his lips “ – you can touch it, if you want.” Touch it? Touch what? You nearly started salivating. Then he held his hand out to you, palm facing upwards, fingers outstretched. You held your hand out, brushing his metal palm with the tips of your fingers. He chuckled again, flipping your hand around and holding your own hand in his. He ran his metal fingers over the backs of your knuckles. It was cold, yet so much softer than you expected.

Your eyes flitted up to meet his blue ones, already staring back at you. He licked his lips and leaned ever so slightly towards you. Your breath hitched in the back of your throat as you stared at him with wide eyes and mouth agape. “See, that’s not so bad, right?” He whispered, gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips, tinged red from the wine.

You held your breath, leaning the rest of the way in, shutting your eyes.

Then you hit a brick wall.

A metal wall.

Your eyes snap open to see Bucky’s metal hand gripping your shoulder, holding you in place. “Look, (Y/N) – ” there he goes with your name, again “ – I didn’t mean to send any signals…” he trailed off, dropping his hand and pushing himself up to his feet. Signals? No, of course not. Just holding my hand, staring lustfully into my eyes, and looking at my lips. Not to mention licking his own. You almost rolled your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he sighed.

You did roll your eyes, standing with him. “It’s…” you trailed off. Save face. “Whatever.” You turned away, shuffling to the front door, pulling it open.

He left without another word, but not without stopping to look into your eyes – at least, he tried to, if it hadn’t been for you dropping your whole head, staring blankly at the floor. You slammed the door behind him, nearly nicking his back heel as he stepped into the corridor.

Well, that was perfectly embarrassing. The best way to end such a terrible day. Utter embarrassment. You didn’t know how you were supposed to face him tomorrow.

Sadness turned into anger as you threw his wine glass directly into the sink, watching as the glass shards flew across the countertops. Who did he think he was? That he could act like that and then throw it back in your face? His signals were perfectly clear. In fact, you were haunted by those signals all night.

By the touch of his skin.

By his blue eyes.

…

You didn’t sleep that night. Instead, spent your time getting ready all morning. Hair perfectly set down your back, eyes surrounded by sultry makeup, a ferocious looking contour. You put on your tallest heels, tightest dress, and shiniest jewelry.

You looked ravenous.

Bucky knocked on your front door, as he did every morning to take you to work. You slung your bag over your shoulder, took a deep breath, and swung open the door. You looked straight past him; eyes directed on the elevator doors in front of you. You walked directly past him, relying on him to shut the door behind you.

Your heart was racing, it took all of your willpower not to twitch or tap your foot as you waited for the elevator. You set your jaw and stood stonewalled.

That’s how the day went: you completely ignoring Bucky. Although you normally ignored Bucky, today you didn’t look at him, thank him when he opened the door for you, nothing. Not even sparing a glance as he stared at you from his position on the sofa in your office. There he sat, usually splayed out and legs open; you could feel him staring at you. All you wanted to do was run into the women’s bathroom and sit there all day – anywhere would be better than here with him.

That’s how the weekend went, too: you spent the first six days ignoring him. Today was Saturday and you wanted to go shopping. Not the normal shopping. Today was all about showing Bucky that if you wanted something, you got it.

Again sporting the skimpiest outfit you could manage, you dragged Bucky around shopping all day. By your fifth store, your feet were absolutely killing you from walking so far in these heels, but it was worth it to torture Bucky. He carried all of your bags – from your purse, to you shopping bags, to even your coat. And nothing pissed him off more than you waiting at the register, the person behind the counter ringing up your literal tens-of-thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, shoes, and bags, clicking your tongue and holding your hand out for your wallet. You tapped your foot, continuing your light conversation with the employee, waiting for Bucky to drop the heavy wallet into your palm. Without a turn of your head or even a thank you, you finished the transaction, walking through the door immediately, leaving Bucky to take your purchases.

This is what he deserved after embarrassing you like that. Was he just so nice to see where you’d take it? Did he want you to try to kiss him, just so he could say no? Just so he could turn you down? To be the one guy you wanted – and never got? Maybe he was going to sell the story. He was just like any other guy – but then why wouldn’t he kiss you? And the thought replayed in your mind, as did that night’s events. You had no other choice but to continue shopping and dragging him around.

Oh, he was pissed.

A fucking bagman? That’s how you saw him? That night was probably the calmest he’d ever seen you. You seemed nervous, even. Nervous because of his arm? Yes, he would’ve loved nothing more than to have you in the palm of his hand – literally – he would’ve loved to kiss you, and touch you, and hold you. He couldn’t take advantage of you like that. Not in your most vulnerable moment. After the robbery, you mind must’ve been scrambled. He wasn’t sure if that was your way of thanking him. He wasn’t about to let you throw yourself on him – who knows how you would’ve felt the next day.

But that’s not how you saw it, and you weren’t about to let him explain.

And this show you were putting on for him? He wasn’t dumb; he would’ve had to be oblivious to not know you were showing off for him. These skimpy outfits and tight dresses, necklaces that ended just at the top of your cleavage, skirts that ended just at the curve of your ass – he loved every minute of it. But he wanted you ­­out of it at the same time.

You were treating him like shit, which he didn’t enjoy. He could’ve stopped by now: dropped all your shit and walked right out of the store. Instead, he clenched his jaw, bit his tongue, and followed you around the block, holding your bags; the only saving grace was getting to walk behind you and stare at your shaking ass all day.

…

You pushed the apartment door open, barely holding it open long enough for Bucky to slip through, carrying bags lined up his arms. You heard the crinkling of some of the paper bags as the door shut on him. He took one step in, letting the door fall shut, then dropped everything to the floor nicely.

“No,” you said, not looking up from your cell phone. You pointed a finer across the room. “Bedroom.”

A sharp laughed cracked through the silence. You almost flinched, starting at Bucky cackling loudly at you. “That’s not my job.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes in challenge. “Excuse me?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, shit-eating-grin unfaltering. “You heard me, princess.”

You didn’t move. Instead, you took a step backwards as he approached you. He walked towards you until you were backed up against the kitchen counter. You mimicked his arms, crossing them over your own chest, inadvertently pushing your cleavage up – which you noticed when you saw his eyes flit down for the tiniest second before returning to your own eyes, a tinge of pink lacing his cheeks – not that he cared. “Don’t fucking call me that,” you spat, tilting your chin up. You were not intimidated by him.

He got so close that your pelvises were nearly touching. He leaned down, dropping his hands to the countertop on either side of you, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he bent closer. “What do you want me to call you, baby?”

God, you looked so real in that moment. Caught off guard, maybe. But your usual forced scowl was replaced by your surprised expression, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar, tongue tucked right where your two plump lips meet. You were holding your breath, he could tell. He liked you like this, better. When you weren’t trying to be all hard and intimidating, when you didn’t know how to react – couldn’t deal with these emotions because just this once, they were real.

You stumbled over your words, mind suddenly not processing anything. His stubble rubbed ever so lightly over your jaw, his breath tickling your neck. You didn’t know how long you were standing there. It felt like forever since either of you said anything.

Suddenly, he pulled away – just like before. You released your breath, about to speak and then –

He grabbed your face in both hands (one warm to the touch, the other cold from the marble) and held you so that you eyes gazed up at him. His blue eyes looking back into yours, a smile pulling at one corner of his lips. He pulled your head upwards, leaning his own down, meeting in the middle in a soft, tender kiss. He shrugged, letting himself fully tilt into the kiss, hips touching each other’s; you swung your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up to him, chest pressing against his.

God, you could get used to this.

And all it took was a little shopping.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Crash

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 4,900

Summary: Bucky learns what he likes about life: you

Warnings: Angst, but also fluff

A/N: Mildly inspired by “Crash” by You Me At Six!

...

Wait, where you say you've been? Who you been with? Where you say you're goin'? Who you goin' with?

There was a knock on your apartment door. Plucking yourself off the couch, you trotted towards the door, pulling it open. You were met face to face with Bucky, a smile immediately finding your lips. His visit was a surprise, he hadn’t said anything about stopping by. “Hey,” you greeted, about to stretch out your arms for a hug, stopping immediately when he didn’t return your smile. 

Oh. And that’s when you peaked over his shoulder and noticed Steve standing on the street, leaning against the car. “Sorry, doll,” Bucky apologized, offering you his arms for a hug.

You accepted, pulling him close and tucking your face into his chest. “’S okay, Buck.” He told you earlier that he may have to be leaving to go on missions, he couldn’t say exactly when or where. But this took you by surprise; it was the first mission he’d been sent on since he’s met you – since he started dating you.

“So, it looks like I’m going to have to raincheck dinner on Friday,” he mumbled shyly, pulling away, but still holding you firmly at the waist. He awkwardly chuckled, hoping you’d at least find light of the situation in his old charm.

You smiled up at him. “Let me know when you’re back?”

“You’ll be my first stop.” He moved a hand to cradle your jaw, leaning towards you for a goodbye kiss. You obliged, biting your lip and watching him saunter back towards Steve.

Bucky stood next to the man, giving you a stiff wave. “Make sure he comes back in one piece,” you call out to Steve, waving back at the both of them.

Steve laughed, waving back. “Will do, (Y/N).”

You stood frozen in the doorway, leaning against the frame as you watched the boys climb into the truck, pulling away, heading off to wherever the hell they were going.

Wait, keep me in your skin, Keep me in your chest. I'll wait for it to start, I'll wait for it to end.

Bucky sat at the camp sight, the soft light of the fire illuminating the picture before him. He held the edges carefully, the image creased perfectly in the middle from where he’d folded it up to fit in his pocket.

It was a photo of the both of you. You were at the bar, one around the corner from your apartment, that you took him to months ago. It was the night of your friend’s birthday, and you wanted to bring Bucky along to meet a few of your friends. He was nervous at first, not sure if they’d recognize him, if they knew his past, if they’d be scared of him.

However, everyone welcomed him with open arms. They didn’t ask him too many questions, didn’t pester him about his arm. Instead, they told him extremely embarrassing stories from your past. And, damn, it made him laugh; you were blushing like crazy, trying to cut them off after every story – doing so by buying rounds of shots if they promised to stop talking about you.

It ended up not working, everyone growing more and more intoxicated as they continued teasing you. But you found it to be all in good fun, just enjoying you night out with your boyfriend and your friends. You spent the whole night attacked to Bucky’s arm, linking your own two arms around his, his hand resting on your thigh. You buried your face in his shoulder to smother your laughter or after they said something embarrassing about you.

It was one of the best nights he’d had in such a long time; he doesn’t remember laughing for so long or so genuinely in a while. Your friend had secretly snapped this picture of you, sending it to you the next morning. You groaned and rolled over in bed; your few hours of sleep interrupted by your phone buzzing loudly. Bucky handed you your phone, holding back his laughter at your raging hangover. You mumbled an “oh my god” and showed your phone to Bucky, cheeks tinted pink.

It was dark, the bar had been dimly lit where you were sitting. Cups half full, empty shot glasses, and beer glasses littered the sticky table in front of the both of you. Your face was buried in Bucky’s shoulder, unable to conceal the drunk smile taking up your whole face. You held on tightly to his metal arm, the glare of the metal prominent in the photo. Bucky was gazing down at you, a similar grin painting his own lips.

As you tucked yourself into his side to resume sleeping, he took your phone and placed it on the bedside table, but not before sending it to himself.

That was the picture he carried with him on missions. He tucked it away into his breast pocket, hidden underneath his armor-plated vest, right above his heart. He patted atop his armor for safekeeping.

He couldn’t wait to see you when he got home.

Just crash, fall down, I'll wrap my arms around you now. Just crash, it's our time now, To make this work second time around.

It was eight days later when he showed up on your doorstep again. This time, when you opened the door, you were met with a smiling Bucky; he was clean shaven, his hair pulled back behind his head. He was wearing that red Henley you loved so much, and his arms were open wide, waiting for you to run into his arms.

So that’s exactly what you did: hopping off the front stoop into his warm embrace. He caught you, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist, intertwining your hands behind his neck. The two of you stood on your front steps, embracing each other, kissing each other, for what felt like an hour. Eventually, Bucky made his way into your apartment, plopping down on the small sofa, not taking you off his lap.

That became routine for you two. Whenever he had to leave, you’d spend a whole day holding each other when he came back.

We grew up, We worked and changed our ways. Just like wildfire, Been burning now for days. Tearing down those walls, Nothing's in our way. I said, nothing's in our way.

Time flew by; before you knew it, it was your two-year anniversary. Two years of bliss, two years filled with commitment and trust and love. Despite taking it slow at first, after that first mission, you two became inseparable. Given the fact that he spent a lot of time with the Avengers: working, training, and on missions, you had no choice but to spend every bit of free time together.

You’d spent your fair share of time at the Avengers Tower, spending the night at Bucky’s place, joining him at parties, watching the sunrise on the roof of the skyscraper. But there was something about your place that Bucky felt more comfortable. He was like a giant in your tiny apartment. Meager living room, tiny couch, lined with pillows and blankets; modest kitchen, two small chunks of countertop on either side of the oven, shelves crowded with spices and utensils, pots and pans hanging off the pot rack on the ceiling above the island; crowded bathroom, utilities barely able to fit in the small room, no room to maneuver, shower head just too short for Bucky; humble bedroom, packed bookshelves, clothes strewn about, bed pushed under the one window, narrow enough that you have to sleep half on top of Bucky – not that he minded, except for the fact that his feet hung off the edge.

It made him feel small and safe. He hadn’t felt a home in a long time. He went from the frontlines of World War II to the empty cell of Hydra to a block of ice. He’d spent the majority of his life without comfort. And when he was welcomed to the Avengers, he hadn’t received much either. There were shrouds of hospitality, yes, but something about it lacked an intimate feeling. Vast corridors, high ceilings, large rooms; Bucky decided he wasn’t a fan of minimalism. He much preferred “cottagecore” as you liked to call it.

He loved to garden, taking care of your houseplants almost too much. He’d named all of them, from each viney philodendron to the splaying palm trees. He had an almost aggressive watering schedule. Soon, he began spontaneously bringing you flowers and houseplants – your small apartment turned into a jungle.

It was the morning of your second anniversary when Bucky asked if you wanted to move in together. “Do you mean you want to move in with me?” You clarified smugly, flitting your eyes above the coffee mug currently held to your lips.

He giggled childishly, happily. “Maybe,” he mumbled, drawing out the first syllable. He sipped his tea, mimicking you as you couldn’t contain the smile pulling at your lips.

You sauntered across the kitchen – as in, you took two steps closer to him and you were already chest-to-chest – and tilted your head up to his. He kissed you on the tip of your nose before you could respond, the grin on your face already confirming your answer. “You think you can fit all your clothes in my bedroom,” you teased, eyebrows raised in challenge.

He rolled his eyes, pointing his chin towards the open door of the bedroom. Piles of your clothes and his clothes thrown over chairs, folded on top and in the dresser – he practically lived with you already. “I think my clothes fit just fine in our bedroom.” His tone dropped, as did his face, burying it into the crook of your neck, pressing his lips to the soft skin of your collarbone.

You hummed, setting your mug down on the counter beside you, wrapping your arms around his neck and broad shoulders. You traced the top of his spine on the back of his neck, barely dragging your finger on the surface of his skin; the tickle brought a smile to his lips against your skin. “It seems so.”

And then he moved in. It’s not like he had much, anyway; everything he had technically belonged to Tony. He spent one Saturday bringing over his clothes – in which you graciously shoved into the dresser beside yours  – knickknacks – to which you’d decorated throughout the apartment, displaying them on shelves, on the walls, between pots of plants – and boxes of memorabilia. Bucky thought about stealing his king-sized bed, just so he’d be able to fit without curling up into you (also so you’d have more room to roll around), but he wasn’t even sure it would fit through the door. He wouldn’t change anything about it, though. Everything felt like home, it felt like you.

You shared countless memories in that apartment: long nights spent talking instead of sleeping as the New York City traffic blared through your window, endless nights of baking (and burning) desserts, numerous movie nights that half-the-time ended in the two of you having sex on the couch or falling asleep innocently in each other’s arms.

No matter how many times he woke up with cramps in his legs and a sore back from falling asleep on your tiny plush couch, he still couldn’t wait to do it again the next night.

…

“(Y/N),” he whispered your name, face pressed up inches from yours, pillows smushed together and against the wall. Your sleeping eyes fluttered, eyebrows twitching, and bridge of your nose crinkling slightly. Soon, though, you were completely relaxed again, and Bucky almost felt bad waking you up – but not really. “(Y/N),” he murmured a bit louder, this time smoothing your wild hair down against your head, pulling his fingers through the knots.

You hummed, stirring in the bed, inadvertently stretching, pressing your palms against the wall, toes lengthening to the edge of the bed, pulling the bedsheets off you (and Bucky). “’Sup,” you mumble, immediately closing your eyes again, burying your face into your pillow and tucking your hands underneath your chin.

He smiles, gazing down at your tired form, obviously exhausted from the night prior’s festivities. “Baby, wake up,” he almost groans, faux upset that you weren’t giving him attention.

“I’m up,” you hum, not moving – not even opening your eyes.

“Let’s get married.”

You laughed in your pretend sleep, reaching your hand out blindly up his arm and up to his cheek, patting it lightly. It wasn’t the first time he said it; although the other times he had either been extremely intoxicated or sleep talking. “Do you have a ring for me, darling?”

“I do.”

And with that, your eyes popped open, meeting his staring back at you. You then narrowed your eyes at him, crinkling your nose. He was beaming at you with a shit-eating-grin, hand curled under the pillow propping up his head, curled up like a goof. You couldn’t find any words.

“So,” he continued, filling the gap of your shocked silence. “Will you marry me?”

Sitting up in bed, you propped yourself up on your elbow, staring down at him. He quickly took the cue, flipping around and digging his hand around under the bed. He returned facing you, sitting up next to you, sheets pooling at his hips. He held up the box, opening it with his metal hand.

Your breath left your lungs.

“Bucky,” gasped, covering your mouth with your hands, eyes flitting between the ring and his eyes: blue, glossy, and glazed over with passion. “Oh my god, Bucky.” You kept repeating yourself, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

“So…is that a yes?” He chuckled, nervously holding the box, gesturing it towards you.

“Oh my god, yes!” You nearly screamed, tears now fully flowing down your face, holding your hand out for him to place the ring gently on your finger. You then threw your arms around his neck, kissing your fiancé. He smiled through the whole kiss and you felt his heart beating next to yours.

You pulled back to fully look at the rock now sitting on your left hand. “I hope you like it; I had to go through my sister’s daughter, who had to go through a ton of old keepsakes and it took a while so I would’ve gotten it sooner, but – ” he cut himself off, realizing he was rambling when he met your growingly perplexed facial expression. “Anyway, it was my mom’s ring. And my pop saved up forever for it. I know it’s not huge and probably out of style and you deserve a million diamonds – ” he cut himself off again with a deep breath, anxiously scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought it would be nice – but if you don’t like it, you can just tell me and – ”

This time it was you who got him to shut up, leaning forward, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his lips to yours. “Bucky, I love it.” It was beautiful. The diamond was small, still in perfect condition. The gold band was twisted intricately around the stone, newly polished and sparkling in the light shining through the window. What was even more appealing about the ring was the sentiment behind it. There was no two people that Bucky looked up to more than his parents; he often told you stories describing how much they loved each other, how hard his dad worked to finally convince his mom to go on a date with him. He beamed with pride when he spoke of them, recounting their hardships but how that never impacted their love for each other.

There was nothing more he wanted – then or now – than to give pass his mother’s ring along to you. He just happened to be lucky enough that his sister and niece saved it after all this time. He admitted that he could’ve gotten you a new ring, probably through a loan from Tony. Bucky technically didn’t have an income – just Tony’s money. And he did, in fact, offer to buy you the most expensive diamond ring in the world, a ten-carat ring from Antwerp; but that didn’t feel right. This was the only thing that Bucky had actually felt right about in a long time.

…

One month from that day, it was your three-year anniversary.

It happened during dinner – one random Thursday while the two of you sat at the edge of the kitchen counter, enjoying a casual plate of spaghetti.

“What ­– ” You choked on your mouthful of noodles. Coughing slightly, you sipped some wine, washing the rest of your bite down. Then you repeated yourself firmly: “What?”

“You heard me,” he responded, casually, mouth full of garlic bread.

“Now?” You ask, eyes wide, but unable to stop the smile forming on your lips.

“Yeah, why not?”

You stood from your stool, holding your palms against the island counter on either side of your dinner plate. “You were the one who said you didn’t want to do anything special for our anniversary.” You laughed, completely knocked off guard, mind moving a million miles per hour.

He raised an eyebrow. “You really thought I’d say that without some trick up my sleeve?” And, in fact, you were surprised when Bucky wanted to have a very low-key anniversary – he’d always been one for romantics. “Thought you knew me better than that,” he smirked, throwing a wink your way.

You rolled your eyes and swatted at his arm. “Are you being serious?” You leveled with him, leaning over so you were staring directly into the eyes of the man sitting beside you.

He smiled back kindly at you. “What do you kids say these days? Deadass.”

And you burst out laughing. Maybe you were a bit wine-drunk – but, god, this was something you’d never grow tired of. And that was perfect, considering you had already agreed to spend the rest of your life with him. There, in all honestly, was nothing that made your heart flutter like Bucky being an old man. “Okay,” you then whispered, cupping his jaw in both of your palms. “Let’s elope.”

So that weekend, that’s exactly what the two of you did.

Bucky had “borrowed” one of Tony’s cars – he assured you that he asked to take it for the weekend, but the smile and laugh in his voice told you otherwise. There was no time to question him further – no need, in fact – as he threw your suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door to you, ever the gentleman.

It was a short drive to Brooklyn Botanical Garden. You’d taken Bucky’s word for it, a place he remembered from his childhood; it was somewhere his mother used to drag him to and roam around – obviously with time he grew to appreciate not only the memory but also the serenity. He knew that was where he saw the both of you getting married; he knew that seeing you adorned in white surrounded by the beautiful trees and flowers was a sight he would never get tired of imagining.

Now, it was a sight burnt in his memory, holding your hands in his, a simple white gown falling perfectly on your body, veil pulled back that made it seem as though you were surrounded by clouds, the beautiful angel you were, anyway. Your hair was free, moving ever so slightly with the soft breeze; cheeks tinted pink as your skin glowed in the sun that shined before you; a bright grin painted your lips, so genuine that it made small crinkles form around your eyes. God, those eyes – gleaming in the reflection of the bright light before you, sparkling with love and laced with anticipation.

You faced a similar view, Bucky donning a casual grey suit; you insisted that was the one he brought with, a light grey contrasting his dark hair and deep blue eyes. While you had no doubt that seeing Bucky in an all-black suit was one of your all-time favorite looks, this was much more fitting for the occasion. The bright morning sun, the light-colored leaves surrounding your union; black was too harsh. Black, after all, was the color associated with the Winter Soldier. His uniform was black, his mask, his pants, his boots – his whole life was shrouded in darkness. This could not have been more the opposite; it was untraditional color, but so was your wedding and, hell, your whole relationship.

It was you and him, the officiant and the witness. You couldn’t remember either of their names, and you didn’t care, either. The only thing that mattered was Bucky’s eyes staring down at you, your hands held in his large ones, him slipping the wedding band on your finger.

And the kiss: perfect. You didn’t have the words to describe it. One hand found your waist as the other snaked through your hair, holding the back of your neck, guiding your lips up to his. Your arms folded around his neck, allowing you to pull your entire being flush against his body. He gave you two pecks on the lips before pulling away, letting his forehead rest against yours, staring into your eyes, glazed over with tears. His heart was full, it took all of his willpower not to breakout in tears. “I love you,” he whispered.

Your smile never faltered as you repeated those words to your husband.

…

“Buck, I have to get ready for work,” you called to him, yelling over the sound of the shower running.

“I’m almost done,” he responded, peaking his head from behind the curtain.

You stood at the vanity mirror, holding your hairbrush in one hand, flat iron in the other, makeup bag propped skillfully on the corner of the sink, one wrong movement away from spilling all over the floor. The mirror was fogging up ever so slightly; Bucky always insisted on taking the hottest showers possible. You began work on your hair when the water shut off, curtain swinging open, Bucky stepping out to grab a towel.

The two of you were practically pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, your elbow actually jutting out to nick his side as he toweled-off his hair. He laughed, maneuvering so that he stood behind you, his reflection towering over yours in the mirror. “I think we need a bigger place.”

He frowned, holding his hands against your hips. “But I like this place.”

You set the hot instrument on the edge of the sink, turning around in his arms. “I think we’re out of room,” you replied, thinking of the stacked up boxes of wedding gifts everyone sent you; you didn’t have anywhere to set them out or store them, thus everything remained in their boxes stacked up in your living room. Books and clothes lined every wall of your bedroom; you couldn’t fit nearly anything in the bathroom – and, hell, Bucky didn’t even fit without having to crouch under the showerhead.

He smiled down at you as you ran the brush through his freshly washed brown hair. “I guess so,” he mumbled shutting his eyes, reveling in the feeling of you softly brushing out his hair. “Plus, we’re going to be needing some more room to grow.” He peeked open his eyes, shooting a wink in your direction.

You cocked an eyebrow and yelped when his hand tucked against the underside of your thighs, pulling you up against him; you locked your ankles around his back and held onto the back of his neck, droplets of water still rolling down the nape of his neck and down his back, tickling your skin. You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“You’re telling me you want little baby Barnes running around this place? It’s kind of a hazard, (Y/N),” he teased, then pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

You rolled your eyes and pressed your hand against his chest, signaling him to drop you. Once he did, you turned around, back once again against his chest. “House first, then baby.”

“Really?” He gasped, staring at you in the mirror, wrapping your frame in a backwards hug. His eyes lit up, a huge smile creeping on his lips.

“Better get house hunting,” you said, shooing him off to get dressed so you can finally get ready for work.

Crash, fall down. I'll wrap my arms around you now. Just crash, it's our time now, To make this work, second time around.

There was a knock on your front door. You set down the sponge you were washing dishes with, placing the bowl in the drying rack next to you. Wiping your hands on your jeans as you walked over to the freshly painted door. Bucky had painted it a deep forest green before he left. You’d been waiting for ages to find the perfect color, the best shade to match the cozy, rustic – cottagecore – living space the two of you had cultivated together.

Once the door was done, you felt it was finally finished. Everything was so much bigger, but you two made sure to fill it with large, comfy furniture, displaying all of your wedding gifts graciously (and obviously Bucky’s plants). He made you wait outside while he painted the door; he didn’t want you breathing any fumes in that could harm the baby growing newly inside you. You rolled your eyes: “It’s the twenty-first century, Buck. We don’t use lead paint anymore. It’s okay – plus I want to help.” You picked up a paintbrush, reaching towards the paint can.

“(Y/N),” he groaned, grabbing a hold of your wrist, instead holding it up to his chest. “I just don’t want anything to happen. Please,” he pleaded, giving you his best puppy-dog eyes, curling out his bottom lip.

A soft smile pulled at your lips and you quit protesting. “Okay, baby,” you giggled, gazing up into his blue eyes. He pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, blushing hard as he did so, laying a hand to your lower belly. It hadn’t grown much, only three months – hell, it was still the size of a plum (which also happens to be your husband’s favorite fruit) – you weren’t even showing yet, nonetheless he was still so excited, so proud, so in love. And nothing had changed since he met you on day one. He still looked at your with the utmost admiration, a lustrous gloss in his eyes as he stared down at you. You’d only grown more beautiful by the day, to him. You were his to come home to, his to protect, his to love.

You spent the afternoon out front in the garden, pruning bushes, watering flowers, and pulling weeds. You’d detested yardwork – everybody did – but there was something about doing it while you called across the lawn to Bucky, still positioned at the front door, cracking jokes and sharing anecdotes that made it all worth it. You wouldn’t trade this for the world: to be able to do chores with Bucky, even the most menial work, because he enjoyed doing them, just because he got to do them with you.

You walked to the door, kicking a few rogue shoes out of the way, and swung it open.

You were met with the sight of a uniformed chest, straight ahead in your line of sight.

You dropped to your knees, holding your hands to your chest, feeling your heart race. You couldn’t breathe – you were almost feeling yourself for a pulse.

He knelt down and wrapped his arms around you.

It was just the two of you in that moment.

You buried your face into his chest, the tough leather scratching your face. The wetness of your tears smeared across the surface of the material, painting your cheeks. His hand rubbed up and down your back, cooing softly in your ear. You didn’t know if he said anything in that moment, your mind couldn’t register anything coming out of his mouth, your ears clouded with a loud ringing behind your eardrums.

It was a loud, open, ugly sob – you sounded like a toddler throwing a fit; damn, this was quite the tantrum.

You pulled back suddenly, fisting at the chest of his uniform. It startled him; he tore himself away from you quickly. There was no way of knowing what you looked like – eyes red and puffy, cheeks glistening with wet tears smudged along your lips and chin as well. You couldn’t even stop, as you pulled away to look into his blue eyes, your own tears kept flowing, eyebrows knitted together and breath still hitching. He looked tired – exhausted; you didn’t know how long he’d been torn up like this. His face was pale, cheeks red and irritated with tears, blue eyes filled with tears exactly like yours.

“Is he really gone?”

He stared at you for a moment, new, fresh tears flooding in his eyes and down his cheeks. He bit his bottom lip, unable to trust his own voice. But Steve found the strength to muster up two words, the words that made you bury your face into his chest again, crying harder than before:

“I’m sorry.”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Dichotomy

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 3,500

Summary: Bucky’s in the poetry feels. And his own feels.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse

Dedication: I’ve had a couple readers express their interest in mythology and the like, either in reblogs, replies, or private messages, so this is dedicated to them (you know who you are) Thanks! :)

A/N: This was taken from my mythology cultivation (I mentioned it in Poetry (this is kinda a part II to that?)), so I have no author credits to the poem :( please let me know if anyone does! This one is also more of Bucky’s view on his relationship with the reader. Sorry it took me so long to write, I wasn’t sure where to take this for a while!

...

You were a myth.

You had to be. Bucky was convinced.

You were beautiful. But he would never mistake your beauty for stupidity – not for naivety, vulnerability, or even weakness.

And They Said Aphrodite Was Soft: Smear your lips in blood, dust your eyelids with stars. Hang rubies around your neck, wear a nude leather dress. Kiss him hard, make him groan. Rip him apart, muscle from bone. Breath in, breath out. Begin step one.

Such a beautiful creature could never be so cruel. He saw the way you moved so gracefully on the battlefield and the way just a single touch from you could melt the heart of any man. You had no tolerance for the men that talked down to you and, sure, you were an exquisite creature, but your prowess that lied beneath the surface – that could tear any unassuming man limb from limb – was what drew him to you.

You were resilient. Despite what anyone may think, you were one of the strongest on the team.

I have wondered what it was like for Aphrodite. For Hera, Medusa, Artemis, Athena. For them to be worshiped, feared, sung of and powerful. What did it feel like to fall into myth and legend? To be remembered mostly for the men they loved, or the ones who fought for them when they didn’t need it, didn’t ask. To be pushed into the corner of the bar, to only be talked about when someone else decided, and to watch their daughters, their children of the earth, fall to the same fate.

Despite your effort to write your own story, to be the best damn Avenger you could be, there would always be hurtles in your way, whether that be the media shoving you into the shadows of Captain America and Iron Man, your inherent lack of any sort of super-ability, or you almost too innocent-looking appearance: how could you hold your own when you look like you can’t even open a jar by yourself? It was the same for those before you, women being washed away in history as lab assistants or had their valor just plain stolen from them. It couldn’t be you and you wouldn’t let it.

You were hurt. Years of physical pain, emotional torment, and past abuse took its toll on you. After all, you were only human.

Dearest Medusa I am so sorry no one told you that the Gods could be so cruel. You had beauty so unlike the rest. Your mother deemed it a blessing. A blessing that would one day deal your curse. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that no one told you the love of a god is as good as the hatred from a god. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that he pillaged your body in the temple of goddess meant to shelter you. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that Athena in all of her wisdom turned blind eye to your pain. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that no one ever told you the gods could be so cruel.

You’d known what it’s like to have been cast away in your time of need. Your strength somehow came around to backfire on you. You’d been so strong your whole life, there’s no way you could be upset – especially about something so small. You’d been discredited to your own feelings. When you cried out for help, you never received, instead met with neglect and following misfortune. And that’s what built you, but that’s also what broke you.

It was only through poetry that Bucky realized there were two sides to your story – every story, he’d supposed.

And goddamn, there were two sides to his story.

He’d wondered if one day, such myths will be written about him. Would he be seen as the monster: a harsh, unforgiving, unrelenting man – whose true tragedy is unbeknownst to most? Only after years of examination and internal debate could change anyone’s perspective on him.

But he knew they’d be writing about you someday. Hell, it seems like they already had been. The most celestial being in the universe and he just happens to be lucky enough to share a bed with you. He’s the one who knows your backstory, knows your own tragedy, knows the strength that its built. It’s almost like he’s been studying you – and he would if he could. He applies every beautiful book or poem he’s read to you: to your grace, your poise, your struggles.

You meant more to him than words could describe; not the likes of Homer, Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, nor even Jane Austen could even capture half your complexity. He didn’t think there were so many layers to life. There was only one way he could see himself: damaged. But from the day he met you, you’d proven quite the opposite. He had depth, substance, an intricacy that only you could unravel. You’d welcomed him into your open arms, taking him under your wing as you showed him the ropes of the twenty-first century. That’s how it started, anyway. You’d shown him the internet, the DVR, how his phone works, plastic Tupperware. The world had become quite a different place, but it wasn’t just the material objects that shifted either.

People seemed to be a bit more complex than Bucky remembered – and he didn’t know whether it was a twenty-first century thing or if he just hadn’t been around people in such a long time. It took a lot of questions, a lot of research, and a lot of late-night discussions before Bucky finally grasped the concept you’d been trying to instill in him. And one night it just made so much sense. It was in everything you read – every novel and poem – everything you wrote, and everything you’d been teaching him.

Bucky’s night of clarity consisted of a nightmare, two giant mugs filled to the brim with hot chocolate, and some frighteningly serious pillowtalk. “You don’t have to let your past define you, Bucky,” you whispered, before taking a sip of your drink. Bucky’s head rested on your chest, the two of you laying in bed, wide awake after having been woken up by Bucky screaming in the middle of the night. Your hand ran through his hair, strands stuck together and tangled up, tacky with sweat. His eyes were shut, his focus being the vibrations of your chest as you spoke. “You aren’t what they made you.”

You’d seen the side of him that nobody else saw; the soft side of him. It was the half of him that the media would never portray, that his closest peers – his housemates, his team members – would never see, the part that even he forgot existed.

Hell, it was hard for him to remember how to be kind – how to be vulnerable. It took years of physical torture and mental torment for Hydra to beat it out of him. The majority of his life, he’d gone without physical affection, a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, any kind of touch that didn’t result in a bloody nose.

That wasn’t the only issue. He had to overcome his own bravado. It took him years of solitude and half-assed coping mechanisms for Bucky to come to terms with it himself. Even after jumping over the first hurdle of undoing Hydra’s psychological damage, he had to rewrite his own programming. He never confided in anyone in the Avengers; not the therapist and psychologist Tony brought in, not Clint – a college familiar with being a victim of mind-control, not Natasha – someone who had understood similar hardships, not even Steve – his childhood best friend. He’d come from a time where you would simply grin and bear it.

Sounds cliché, sure, but he couldn’t help it. It was hard not to act this way when even those closest to him – those who shared similar trauma – acted in the same manner. He’d never seen Clint bring it up. Natasha never spoke of her past, or let it affect her work or well-being – in fact, she made jokes about it. And Steve? Forget it. He was one of those who used his past as motivation and to share to kids for “life lessons” (Bucky could gag just thinking about it). Anyway, where did that leave Bucky? With no options but to suck it up and not let it bother him.

When you started spending multiple nights in a row with him, he knew you’d get him to confess about his past, his feelings. Bucky hated feelings. In the thirties, the only feeling he liked was to have a woman wrapped around his finger. He supposed that’s all he had to worry about, back then, anyway.

Now, he was the one wrapped around his finger. So much so, in fact, that he let you twirl his hair around in your hand, stroke his stubble with the backs of your knuckles, and press your cold feet against his legs while the two of you were sleeping (supposed to be sleeping, at least). “Remember what I told you?” You murmured, pulling him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to meet yours peering down over him, as you now sat propped on one elbow to lean your head over his. “About it being okay for you to be upset?”

He rolled his eyes and then quickly shot you a soft apology. Don’t dismiss your emotions, it was what you’d told him numerous times before. He wasn’t supposed to be acting like nothing was bothering him; he promised you that he’d tell you anything on his mind. It was easy when the only thing that was on his mind was you naked in his mind. This was way harder, he mentally groaned.

It was hard for him to come to terms with his past. With all of the terrible things he’d done? There was no way he’d ever be able to accept it, to forget about it, forgive himself for it. There are two sides to every story, you’d reminded him once.

Bucky’s two sides: assassin, murderer, beast; victim, vulnerable, manipulated.

He couldn’t even come to terms with that. He wasn’t manipulated. Manipulation carries the connotation that he still had control. Bucky wasn’t manipulated into doing any of the things he did – into committing those atrocities. Nobody used their cunning wit and skills to get him to willingly commit such crimes; Bucky wasn’t convinced by someone to go against his free will and better judgement. No, that right was stolen from him – his free will.

He didn’t even have an adjective to describe himself.

But he had others who could describe him on his behalf.

Name one hero who was happy. Was Heracles, remembered in the stars, satisfied with his life? Risen to glory and fame, but at what cost? The memory of his wife and child’s blood on his hands, their cries etched in his head. Ask Daedalus, whose cleverness was no match for his love for Icarus, if he was happy to escape confinement. To soar amongst the heavens only to watch his son plummet to his death, perished by his own creation. And Achilles, what of him, was he happy? The boy with the golden feet and lion-heart, who upheld battle for a decade, to watch his beloved slain? To live out the end of his days grieving, yearning for death, was he truly happy? Once again, I must ask: Name one hero who was happy.

It validated his thoughts, at lease. No matter how much people could grow to love him, how accepted he’d be into society, how much he’d be celebrated, he’d still never forget – never be happy, haunted forever by his past barbarity, the lives he took, his loved ones gone. His own life and power ripped away from him, missing from his life for so long that he didn’t know how to live anymore.

He’d found you, at least. You gave him some semblance of his life and freedom back. But he couldn’t help but think, deep down, so low that he’d never be able to muster up the words to say it aloud, that one day you’d be taken away from him. He didn’t know if it would be on the battlefield or if it would be karma finally coming around – but he was scared.

But, despite you being totally oblivious to Bucky’s deepest thoughts (although, you were fairly intuitive. He assumed you’d already known this was his greatest fear), you’d taught him that it was okay to be scared. It was okay to be scared, vulnerable, and hurting. That must have been more accepted these days. While Bucky was never able to marry back in his original time, he wasn’t even sure if this was something husband and wife talked about. He’d remembered hearing stories of his war-buddies back in the trenches. They wrote home to their wives, telling them everything was okay, nobody was hurting, all was as well as could be a – when the opposite couldn’t be truer. It was his job to make sure everything was okay in the home, and part of that required staying strong; being the immovable force that held the family steady. And he looked up to those men more than anything. Fighting a goddamn war, writing their wives in a matter that wouldn’t make them worry.

Now that wasn’t necessary. Women had embraced their strength and independence. He was relieved, to be honest, he knew he’d never compare to his own father – not after everything he’d endured. But maybe twenty-first century life was where he belonged, anyway. So that he could have you next to him. Outspoken, rowdy, cutthroat, bold, passionate you.

You understood Bucky’s hesitation to open up to you. It took him a long time to get acclimated to his new environment, to people, to having emotions – let alone expressing them. That was okay with you. You had nothing but time. You’d tried early on to express to him the fact that his past is what gave him his strength today. He’s been through so much during the past one hundred years of his life that it would be easy for him to just quit, throw in the towel of life, give up and spend the rest of his days spending his days in Wakanda raising goats. But every day, he found the strength to get up, return to the clutches of Hydra and fight them one by one with the promise of the world one day being free from their grasp.

That resonated with him a bit. To come to terms with his struggles because they made him who he is. Not necessarily in a bad way: in the way that he could realize how much he overcame in his long life. He was a survivor.

“Yes,” he whispered, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm.

He wasn’t sure how you were able to resonate with him on such a level. It was probably the way you talked to him. You treated him like a human. Not that the others didn’t necessarily, but they just treated him differently – like they were afraid of him. Like anything they said might trigger him, they cowered in fear when he walked into a room, they avoided him at all costs. But you, you treated him like he was fragile – like if you held him, he’d crack.

He smiled at the thought, holding back a laugh. That’s the exact same way he held you.

Like you were made of porcelain. And that mutual consideration just drew him to you in awe. There was something so inherently soft about you. You were so genuinely kind to everyone, always lending a helping hand, putting everyone else’s needs above yours. He hadn’t known somebody like that for a long time; since he was a young kid in Brooklyn.

No Mortal Words Describe Her: Mortal, on the ground, drenched in sweat and tears: Are you a dream? Are you a nightmare? Aphrodite, baring her teeth, drenched in blood and ash: I am everything in between.

You were a dichotomy. He didn’t understand it. He met you on the battlefield, killing Hydra agents. Your hair was pulled up tight, eyes wide but eyebrows narrowed. You threw your punches with such force; you were kicking men through walls and windows. You’d looked as if you were born and bred to kill – which, in all truth, you were. You’d accepted that fact and you held your head high. He was intimidated by you, and he loved that fact that everyone else was, too. And you were proud of it. There was nothing you cared about in those moments more than making the scum of the earth pay for the atrocities they had committed, for all the years they had Bucky Barnes locked up.

But then it was him laying on your bedroom floor, reading poetry you had scribbled on scraps of paper, littered around the room; some laid out neatly beside you, others crumpled up and tossed in the corner. Bucky liked those ones best – the ones you’d discarded in a frantic, haphazard manner, too busy to even aim for the garbage can. He’d felt that those were the ones that described you best: they were raw, real, undeniable; they came from the deepest depths of your mind, the part that took you hours of searching to even skim the surface. It was the truest form of yourself, and Bucky was lucky enough to have been granted permission to read.

All Antigone wanted was to bury her dead. How many times do women hang themselves in the shadow of their fathers’ sins? I am no exception, I flinch at comparisons, the easiest way to unmake me is to throw his name over me like an old mantle of anger and hate: I’ve worked too hard to be broken down by a story I had no hand in, braced my arms against flood and falling sky and sometimes I get so tired. But I am more than my father’s venom tongue. I am my grandmother’s eyes, my grandfather’s bleeding heart, I am the daughter of women stronger than any Greek playwright could forgive.

Just as it did for Bucky, it took you time to open up. To delve into your past was a process in and of its own. It was when he found this poem crinkled beside your bookshelf that he finally asked about it. This one felt a little too personal to just ignore. He recrumpled the piece of paper and tossed it towards you, landing in your lap. Unfolding it, you skim the words, tossing it beside you once finished, continuing your current work. “Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asked, breaking the silence that surrounded the two of you.

At first, you’d said no and simply continued writing. How were you supposed to tell him the stories of your so-called family? The pains you’d suffered as a child. You’d continued on your poem about Achilles: the strong, brave, invincible, soldier; the broken, touch starved, damaged man. You huffed to yourself and threw your pen down. What kind of girlfriend would you be to make Bucky relive his own terror without at least reciprocating – especially when you knew it took so much for him to let you in in the first place.

It was a long night after that, setting up the timeline of your life. And everyone had their own right to deal with their past in their own way; each memory hurts in its own particular way, and it is up to you with how to deal with it. But your past is what makes you, and that’s what you’d told Bucky days before. It doesn’t define you, but it gives you something to fight for, something to live for.

It took years of explaining it to him for you to finally find it true for yourself.

…

But he was pulled back into the present once your hands pulled apart an exceptionally tight knot from his hair. He brought his eyes back to meet yours, your face illuminated by the now rising sun shining behind the white shades. Your eyes were half lidded, face completely relaxed, gazing down at Bucky with a sleepy lust. You’d been sitting in silence for hours. It was fine, you had nothing else to do. It was better that Bucky worked it out on his own anyway; you knew how he could get lost in his own thoughts.

All you’d hoped was that he wasn’t beating himself up about it anymore.

“Hey, doll,” he murmured, grabbing your hand in his, turning up to lean against the headboard next to you. And, god, the way you looked at him could make his heart stop; nothing but admiration and affection in those eyes. Your eyebrows were slightly raised, corners of your mouth pulling up slightly.

“Hey, Buck.” You fully smiled at him, offering him a soft, sleepy grin.

“I love you.”

You slid down on the bed, this time resting your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around his large torso, snuggling up into him as the sun rose behind you. “I love you, too.”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

If The World Was Ending

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 5,000

Summary: Your world was ending.

Warnings: Angst, but not as angsty as usual, I promise!

A/N: “If the World Was Ending” by JP Saxe & Julia Michaels :)

...

I was distracted And in traffic I didn't feel it When the earthquake happened But it really got me thinkin' Were you out drinkin'? Were you in the living room Chillin' watchin' television?

It was five-thirty on a Friday. The rush hour traffic backed up all the streets of New York; the brewing storm not helping the situation in the slightest bit. He’d regretted his choice to go for a calming drive three hours ago; it left him surrounded with rumbling cars and angry taxis. What had started out as a relaxing drive outside the city, had now become the root cause of his newly sprouted headache.  

The rumbling in his head became rumbling in his stomach as he noticed the man at the newspaper stand calling out to people on the streets. On the front page, there you were, headline calling out: “Newest Avenger Saves the City,” complete with a blurry photograph, face smudged with soot and debris from the fire, hair whipping around your face in the twirling winds – but it was you none-the-less.

His heart dropped six feet below him and that’s when his world began to shake: all it took was the sight of you. Not even in person; it was a photograph. He hadn’t seen you in person in days. He hadn’t spoken to you in weeks (more like you hadn’t spoken to him) – only hearing others talk about you; yelling your name to sell newspapers. He shook his head, imagining the thoughts spilling from his ears as he desperately tried to get his mind off of you. He hadn’t noticed the green light before him until the drivers behind him began to lay on their horns.

Raindrops spattered on his front windshield at an increasingly fast pace; they didn’t show any signs of slowing down, either, as the sky turned dark grey, casting shadows across every street. He thought about where you might be in that moment. A clap of thunder and lightning ripped through the sky. Were you out at the bar, celebrating your most recent victory? He could see it: Natasha dragging you out for an early happy hour, buying you shots to congratulate you on your conquest from the day before. You were probably wearing that skin-tight black dress, enjoying the attention from your friends (and the guys at the bar chasing their post-work buzz).

But as more rolling thunder shrouded his ears, he couldn’t help but feel that scenario was completely wrong for the current circumstances. You’d hated thunderstorms (and you hated the fact that he was able to tell that about you). There were plenty of people who enjoyed them: the sound of rain tapping against the window – white noise. He thought it was endearing that you got scared, like a child curled up in her blanket, tucked away in the safety of his arms. It wasn’t technically ironic, but when he found out that someone with the power to cultivate flames in her bare hands is afraid of thunderstorms, he couldn’t help but laugh and coo.

Then he found out why you hated them.

And that shut him right up.

Now he imagined you sitting on the couch in the living room, wrapped up securely in your numerous blankets, watching the television in front of you. He knew you’d be boiling underneath that much insulation, but, hey, you were always a fan of the heat (also unironically). And it was with this thought, that Bucky pulled the car into the complex, parking it in the seemly-never-ending row of Tony’s cars.

The whole ride up the elevator, he’d pictured you in your blanket cocoon, calm and quiet night interrupted by the loud storm outside. He figured you’d bury your face into the couch cushion, waiting for someone to sit with you – someone to reassure you: everything would be okay.

And when the elevator doors opened and he nearly jogged into the living room, that’s exactly the sight he was met with. You looked tired; tired from yesterday, tired from not sleeping, tired from the incessant fear the thunderstorm would bring you, tired of not having peace. You whipped your head around towards the doorway, taking notice of Bucky’s still figure. As he took one step closer, you stood up, securing all of your blankets over your shoulders.

You strutted out of the room to your bedroom without a word and without looking back at Bucky behind you.

I tried to imagine Your reaction It didn't scare me when the earthquake happened But it really got me thinkin' That night we went drinkin' Stumbled in the house And didn't make it past the kitchen

You shut the door quietly and locked it behind you. Letting out a deep sigh, you pulled up the edges of your blankets and fell onto the bed, snuggling your way into a swathe of warmth. You shut your eyes, trying to think of anything except the rolling thunder outside your window and the man downstairs.

You could only get one off your mind.

It was probably the loudness of the storm that brought it out in you; brought out your innate need to seek others out for comfort. There was so little warmth in your life: any sort of comfort you had ever received had to be made by you either in the form of fire or blanket-cocoons. It was fine for a while, until you’d met Bucky Barnes. Being with him is better than anything you’d felt before; more reassuring and comforting than anything you’d ever experienced. Between his supersoldier body heat, his strong arms holding you so tight you thought he might squish you – you’d loved it – and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck, there was no better feeling in the world.

Him holding you was one thing. But him touching you was a whole other animal. Your hands burned each other; they left imprints on each other’s chests, hips, thighs, necks. Both of you were too hot – the two of you tangled up in bedsheets made you catch a fever every damn time. But that’s how you liked it: gasping for breaths, bodies slick with sweat, a painful groan as he pressed his burning palm to the small of your back, pushing your arch deeper.

But that’s all it was at this point: a fever dream.

It was the most vivid memory you had, yet also the haziest. The two of you spent the night at the bar, drinking your weight in any kind of alcohol you could get your hands on. The whole three hours spent at the bar, your hands were all over each other, smiles never leaving either of your faces. You’d ditched the rest of the avengers after you’d put your hand on Bucky’s upper thigh under the table, sliding it up slowly until he pushed his way out of the booth (dragging you with him). It started off as a joke, you’d thought it would be funny to see his drunken reaction as he tried the obvious discomfort of your teasing from everyone else at the table. It wasn’t funny anymore when he pushed you up against the cold brick of the building outside the bar, holding one hand to your hips and the other to your neck, cutting off your laughter and tilting your head up to meet his lips already en route to yours.

Your hands found their way around his neck, eventually grasping at the tips of his long hair, drawing them near you to bring his body closer to yours. He moaned into your mouth, breaking apart the sloppy kiss to smother a line of licks and love bites and kisses to your jaw and neck. But as soon as you shut your eyes and dropped your head against the wall behind you, he grabbed your hips and pulled you upright, snaking his arm around your hip and escorting you toward the tower.

As soon as Bucky swung open the door, his hands were all over you. He grabbed your head, cupping your jaw in his huge hands, pulling you into a kiss, forcing you to walk backwards into waiting the elevator. The doors closed and he once again shoved you against the wall, fingers finding the bottom hem of your skin-tight black dress. He’d been dying to get it off of you all night. He only broke the kiss to pull the dress over your head, discarding it in the corner. You’d been fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, your buzz from the alcohol combined with your complete intoxication from Bucky’s lips not making it any easier.

The elevator door dinged open and he grabbed the back of his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders (shirt still half buttoned), then throwing it alongside your dress. Before you even had the time to look him over, he scooped you up in his arms, swiftly taking you out of the elevator and through the corridor towards the bedroom.

Your lips connected with his neck, working your way up to the spot where his jaw meets his ear: the spot that drives him absolutely mad. You licked the shell of his ear and sucked on that spot on his jaw and you felt his knees buckle. He groaned, setting you down on the counter – not before an obligatory slap to your ass that made you yelp against his neck. He chuckled, grabbing your face and giving you another proper kiss as his hips ground against yours.

As soon as your hands began working on his belt buckle, it was safe to say neither of you made it past the kitchen that night.

Think I've figured out how How to let you go and let communication die out I know, you know, we know You weren't down for forever and it's fine I know, you know, we know We weren't meant for each other and it's fine

It was day nineteen of the mission he was on and Bucky was close to calling it quits. He’d told Steve countless times that their presence wasn’t making a difference, that they should just pack up and head home. Steve would not relent, thus the mission continued on. They’d spent the past two weeks laying low, trying to complete a stealth mission to obtain information and take out the target. The duo laid out every day for fifteen hours, holding their elevating position in the forest.

Every night, Bucky would get comfortable in the makeshift tent he’d set up and stare at his phone for hours. At the innocent texts you’d send telling him about your day, the not-so innocent texts you’d send confessing him everything you wanted to do to him when he gets home; the innocent pictures you’d send of the cute puppy Wanda brought him, the not-so-innocent pictures of yourself in that red lingerie he loved so much.

You brought him enough peace to be able to get a few hours of shut eye in before Steve’s early wake-up call. Then, he’d spend the whole morning talking about you and what you’d sent him, only stopping when Steve told him to shut up. But he couldn’t help but laugh just simply thinking about you, everything you were doing, what you were wearing. At that exact moment in time, Bucky was sitting behind his sniper rifle, starting straight ahead waiting for the target. After analyzing his routes for just shy of three weeks, they knew exactly where he’d be and when – and today was the day. Today in one hour and fourteen minutes.

“And after that she – ”

“Buck,” Steve huffed, interrupting the other man. “Okay, I get it. I don’t need every single detail of your lives.”

Bucky’s head whipped to the left at the blond. Steve remained still, staring at through the binoculars pointed forward. “What?”

“You heard me,” he mumbled back, still not moving an inch, suddenly losing the nerve he mustered up to speak just seconds ago.

“Damn.” Bucky dropped his head and exaggeratedly shook it, picking his head back up with a sick grin. He let out a snarky laugh, cracking his neck before speaking up again: “Here I was, thinking we were friends and we could talk, just like we used to y’know?” His tone raising as he teased Steve. “But.” He shrugged, looking back through the scope of his rifle. “Things change I guess.”

“Jesus, Buck, what’s wrong with you?” Steve snapped, dropping the binoculars.

And, to be clear, Bucky hadn’t known what had gotten into him. It could have been the lack of sleep: getting only four hours of shut eye each night for three weeks, the fact that he’d eaten nothing but canned beans, crackers, and various dehydrated meats, or the fact he’d been missing his bed – and you – and you in his bed – enormously. But he couldn’t drop the façade now, it was just starting to piss Steve off. Plus, Bucky had to address some points with him, anyway: “There’s nothing wrong with me. What’s wrong with you? You’re the one who’s always asking about what I’m thinking and how it’s going with her and – ”

“Yeah, I did want to know how it was going with her but now it’s too much. Like your sex lives — TMI, Bucky. And, look, don’t get me wrong, she’s a great girl and a strong team member and all, but it’s the only thing that comes out of your mouth. Besides that, you share ­way too much.”

“Aww, Stevie,” Bucky cooed. “Are you jealous?”

Steve’s eyes flitted to the brunet’s if only for a second, before returning to their original position. “Don’t be stupid, Bucky. I’m trying to look out for you. You haven’t been able to get your head out of your ass for the past two months. You’ve been slipping up. It’s about time to get your mind straight.”

“Mind straight? Mind straight?” Bucky kept repeating to Steve (and himself). Was that’s what was wrong with him? His mind was preoccupied most of the time with you, sure. Who’s wouldn’t be? You were gorgeous, intelligent, kind, intimidating (to normal men). Bucky’s eyes dropped to the ground, shaking the thoughts out of his head again. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Steve. You brought me to the middle of Austria for this fucking mission – that, by the way, is taking weeks longer than expected – for what? If you don’t trust me so much, then why are you making me suffer? God, you should’ve just spared me the misery and – ”

“Take the shot.”

“Left me at home. You know so I can be with (Y/N), who apparently you don’t even like as much as you let on, and – ”

“Take. The. Shot.” Bucky looked up at the man: Steve’s eyes did not move from the binoculars, eyebrows knitted together in concentration, his jaw clenched tight.

Bucky’s hands nearly slipped on the rifle, repositioning himself so he could finish the job. And then, as Bucky pulled the trigger, he was fucked.

Absolutely, in no other sense of the word, fucked.

The bullet grazed the arm of the target, nailing the guy behind him square in the chest.

“Time to go,” Steve yelled, jumping up and sprinting towards the rendezvous. “Emergency extraction! We have hostiles hot on our trail!” He shouted into the radio.

Bucky grabbed the rifle and shot up, catching up to Steve.

They ran in the forest for hours, trying to hide from the small army that right behind them, searching endlessly for the two. But once they reached the safety of the jet, Clint swooping in at the perfect time to pick them up, the fight wasn’t over. While Steve was giving Bucky the silent treatment, updating Clint on the situation at hand in the cockpit, Bucky was fighting a mental battle with himself.

So, Steve was right. Bucky was totally screwed. Not only did the target get away, he killed someone else in his place, just another one to add to the list, he thought to himself, dropping his head in his hands. This had never happened before – whether his mind was being controlled by someone else or not. He’d lost his composure, he lost sight of the mission. He’d turned on his best friend of over one hundred years, over a girl. Bucky was no stranger to constructive criticism, but when it came to you, he lost it. As soon as Steve mentioned you clouding his vision, he lost it.

And after a three-hour long flight home, he knew what he had to do.

Bucky strutted off the jet, slinging the heavy weapon over his shoulder, eyes fixated on the hangar exit about fifty yards ahead of him. He looked nowhere else, not at anyone else. Not at the group of Avengers welcoming them home. Not back at Steve as he called after him. Not at you as you jogged alongside him to keep in stride with him.

He heard you, calling his name: “Bucky, Bucky, James, James.”

He kept his mind clear and jaw set. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t think anything. He was focused: this was his new mission.

Steve obviously told you what happened, later, about Bucky’s mind being totally fucked and filled with thoughts of only you. Bucky was sure that he had phrased it differently – to make it sound like it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t – it was Bucky’s fault for being so infatuated with you that you consumed his every thought. He had to end it, before anyone else had to die.

He didn’t talk to you that night.

He didn’t talk to you the day after.

He didn’t talk to you.

Think I've figured out how How to think about you without it rippin' my heart out I know, you know, we know You weren't down for forever and it's fine I know, you know, we know We weren't meant for each other and it's fine

It was years after you’d met Bucky before the two of you started dating. It was months after that before you were seriously dating. It was another year after before you told him what happened to you.

That night, it was storming, as it usually did in July. It made the room feel humid, like you could feel the rain and sticky air outside on your skin. You rolled around all night, taking hours for you to finally fall asleep beside Bucky. Nights like these, when you didn’t want to be held – it was too damn hot ­­– you didn’t want to be spoken to, you didn’t want to be touched, he just let you be. He watched helplessly from the sidelines as you tossed and turned, fumbling around with the sheets before foregoing them altogether.

But you’d finally fell asleep, four hours after you’d originally settled down for bed. You were plagued with nightmares of your past. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Bucky woke you up that night, taking a hold of your shoulders, shaking them violently until you woke up. And when you did, you gasped for air, hands instinctively grabbing his wrists, palms burning his skin. He snatched his flesh hand away, watching as sparks flitted from your fingertips. However, Bucky kept his metal hand against your burning skin, twisting your hand around, holding it gently in his. He rubbed his cool metal thumb against your knuckles, shifting so that he was sitting up next to you.

“Come here,” he mumbled, pulling you into his lap, arms curling up so you could tuck them under your chin, head resting on Bucky’s lap. He combed his fingers through your hair, gently tugging any knots out. “Tell me about it this time?” He asked softly.

You gazed into his blue eyes, barely lit up by the lightning shining through your window. You blinked away the remaining tears for your own eyes, rubbing your cheeks with the back of your hand to rid them of tear-trails. “I discovered my powers when I was little, like, maybe five or six.” You barely spoke at all, voice coming out softer than a whisper, cracking, broken. “And my parents didn’t really know what to do.” Clearing your throat, you had to give them the benefit of the doubt, to clarify: “I mean – they were both normal. They didn’t know what else to do. But then I started setting things on fire. It took them a while to figure out it was me, actually.” Bucky nodded along to your story, listening quietly, never interrupting, his hand never falling from your hair. “By the time they figured out it was me, they didn’t know what to do. They wanted to help me.” The last sentence came out quieter than the rest, voice barely audible at all. “When it rained a lot, they mad me sit outside in the yard.”

The memory flashed across your mind, the first time they sent you outside. There was thundering and lightning, and you couldn’t hear your own childish screams over the loud rain and claps of thunder, you couldn’t tell your tears apart from the rain that splashed on your cheeks. They put you out in the rain with the hopes it would put out all your fires, break your constant fever, wash away your powers. “It burned. The cold water on my burning skin felt like an acid rain. It felt like hot oil was spilling all over my arms and legs.” You shuddered at the thought of it, the skin on your extremities now suddenly itchy and scorching hot.

…

But that was all gone now. He wasn’t there to hold you, calm you down. You didn’t know what it was, actually. First, he disappeared. You didn’t even see him for days; you couldn’t find him at the gym or in the kitchen. One day you saw him in the hallway, walking with Steve, speaking in very hushed tones. As soon as you swung the corner and made eye contact with him, he was gone. He completely dropped the conversation he was having, turned on his heel, and strutted towards his bedroom.

Steve looked at you with sorrow-filled eyes. All you could do was offer him a small, fake smile and shrug; he saw right through it. But you were out of questions to ask, tears to cry. There was nothing left to do.

He wasn’t in your life anymore.

Now the only thing you could do was stop wondering what happened, why it happened. You chose to remember the good times with Bucky. The times he held you in his strong arms, shielding you from your past memories and your nightmares.

He may be out of your life, but the memories of the times you shared would live on with you forever. Would you love me for the hell of it? All our fears would be irrelevant The sky'd be falling while I'd hold you tight No, there wouldn't be a reason why We would even have to say goodbye

The sky was falling, technically.

Chunks of building tumbled down the walls around you. Smoke clouded the air and debris filled your lungs. There was shouting all around you – you think – you couldn’t make out any real sounds through the sounds of the bombs exploding all around you. You were trapped in a maze; it had to be a maze, you thought. You felt like you’d walked around the same hall for hours. You were sure it had been hours at that point.

The buildings started to shatter around you, bright light blinding your vision. The clouds of smoke appeared more frequently, meaning the attack was only getting closer. Were they landmines? Or were they coming from the sky? You didn’t have time to think about it. The wall next to you burst beside you, knocking you off your feet.

Before you made contact with the ground, an arm snaked around your waist, pulling you up, dragging you to a nearby room. You were tossed into a cold porcelain bathtub, the sides of the tub caked with dry dirt and chunks of plaster. Once you were dropped into the tub, a heavy weight fell on top of you – a body.

Bucky’s body, to be exact.

You clung to his leather clad, torso, hands shaking, gripping the buckles and straps. His hands and head shielded yours, the rest of his body resting on top of yours to break the fall of any dropping debris and pieces of ceiling.

You were so close. You were breathing the same air, the same dirty air, struggling to breath, gasping for breath. You’d lost track of how many days you’d spent apart, how many days it’s been since he’s stopped talking to you.

And then it was over. Just like that. “We should stay until the bombing ends.”

His voice was raspy, almost as if he hadn’t used it at all since he stopped speaking to you. Your heart raced at his words, at the sound of his voice. You could feel his heart racing, too. But you couldn’t find the words to say and, at that point, you weren’t even sure there were any words to say, anyway.

You shut your eyes tight, waiting for it to end. This time, you definitely lost track of time. It was just you, him, and the sky falling.

…

The room had grown cold around the two of you; but you sat holding each other.

You keeping him warm, him keeping you warm.

You’d nearly fallen asleep in his arms, the feeling of him next to you – on top of you – holding you so close – protecting you – bringing you a sense of peace that you hadn’t felt in so long. He moved his hands from where they were resting on your head, placing them on either side of the tub, lifting himself off you. He kicked away the chunks of wall and ceiling, clearing the rest of the tub out before offering you a hand to help you out.

When your hand touched his, he wasn’t sure if he felt a spark, or if your hand was genuinely sparking. He didn’t care, he had missed the feeling of both.

You’d followed him out of the tub, walking beside him as you both made your way out of the building, no other words being spoken between you than those earlier. Meeting up with the rest of the team followed suit, as did the plane ride home.

The jet doors opened, you shot to your feet and headed towards your room. You had a goal in mind: make it to your room. Heavy footsteps with a purpose: that’s all your ears could hear. You listened to the pattern of your heavy boots slamming against the floor, echoing throughout the hangar.

“(Y/N)!”

Your stride stuttered.

But you pressed on. Clenching your fists at your side, you huffed out a breath and carried on.

What would you gain from talking to him?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Its what you kept telling yourself. You didn’t want to not talk to him. God, you’d give anything to be able to go back to normal with him. For what? So he could do it all over again?

…

He tried to run up after you. He could easily catch up to you, but his legs stopped moving after the third time he’d called your name. He stood in the hangar, watching as everyone started heading your direction, each of them heading to their own destination.

Bucky didn’t have anywhere to go. Or anything to say.

I know, you know, we know You weren't down for forever and it's fine I know, you know, we know We weren't meant for each other and it's fine

But if the world was ending You'd come over, right? You'd come over and you'd stay the night Would you love me for the hell of it? All our fears would be irrelevant The rain was hitting the window hard. You laid on your bed on your stomach, holding your head propped up on your palms as you gazed out the window across from you. You watched the raindrops race each other down the glass, trails interrupted with more raindrops falling ahead of them. Lightning lit up the sky, illuminating your bedroom in a grey hue, hurting your eyes as you stared directly at it.

You pulled the blankets over your head, groaning over the loud clap of thunder that followed the light, trying to drown it out. Flipping yourself over on your back, you shoved all the blankets off of you. There was no way you were going to sleep tonight.

Your phone said the rain wouldn’t end until ten in the morning. Rolling off the bed, you paced back and forth in front of your bookshelf, perhaps reading could take your mind off it? But you weren’t in the mood to read. You’d decided on something that did not require as much mental effort. Settling on TV, you hopped back on your bed, wincing as the bright screen lit up the room, squinting until your eyes adjusted. You flipped through the channels and found nothing but infomercials – it was barely one in the morning. Tony paid for one thousand channels and there was nothing appealing. Shutting it off, you fell back onto the bed.

There was only one place to go.

If the world was ending You'd come over, right? You'd come over, you'd come over, you'd come over, right? If the world was ending You'd come over, right?

Those were the words you kept repeating to yourself.

You stop in front of Bucky’s doorway, blanket wrapped tightly over your shoulders.

Your knuckles rap lightly against the door.

It swings open, revealing a frightened Bucky, who releases a held breath as relief washes over his face. He breaths your name in a shaky exhale, almost fighting the small smile that is pulling at his lips. And it’s you who gets lost in his cloudy blue eyes, it’s you who can feel the heat radiating off his naked torso, it’s you who holds back tears.

“My world was ending.”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Happiest Year

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 2,700

Summary: Bucky thanks you for the happiest year of his life.

Warnings: Angst (again lol)

A/N: No trick ending this time! The song gives it all away :( “Happiest Year” by Jaymes Young. Enjoy!

...

Month 9

He would never get tired of staring into your eyes. Its how he wanted to fall asleep at night: watching as your eyes fluttered closed slowly, wanting to stay awake with him, pillow talking, gazing into each other’s eyes. Its how he wanted to wake up every morning: watching you squint your eyes open at the sunlight shining from the window, softly smiling as you rubbed the sleep from those eyes.

“What are you lookin’ at,” you mumbled, tilting your chin up, curling up into Bucky’s side.

“Your eye boogers,” he grinned back, laughing loudly as you swatted at his chest.

You giggled back, playfully trying to shove him off the bed – obviously not strong enough. He hooked an arm around your waist, pulling you towards him, burying his face in your neck. “You jerk,” you laughed, breathless.

“I’m kidding, baby.” He kissed your neck, then straightened up to kiss your lips. “You know I love your eyes boogies.”

And that’s how it went. From month 1 to month 11. Every night falling asleep in each other’s arms, waking up in each other’s arms. Constantly laughing and poking fun at each other; it was all light-hearted fun. It was nice to have found someone to laugh with; he hadn’t felt so free in years. To be able to laugh with someone without worrying if you were the butt of the joke. To be able to live with someone who didn’t care or even know about his past; there were no reminders of that side of him: no files labeled The Winter Soldier, no agents leaving the room as soon as he walked in, and no having to look at Stark’s face every day – a painful reminder of the things he had done.

You who he was, sure. You knew about his past; he’d let you in on a few things. He trusted you. He knew that no matter how much money TMZ offered you, how much your friends poked and prodded you, you wouldn’t break; you’d happily take his secrets to the grave with you. But you never pressured him to telling you anything. You understood his boundaries and his desire to not become his past – to go backwards.

So, you propelled him forwards. He relearned emotions: how to accept them, express them, and not cower away from them. He learned how to become a human again; more specifically, the human he was before the war: charming, charismatic, a sweet talker.

It was nice to feel like his old self. It was something he never thought he would’ve felt ever again. Even after he was free from Hydra, welcomed to the Avengers with open arms, he never felt right. With you it was different. He was comfortable; there was no pressure with you. He didn’t understand how someone could be so patient. You waited until he was ready for every step of this relationship. And then love hit him like a fucking freight train. He didn’t know what it felt like; he just woke up one day, looked into your bright eyes, and said: “I love you.”

I’m really on the ropes this time

I’ve been fighting all my life for you

Month 9

He realized that that feeling is what he’s been missing his whole life. It was the only piece left to the puzzle he’d been dying to complete.

Everyone around him noticed it, too. Steve, obviously, could not be more elated that Bucky had found someone. He liked being the one Bucky could confide in, but he knew there way always something missing. There was only so much friendly compassion that could get someone through life. Sam never let Bucky hear the end of it, constantly teasing him about how Bucky would smile down at his phone every time you texted him, how Bucky would come home in the morning after spending the night at your house, how he only came around the tower when he had to: workouts, meetings, missions. “Hey snow queen,” Sam called to Bucky after one debriefing. “You ever plan on sleeping in your own bed again?”

Bucky turned to the man, staring blankly at him. “What?” He stammered, “why?”

Sam chuckled, enjoying the fact that Bucky didn’t know he was joking. “I was just wondering, since you’ve been staying over at a ‘friend’s’ — ” completed with air-quotes “ – house.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say – he was on the ropes for sure.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Relax, man, I’m happy for you,” Sam said, walking over to the man and clapping him on the shoulder. “You should bring her by sometime. Everyone would love to meet her.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. The only person who had met you so far was Steve.

Bucky never brought you by.

Yeah, we made each other bleed

And we tasted it

Month 10

It was hard when Bucky went on missions, for both of you. You didn’t want him to leave, but you understood his obligation to do so. It would be selfish of you to keep him to yourself. So, you bit back your tears, kissed him goodbye, and told him to return to you in one piece.

Bucky came home from missions high with adrenaline every single time. No matter how long the jet ride home was, he’d sit on the plane, leg bouncing furiously, thinking about returning home to you the entire time. Sometimes, he’d come home to you, allow you to calm him down, pull him into a warm shower; he’d let you wash the dirt and blood off his hardened body, double wash his long hair, and let you hold him – that’s really all he needed: your body in his arms, standing with his head tucked down in the crook of your shoulder. You would rub circles on his knotted back, soothing him, relaxing him.

Other times, the adrenaline would get the most of him, he’d run through the front door, sweeping you up off your feet into his arms, chest against chest, pulling you away from whatever task you were doing. At first you would giggle – it was cute. But Bucky was all business. Where one hand remained hooked under your thigh, holding you to him, the other quickly snaked up through your back and hair, finding the back of your neck, pulling your mouth to his. Your smile quickly faded into a moan and release of breath as he met you with an open mouth kiss. He swallowed your noise and wasted no time in slipping his tongue into your open mouth.

The kiss was sloppy, there wasn’t time for perfection; he needed your mouth on his, your tongue on his, your ass in his hand – he gave it a firm squeeze and you moaned into his mouth: “James.”

He missed you; he missed the noises you’d make. Each breath, moan, whine. Each time you’d mumble his name, as if it was the only word you’d remembered; scream his name, as if it was your only salvation.

And when you breathed his name into his mouth, he bit your unsuspecting bottom lip, kissing it again, sucking it into his mouth to run his tongue around the metallic taste that was now shared between your mouths.

I’m here to admit

That you were my medicine

Oh, love, I can’t quit

Month 10

He woke you up the next morning with a kiss. He watched as your eyes fluttered open, shutting again quickly, following with a yawn and a stretch. Bucky watched as you cozied yourself back up in the sheets, the cold morning air creating goosebumps on your naked skin. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, turning your head towards Bucky, greeting him with a smile.

And it was this look that Bucky could never grow tired of. It made saving the world worth it, just so he could come home to you again. So, he could watch you looking up at him with lust-filled eyes, gazing up at him in adoration.

Those eyes could heal any wound, cure any disease, and mend any broken heart.

I never should have said goodbye

But maybe that’s what stupid people do

Month 12

“James, please,” you pleaded, sobbing – wailing – holding your hands to his chest, white-knuckling fistfuls of his jacket, unwilling to let him go. “Why?” You begged to understand.

God, he felt stupid. He felt like an idiot.

Throwing away the past year – all the memories, intimate moments, love the two of you had shared – for what seemed, to you, like nothing. But he had been thinking about it for quite some time. Hell, he’d been thinking about it since day one.

It was a part of his programming: the way he’d lived for the past seventy-plus years. At first, it was that he wasn’t deserving. He didn’t deserve love, compassion; he didn’t deserve the featherlike touches of you trailing your fingers over his scars, your soft kisses on his lips, you whispering sweet nothings to him, telling him how much you loved him.

Then it revolved around the fact that he was a monster. That he would hurt you. It was never his intention, obviously. He wanted quite the opposite. But he’d have nightmares. He would wake you up in the middle of the night; you were tranquil, and you calmed him down. You let him talk if he needed to – which he did sometimes – but you never pressured him. You understood his demons for him and understood that he needed to deal with it in his own way.

One month ago, he had a nightmare, and woke himself up thrashing in his bed. Quickly scanning his surroundings, he found you hunched over on your side of the bed, wincing as you clutched your ribcage in silence. “Oh my god,” was the only thing Bucky could whisper, in complete disbelief. He did that. He did that to you.

He elbowed you in the ribs as you were laying next to him. You woke up with a gasp, rolling over, wincing in pain. You quickly settled your breathing, rubbing the area furiously as the pain subsided. Nothing felt cracked, maybe it would be bruised tomorrow. You turned towards Bucky, now quietly panicking on the edge of the bed. You reached out towards him.

He stared at your outstretched hand, hanging in the open air between the two of you. He was absolutely paralyzed in both his body and mind. Why were you reaching out to him? How could he do that to you – when he promised to never hurt you.

“Buck,” you croaked. “It’s okay, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Yes. I. Did.” Each word was punctuated with a shaky breath. His whole body was shaking. He’d spent years and years inflicting pain against innocent people. But this one hurt the most.

You crawled over to him on the bed, Bucky matching each of your movements with a step backwards. You held your arms out to him. “James, please.”

…

“I can’t be with you. I can’t hurt you.” It was one month ago. You knew he was upset, and you knew he’d changed. He wouldn’t touch you anymore; he wouldn’t hold you at night. He let you curl up to him at night, wrap your arms around him, kiss him. But it became all you. He was scared to touch you; he didn’t know if he would hurt you again.

And it became increasingly clearer every day that passed by. What if one day he loses all control – just like that night? His mind was not secure; as much as he’d like to think that he was safe now, there was always a chance he could be brain-washed again – that his mind, his free-will, would be taken away from him again. After all that’s happened in his past, even his recent past, he could never rule it out as a possibility. And, as sad as it was, everybody knew that. Steve, Bruce, Tony – especially Tony – all kept an eye out. Everybody knew that except for you.

You didn’t know a few stupid words could trigger him into a murderous villain. It came out in the media that he was framed, yes, of course his record was cleaned; but you didn’t know the extent and the trauma that came along with it.

“You’re, hurting me now, how don’t you understand that,” you screamed through tears. He held onto your wrists, forcefully removing them from your deathlike grip on his coat.

“I’m hurting you now, so I don’t kill you later, (Y/N).” He was firm – you didn’t understand how he could be so calm when he was tearing your heart clean out of your chest. “I can’t put you through this anymore. I’ve hit you once and who knows if it’ll happen again. (Y/N), I don’t have control over my actions – you don’t get it – but I ­can’t explain it to you – ” he cut himself off, understanding that his rambling only made you cry further, dropping your face into your hands, choking back sobs.

You wiped the undersides of your eyes with your palms, sniffing loudly. “Then explain it to me. You know that I can take it – I don’t care what’s happened to you – I just want to understand.”

“I have to do this because I love you.”

Oh, I can’t quit

And I’m down on my knees again

Asking

For nothing

Month 13

It was thirty days that he spent in his room. He only ate what Wanda would cook for him, making Vision bring him – through his wall; it was invasive, but Bucky needed to eat. He only showered when Steve made him; he’d missed workouts and meetings, but when Steve barged into his room (through the door – literally), and pointed out how greasy and knotty his hair was, the brunet washed up in the shower, sitting on the floor with the hot water running over him for two hours.

He had to keep reminding himself that he was suffering for a reason. There was a reason. You were the reason. Protecting you. All your tears, your broken heart: to protect you. You would heal, eventually. It was hard to know when; but you were beautiful, intelligent, kind, you were everything good in the world. She’ll find somebody better soon, he reassured himself. But the thought of you with anyone – laughing with anyone, kissing, touching anyone – it brought him to his knees; his heart dropping six feet below him.

Bucky barred F.R.I.D.A.Y. from saying your name or anything related to you. He unofficially banned any of his housemates from saying it, as well. One day when Steve brought you up, Bucky punched him straight in the mouth.

That was about the only thing he’d done in the past month.

He didn’t read, didn’t watch TV, didn’t speak.

It was thirty days of silence.

He didn’t want anything.

He only wanted you.

He couldn’t have you any longer.

But there was nothing he wanted more.

So, wake me up when they build that time machine

I want to go back

Wake me up when you’re sleeping next to me

Cause I really loved you

Month 15

Steve wouldn’t let Bucky go on missions anymore.  

Tony wouldn’t let Bucky leave the tower anymore.

Not that Bucky wanted to do either of those things. The only thing he found solace in was his bed. His bed with the lights off, blinds closed, curtains pulled shut. It was pitch black all the time. All he wanted to do was sleep.

But he couldn’t sleep. Not alone, anyway.

He wished he was comatose – on ice again. Nothing felt the same without you. There was no light, no taste, no color. The only color he could see was the color of your eyes, clear as day.

He wished he could go back. He would go back to any day in the last year; even if he didn’t get to pick the day. Any day with you was better than one without you.

Leaving you was the only way you’d be safe. He loved you enough to know that.

Thank you for the happiest year of my life

Thank you, (Y/N).

I’m sorry.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Good Stuff

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 3,700

Summary: You had a rocky relationship with Bucky. This fight ended badly.

Warnings: Extreme angst (a couple illusions to smut)

A/N: You guys showed a lot of love to my last angsty-song fic, so I wrote another to rip your heart out! This song is called “Good Stuff” by Griff. It’s amazing and I put my own twist on it at the end. Sorry in advance, this one killed me too.

...

The beginning was pure bliss.

Laying in bed with him, cooking with him, laughing with him. You wish that you could go back and wrap that all in a box with a pretty bow on top to save for a rainy day – you wish you could feel that feeling again.

You’d never felt so free. Those moments where the only thing you had to do was look into his blue eyes, sparkling with life, crinkles forming around the corner of his eyes as he laughed hard. It was a genuine laugh; you’d been with him long enough to know that from a polite chuckle. You’d only seen him laugh like that around you – only you. Not when it was his friends, not when it was a group of all of you; it was reserved for those moments with you, laying in bed with the sunlight bouncing off his golden skin.

Oh, I try to rewind Every scene in my mind And for you, I’ve got tunnel vision And I’ve blocked out every collision

Even the little stuff felt like the world could stop right there and you’d be satisfied. Like you could just live the rest of your life in his arms and forget about everything else in the world. Oh, you wished.

One night you two baked a cake. “Come on, “(Y/N),” he laughed, grabbing the spatula out of your hand, stirring the contents of the bowl rapidly. “There’s no way this is enough frosting.”

You swatted his arm, laughing softly. “How much frosting do you really need, it’s one small cake.” He rolled his eyes and lifted the spatula out of the bowl, licking it clean. “Save some for the cake!”

He dropped the utensil in the sink, grabbing you with both hands and hoisting you up on the counter. “It’s sweet. I like it.” He pressed a kiss to your lips; he tasted like chocolate buttercream. “Sweet like you.”

You rolled your eyes this time, laughing at his sappy remark. You stick a finger in the bowl, tasting it off your finger. “It is pretty good, not to pat myself on the back,” you hummed.

Bucky swiped his finger in the frosting a laid a fat blob on the tip of your nose. You gasped, swatting his hands away. “Aww,” he cooed, grinning widely. “You look so cute like that.”

You tilted your head to the side, returning his grin, coating your fingers in frosting that you ran down his cheek. You took him by surprise, Bucky’s mouth falling open with laughter as he suddenly grabbed your face and licked the tip of your nose.

One afternoon you two went on a walk. The first official day of spring and it wasn’t raining. You warmly welcomed it, the first day in a week that it hadn’t stormed. You pulled Bucky out of bed that Sunday morning, slipping on your shoes, and dragging him out the door. He didn’t protest at all on the way, seeing you so excited to enjoy the spring weather was better than sleeping-in. He’d choose you any day over sleeping.

You two walked hand-in-hand down the path in Central Park, sipping on the coffee you got from Starbucks on the way. You walked around in silence, maybe pointing out the blooming flowers on the side of the path or the budding trees.

He had spent most of the morning looking at you, a smile pulling at his lips as you stopped to stare at everything on the way. He told you he thought it was the first time you’d seen a flower with how excited you were. You’d blushed when he told you that, smiling, but muttering a soft “sorry.” And he grabbed your cheeks in both hands and smooshed his lips against yours.

“Don’t ever be sorry.”

One morning you woke up to him kissing a line down your chest. Your hand found the top of his head, running your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the chestnut strands. “Good morning, baby,” you giggled, his lips now pressing the underside of your breast, continuing downwards.

He hummed into your skin, letting his tongue drag against the soft skin of your stomach, pressing a final kiss to your hip bones. “’Morning,” he murmured, taking a hand between your thighs, spreading them open with ease – as if you’d ever stop him.

He nuzzled his face between your legs, his stubble scratching at your inner thighs. You moaned at that feeling and let out a long breath as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your core.  

And that’s the good stuff. The stuff you’d die for. You tried to think about that stuff often: the memories for which neither of you had a care in the world. It was just the two of you in love. You spent your nights reliving those memories, only the good memories. And it made you laugh, thinking about them, because you then remember all the fights you’d have, too. At that point, they were stupid – revolving around minuscule things, to which the entire subject would be forgotten within an hour. And if you were able to relive even just one happy memory with him, you’d never fight with him again.

We were fighting fires every night when you met me And it’s not fair at all So after everything Why’d you leave me with the good stuff, babe And forget about the mess we made?

It was easy to say that now, hindsight obviously having the benefit of the doubt. You were so deeply in love. He loved you, too – you knew it, you could feel it. But with love, comes hate. With love, comes jealousy.

It happened when he flirted with the waitress. He insisted that he wasn’t flirting; and maybe he wasn’t technically flirting, but the lighthearted comments and witty banter felt different. You didn’t know particularly why it made your blood boil at the time, but it just did. You’d glared at him for the rest of dinner, arms crossed over your chest, leaning back against your chair. He glared right back, obviously aware you were pissed, but rolling his eyes when you told him why.

“I wasn’t flirting with her,” he almost laughed. He couldn’t believe that was the reason you were mad.

Not having a valid argument, you stayed silent, biting the inside of your cheek, mumbling a “whatever.” Maybe it was that fact that he was joking with her so easily. Not only did it take him years to get out of his shell, it took him so damn long to open up to you. The awkward phase lasted almost two months. The two of you barely flirted in the beginning of your relationship. It took work to get him to return to the charismatic, charming boy he was before the war. It was work that you put in. And now he’s going to throw it back in your face by showing it off to some girl.

It happened when someone looked at you too long. It was at the bar; you’d gone along on a double date with Sam and the girl he was seeing. The four of you had lovely banter, and everyone thought the night had gone well until the man at the bar stood three feet away from you. You’d barely paid him any attention, instead joking around with Sam and his girlfriend.

Bucky wasn’t paying attention to the group anymore, instead glaring at the man beside you, staring you up and down. You turned to Bucky to see him staring at the man. And as soon as you turned your head towards the stranger, he met your eyes and flashed a smile at him. You pressed your lips into a tight line, sending him the good ol’ fashioned white person smile (look it up). You felt Bucky’s arm snake around your waist, dropping his hand to rest directly on your ass.

It was nights like those that ended up in arguments on the drive home. The logic didn’t make much sense, it was more of just a yelling match: who could scream the loudest. It was you and him picking pointless arguments about nothing, hollering things at each other that you’d regret in the morning.

Those fights ended up with the slam of the front door, Bucky following you up to your shared bedroom, jutting a hand in the door frame before you could lock him out. He strutted towards you murderously, such that you were backed up against the wall. His hand snaked up to your jaw, firmly tilting it such that you had no choice but to look up at him. “You don’t hate me,” he practically growled after you spat those words to him. You didn’t have anything to say to that. Instead, you dropped your eyes from his straight ahead of you, meeting eye level at his chest. You huffed air through your nose, slightly tilting your jaw, testing his grip. There was no way you could move any muscle in your body. “I’ll show you,” he grunted, pinning your hips to the wall with his.

He lurched your jaw up forward, your neck viciously stretching, not having any more height in you. He met your mouth with a hot, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth. Your hands flew up to his chest, gripping fistfuls of his shirt and pulling his chest somehow closer to yours. His hands raked down your back, grabbing your ass harshly, before hoisting you up off the ground. Before you could even wrap your legs around his waist, he threw you down onto the bed, which felt like it was three stories below you.

You both were quick to undress yourselves as he crawled on top of you, holding your neck firmly as he met your lips for another messy kiss.

Every morning after a round of heated hate-sex, all the emotions from the night before had faded away. The two of you woke up with sorrow filled eyes, purple and red marks littering necks, chest, and thighs. He would reach his hand up to stroke your tangled hair, thumb brushing over your cheekbone as you frowned. “I love you,” you clarified, wishing you could take back your words from last night. As much as you regretted telling him you hated him mid-argument, nothing stopped you. Every single time, nothing stopped you.

“I know, baby, forget about it.”

When we lost one another That’s when I rediscovered My memories in the clouds But no feet on the ground Cause I know I should forget you Why can’t I just regret you? Oh,  wish that my mouth didn’t smile when I think of you

“(Y/N),” your sister coos warmly, sitting on the edge of your half empty bed. “You need to get up.”

You didn’t have anything to say. There was nothing to say. In fact, you’d said too much. If you never told her that Bucky was gone, you wouldn’t have to be sitting here, listening to her drone on about this for the millionth weekend in a row. “I’m not going,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your head was currently stuffed in.

She sighed, standing and slapping her legs against her thighs, startling you. “You need to get out of bed and meet this guy. I already told him I’d bring you for lunch.”

You scoffed. “Well maybe you can just tell him I died or something,” you sigh, rolling on your back and letting your arms and legs starfish onto the bed.

“Don’t say that.” Not like you cared, you hoped that you actually had jinxed yourself. Maybe death would be better than lying in your once shared bed alone. It’s been a year since the last time you saw Bucky – over a year: one year, one month, and sixteen days. You still don’t know what happened. One year, one month, and sixteen days later, and you were still wondering.

That’s probably the worst part. Just because you never got any closure. All in all, you didn’t think you wanted closure. If you’d gotten closure, you’d be over him. You wouldn’t be reliving all the good stuff like you still do every day. Hell, even the bad stuff became good stuff. As much as the jealously sex hurt (hurt emotionally, in a bad way; hurt physically, in a good way), you still couldn’t help but miss it and bite your lip every time you thought about it.

“He’s never coming back to you,” she whispered, probably not intending for it to pierce your heart with the pain of a thousand knives the way that it did. But she was your sister, that’s what she was here for. “You need to move on.”

You still didn’t move. There was no moving on to do. Nobody could make you feel such a rush of emotions as he did. You hated it, the rollercoaster: love to hate to love. You wished that it was all love. But that’s not the way life works.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if you’d never met at all. He made it clear that he would be hard to love. How could he say that, and then love you with such vigor? Its like he said it just to hurt you. But he’d never hurt you – until now. Until he vanished from your life forever; it was an Avengers thing. You could almost roll your eyes thinking about it.

Your mother came over later that week to hit you with the tough love. “What are you going to do, (Y/N), seriously?” You simply ignored her question and continued mixing the sauce you were making for dinner later. “You’re just going to be alone forever?”

You dropped the spoon and turned around to face her, holding your arms out in defeat. “What do you want me to do, mom? Go out and marry some fucking loser just so I’m not alone?” She stared at you with a scowl. “Every day wish that I loved him?”

“You’re so dramatic,” she scoffed. “You don’t know whose out there if you don’t try.”

“Mom, I don’t want to try! Do you understand that?” You were screaming, hopelessly yelling, pleading for her to grasp this concept. As soon as you realized you were yelling, you shut up. God, is this how you sounded when you yelled at Bucky? At least he yelled at you back – your mom just sat there judging you. “Listen,” you huffed, your voice now fifty decibels lower. “I just can’t.”

Oh, I wish that my mouth didn’t smile when I think of you But you left me with the good stuff, babe And I know that it’s a crying shame It’s a million times harder when I don’t hate you When I don’t hate you

“Would you just shut the fuck up!” You yelled at him, shutting the front door behind you. “I wasn’t even looking at the guy.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, before getting heated again. “You were basically eye-fucking him across the room.”

And that’s how it started that fateful night one year, one month, and sixteen days ago. You and Bucky went out for date night, a new restaurant/club uptown. It was swanky, you thought you’d enjoy a fun dinner; maybe drink a little bit, let loose. You’d always loved it when Bucky would put his hands on you in the club; his metal hand would travel up and down your side, while his flesh hand traced along your hip bones and grab your ass. Bucky never had fun like that. He grew up in a time that dancing meant face to face, bodies six inches apart. He wouldn’t dare to drop his hand to a girls backside, let alone grab her ass in the middle of the dancefloor.

Maybe it was the new Bucky – the twenty-first century Bucky, that was a bit of an exhibitionist and voyeur. The two of you didn’t go out a lot, but you knew that this was something he enjoyed every once and a while, and you were more than happy to let him run his hands all over you. He loved that scene, but as soon as anyone else so much as glanced at you, he lost it.

You let out an exaggeratedly loud groan. “Shut up! I barely even looked at him!” You were met with an eyeroll from him. “Even if he was looking at me all night, I can’t help it! What did you want me to do about it? Be like you and beat the shit out of him in the middle of the club?”

That’s what got the two of you kicked out of the club. He dropped his hands off of you, clenching his fists at his sides, and sauntered over to the man. Before the man could say anything – or hold his hands up in defense, even – Bucky nearly broke his jaw. One swift fist to the face and the man was on the floor. You ran over, yanking Bucky’s arm before he could go in for another punch. When the bouncer stepped over, you had no choice but to quietly apologize and leave, dragging a fuming Bucky behind you.

“You say that as if you didn’t enjoy the show.” You swallowed hard and bit your lip. You couldn’t technically lie to him – he knew you’d thought it was hot. Obviously, you could admit you did find it a bit arousing. And you knew Bucky could smell it on you.

“You didn’t have to break his fucking face; you’re the one who wanted to go to the club in the first place.”

“Sure, (Y/N). I don’t even know why you’re defending him, anyway. He was staring at you with his fucking disgusting eyes. If I knew you liked being watched so much, I would’ve suggested we go to the strip club so you could hop on stage.” His deep voice echoed throughout the living room.

“Shut the fuck up, James. I hate you.” With that, you crossed your arms over your chest and stomped your way to the bedroom. You slammed the door, and not a second later, you heard the front door slam the floor below you. That sounds about right. This had been a recent development. Sometimes when you fought, you’d have angry, jealous sex afterwards – it was passionate, painful, and a burning reminder that the two of you belonged together. Other times, when you two said particularly vile things to each other, he left. He stepped out to clear his head. He’d come back in the early hours of the morning (after spending a sleepless few hours in his bed at the Avengers Complex) and spend the rest of the morning having make-up sex, filled with breathy I’m sorry’s and I love you’s; bodies molded together, sharing space, time, and air.

You sat awake in bed, more pissed off than anything else. It wasn’t the worst he’s ever said, to be honest. You knew he was buzzed and pissed off. You’d said worse than that to him, too. But it was routine: fighting, yelling; making up and making love. It was simply what you did.

Not thinking too much more about it, you laid in bed, completely exhausted after the evening you’d just had. This is exactly what happened every time. You shut your eyes for the night.

Bucky didn’t come home the next morning. You woke up to the sun shining in your eyes and the other side of the bed empty. He didn’t come home that afternoon, nor that night. Not the following day, or the day after.

I hate you.

The last thing you said to him.

But I don’t hate you.

And in another life, yeah Do me a favor and try To leave me broken and bitter So moving on’s a little quicker

You shivered from the cool breeze; it was getting late. The sky was darkening, the sun shining on your skin now gone, replaced with cold goosebumps. You picked at the grass blades in front of you, as you sat cross-legged on the frigid, hard ground in silence. It was the first official day of spring, and man, it was unseasonably brisk. You would have to get going soon, they closed at dusk.

You made a pile of pulled up grass in front of you. It had now been officially two years since you last saw Bucky. Since you’d thrown around those nasty words like they were nothing; as if they’d held no weight in the world – that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

You regretted that night everyday for the last seven hundred and thirty days. You felt bad – so bad. It weighed on your heart every second of the day. So much so that you’d grown to hate yourself recently. That’s the only person you should’ve ever hated anyway (or at least said it out loud). You never actually hated him, and you know that he knew that. There was no way he couldn’t know you were just saying it. Saying it with no meaning behind the words.

But you couldn’t change it. You kept thinking about the pain it must have caused him after he left. Maybe you should’ve reached out. It was always you waiting for him to come home. But then again, it was he who decided to leave in the first place.

Since that night, you stayed quiet. You didn’t want to meet anyone new, didn’t want to give your heart to anyone else. Talking to others felt like a chore. It just didn’t have any worth anymore. There was no point in finding someone else because he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be Bucky. After all, there was no one who could rile you up like he did.

You picked up the pile of loose grass and threw it up in the air, watching as the breeze took it away. Just like Bucky – taken away. Right from the tips of your fingers.

You sighed, standing up and wiping the dirt off the back of your jeans. “Hey, Buck,” you whispered, patting the top of his gravestone. “If you can’t love me for forever in our next life, don’t bother. I can’t go through this twice.”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Superpower

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~4,300

Summary: Bucky has an infatuation with The Incredibles that he might be taking too far. It takes some stern words from you to help him figure that out.

Warnings: A bit of angst, but also fluff, too

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and showing so much love to my last fic so much! I hope you all enjoy this one just as much. I like to write based off of little pieces of inspiration, so this time it was a tweet from Dr. Thema on Twitter and a response by Ashley C. Ford. I bolded both quotes since the quote-block format I usually use doesn’t fit right here!

...

“Super-strength is a superpower.”

“I never said it wasn’t. I was saying that you don’t have it.”

Bucky scoffs and folds his arms across his broad chest. In this moment it was hard to tell if he was puffing it out on purpose or if he had been putting in extra reps in the gym. Probably both, you decide. “Please, (Y/N), we just watched The Incredibles. We both know that I am literally Mr. Incredible.”

You couldn’t stifle your laugh. Two months ago, Bucky decided to catch up on all the movies he missed over the past seventy years. It took years to finally understand the internet, modern technology, and Wi-Fi (to be fair, you still aren’t exactly sure how that last one works, but you got the point across just fine). While Bucky had seen the basic movies: classic, old-timey movies, it was time to focus on the more enjoyable movies: kid movies. You watched Wall-E, making sure to explain the implications of that movie, Up, obviously you both cried, and Lilo & Stitch, an underrated classic.

Last night, in preparation for this mission, you’d insisted in watching The Incredibles. You thought it would hype him up for the tropical mission Steve was bringing him (and Sam) along on. And boy oh boy you were spot on. It had been twelve hours of nonstop Incredibles talk.

The night before, you two were snuggled up on the couch, mountains of blankets on top of you, bowls of popcorn and candy littered around you. Bucky’s arm slid around your back and you used the crook of his shoulder as a pillow. “What is going on here,” Bucky muttered to himself, squinting at the screen as the beginning of the movie started, Mr. Incredible fumbling around with his microphone.

You grinned in anticipation, wrapping your arms around his torso, pulling yourself closer to him. “Isn’t it so cute?” You said into his chest.

Bucky shoves his mouth full of popcorn, laughing loudly at Frozen talking about babes and Mr. Incredible ranting about the world in jeopardy. You didn’t think that he’d be laughing this much already (you know it’s a cinematic masterpiece, but still); maybe this movie was just that relatable. Although you were just a desk jockey in the Avengers tower, you knew they were always off saving the world and sacrificing themselves to do so.

It was safe to say that Bucky clearly enjoyed the movie – it just felt so realistic to him. The next morning, he spent breakfast rambling on about the fact that Syndrome literally lived in a volcano; how could Mr. Incredible not know? Tony brought up the point that Hydra set up camp in the exact opposite climate, so Bucky should cut the animators some slack. Bucky was not having it. “Aren’t you technically Edna Mode?” He rhetorically asked Tony with a deadpan stare.

Tony scoffed, holding a hand over his heart to feign hurt, before returning the glare to Bucky. “Remind me to talk to you about your hobo suit later.” With that, he left the kitchen, strutting down the hall, followed with him yelling: “no capes!” as Thor walked past him, the god raising his eyebrows in confusion.

Later that night, Bucky had to leave for a mission. You’d spent the afternoon in Bucky’s bed with each other, holding one another close; and where you tried to have some light pillowtalk, it ended up being about The Incredibles II after he got back. The two of you ended up in the shower to wash off the afternoon workout. While you were wrapped up in a robe, brushing your post-shower hair in the mirror, Bucky popped up behind you with just a towel around his waist. “Honey, have you seen my super-suit?” You could only roll your eyes and smile in response.

…

“Well if you’re Mr. Incredible, then I’m Mrs. Incredible.” You took a step closer to him, closing the space between you such that your chests are touching.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, dangerously close to the hem of your jeans. “I know,” he smiled, leaning forward to give you a kiss. “Those moves earlier? You’re even more flexible than her.”

“Cut it out, lovebirds,” Sam interrupted, his tone playful. “We don’t need a live show.”

Bucky drops his hands and leads you towards the hangar to where the jet was waiting. “All I’m saying is that I could definitely lift one of those train cars like he does. I could do more than one – ” he cuts himself off, stopping in his tracks. “(Y/N), I could juggle them.”

“Sure,” you hum, hooking your arm around his back and leaning into his side. “Although, when you think about it, you might be more of a cyborg than Mr. Incredibles, y’know?”

He groans, dropping his head and shutting his eyes. “But I don’t wanna be a cyborg.”

“We’ll watch Teen Titans then see how you feel.”

“Teen what?” He turned to stare blankly at you.

“Forget it, I’ll show you when you get back.” You smiled warmly up at him before he pulled you into a bear hug.

He kissed the top of your head and murmured “I love you” before pulling away.

“Love you, too, baby,” you responded softly. You sent him away with Steve and Sam, telling all of them to be safe before watching the jet take off.

With a sigh, you turned on your heel, seeing yourself out of the compound, heading back to your apartment. The streets of New York were busy despite the cold weather outside. Early November had its benefits: the streets were lined with orange, red, and brown as the trees were ready to shed their summer colors; but it also had its drawbacks: the streets were cold, and you could see your breath outside. You pulled your jacket tighter around you, pulling the collar closer around your exposed neck. If Bucky were here you already know he would’ve wrapped you up in his own coat to keep you warm, he would’ve held your hands in his own warm ones and nuzzled his nose against your own red nose. He was actually very sappy, when it came down to it. He was a sucker for you – constantly having to have his hands on you, make sure you were always warm.

You finished the thirty-minute walk to your apartment, taking your time to appreciate the fall scenery around you, glancing at all the Thanksgiving-soon-to-be-Christmas window displays, and enjoying the pumpkin scents around every corner. Pushing your door open, you were met with the warm heat and smell of the chrysanthemums Bucky had given you earlier that week. You tossed your keys to the side, shrugged your jacket off, and made a big mugful of hot chocolate.

You plopped down by the window and leaned your head on the glass, letting the steam from your drink warm your cheeks. You’d wondered in that moment where Bucky would be going exactly. He did mention it would be a tropical/forest vibe; the only thing you knew about that is that it’d be humid. Although you knew of Bucky’s disdain for cold, he wasn’t much of a fan of heat, either. He was much more of an autumn guy. You made a mental note to go for a walk through Central Park with him when he gets back.

He’d been gone for six days. Today was Thursday and you’d been stuck at your desk all morning. It hurt a little bit to have to walk to the Avenger’s Tower everyday without Bucky meeting you at the door (or Bucky walking with you to work, having spent the night before at your place) but you had to make do – paperwork needed to be completed.

Your eyes were aching from staring at your computer screen and your hand was cramping from all the scribbling you’ve been doing all day. The alternative was a coffee break in the café on the first floor – and you know what? Anything sounded better than work at the moment. You pop a post-it note on the door telling anyone looking for you that you’ll be back in ten. You make it to the elevator and straighten out your skirt as you stare at yourself in the reflection of the doors. Skirt a little wrinkled – nothing you can’t fix quickly in the elevator – button up shirt tucked in smartly, heels that made your feet ache, reading glasses that usually sit perched on your nose now shifted to sit on the top of your head, keeping your hair away from your face.

Despite how put-together you may look, you were exhausted and quite frankly, defeated. Not only was work kicking your ass lately but combined with the fact that Bucky was gone, and you hadn’t heard from him nearly wrecked you. Normally, he’d not take more than a day or two to reach out: a call or text simply to say he’s okay. You had to tell yourself that there was terrible reception wherever he was. That was going well for you, until you ran into Wanda one day on the elevator.

“Hey, (Y/N),” she greeted kindly, smiling wide as you entered the elevator next to her.

“Hi, Wanda, how have you been?” You responded. You’ve hung out with the Avengers at times. Usually your time with Bucky consisted of just the two of you, but sometimes you got the go-ahead to join their events and movie nights. Everyone welcomed you with open arms because not only was your personality so winning, but also you were the girl that brought Bucky out of his shell – in Sam’s words: “you made him sociable.”

“Good! It’s been busy around the complex, I’m sure you know already.” You’re not sure if she’s saying that because she’s aware of the pile of paperwork you’ve been working on for ages or if she can feel exhaustion radiating off your body.

“Yeah, you guys have given me a whole lot of paperwork,” you say, trying to give a hearty chuckle before awkwardly scratching the back of your neck.

She nods and hums in response. “The boys have been busy,” she responds casually.

You bite your lip before taking a deep breath and nodding in affirmation. “I haven’t heard from Bucky lately, so I’d imagine so.”

She shrugs – again so casually. Can she not feel the fact you’re about to freak out right now? “Actually, nobody’s heard from any of them.” How did she just end that sentence like that? Nobody’s heard from them. Not with any of this trillion-dollar equipment – it can’t connect them one continent away? She senses your panic; there’s a change in your breathing and you eyes go wide, staring now directly at the floor. “(Y/N), no. I mean – they’re fine. Just because they haven’t said anything doesn’t mean – ”

The elevator dings and opens to your floor. You politely hold up your hand to her and smile. “I get what you’re saying, Wanda. Thanks for keeping me updated.” You shuffle out the door, calling out for her to have a good day.

You make it back to your office and don’t even try to stifle your loud sigh as you plop into your chair. Fuck.

…

So, it was sufficed to say you hadn’t slept very well since that interaction. It’s been three nights since she’s told you they were basically M.I.A.; you spent your nights rolling around in bed, holding his pillow to your chest, constantly checking your phone for any kind of notification from Bucky. Without hearing from him, you didn’t know how long he’d be gone; without hearing from him, you didn’t know if he was even okay. Screw your sleeping schedule, you just needed to make sure he was even alive.

You make your way back to your office, taking a sip of the piping hot coffee and as you swing the corner you hit a brick wall.

And there was a brick wall standing in the middle of the hallway.

You gaze up at the man, blue eyes staring directly into your own. He’s breathing a little fast, especially for someone who had been standing in front of your office door, staring at the post-it note for quite some time. His hands were shoved in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched – he was nervous; something was wrong.

Very wrong.

It wasn’t even until his hand reached out to you, stopping in mid-air in front of your shirt before you noticed the coffee that spilt down the front of your shirt. It was warm, sure, but your racing heart took precedence over the splash of liquid that coated your black shirt. “Sorry, (Y/N), I – ”

“It’s fine. When did you get back?” You don’t care about the coffee; you barely even felt it. You shifted the weight between your feet, squeezing the coffee cup in your hand. Why were you so nervous? There was so much tension in the air. Just staring at him as he waited patiently for you to return from your coffee run. Neither of you knowing what to say. Its like you were strangers.

He runs a hand through his hair, huffing out a deep breath. He was actually still in uniform; you didn’t notice until you asked that question. His face was grimy, slick with sweat and remnants of mud and maybe even some flecks of blood if you squint. He then scratched at the stubble gracing his chin. “Just now.” He still can’t breathe. How was he supposed to tell you? You were certainly going to kill him when you found out.

He didn’t know what to say. He was thinking about this the whole plane ride home, the whole walk to your office, the whole ten agonizingly long minutes he’d spent waiting outside your office. But now, looking into your curiously wide eyes, glazed over with concern – you were basically paralyzed in fear; if it weren’t for your incessant shifting. It was almost driving him crazy to look at someone who is about to jump out of their skin with fear, yet unsure of what move to make or what to say. “Where is he?”

And Steve swallowed hard. “He’s okay.” You stared straight into his soul. “Well, he’s – ”

“Steve.”

“He’s alive. He got shot. A couple times.” Each fragment that left his mouth was punctuated by the prompt shutting of his mouth. It was important to him to stop himself from saying too much. Your mouth actually dropped open. There was nothing left for you to say, but your jaw dropped. He reached out and took hold of your arms in his hands. “He’s alive,” he repeated, the words not resonating in your brain (and he could see that). “He’s in med-bay. (Y/N), he is fine.” He didn’t think he could be any clearer.

Nothing made sense. You felt as though you were asked to complete a 100-piece puzzle with only three-pieces. You were struggling to comprehend anything that came out of Steve’s mouth. Instead, you sharply turned on your heel. You were calm – this cannot be emphasized enough – you walked with your shoulders pulled back and gaze straight ahead; but you weren’t looking at anything, simply following your own muscle memory on your way to the med-bay.

Steve chased after you – he walked behind you, taking long strides as to not overtake you. He kept saying your name, telling you to calm down, but you already were. Except your heart was thumping out of your chest. You couldn’t even form any more questions for Steve. Obviously: “where was he shot” was a glaring question, “how close to death was he” is another; you can’t even put those words together right now.

You shove open the doors to med-bay, blatant disregard for the coffee still in your hand, splashing now-tepid liquid again on your shirt and sleeve. That’s when you see him: sprawled out on a cot that’s too small for him; his boots hung off the end of the bed, dry mud caked to the bottom of his heavy boots, flaking onto the floor. As soon as you’d shoved the door open, Steve following you in toe, Bucky’s head lifted towards you. He actually grinned.

You’d nearly fainted. His face was littered with cuts and scrapes, dirt around each wound scrubbed away by the doctor then coated in slick, clear antibiotic. His shirt was long gone, leaving him in his combat boots still riddled with weapons (visibly and concealed, you could only assume) and his dirty boots. His chest was completely bandaged; he was grateful you’d walked in after he’d already been covered because he knew that he’d be hearing an earful from you if you’d actually been able to see the damage. This way, you’d only be able to see the wounds to change the dressing probably hours from now. His body would be nearly healed.

“James.” It was stern. You weren’t mad, per say; you couldn’t be mad – you were glad he was even alive. You didn’t know why your tone was so harsh; you were pissed that he was shot, probably due to some heroic act of saving one of his teammates, or maybe he was just being careless? You didn’t know and you didn’t want to find out – they’d never tell you which it was, anyway.

“Hey, doll,” he says casually, already trying to schmooze his way back on your good side.

“James.” This time you breathed his name, finally getting close enough to put your hands on his chest – fingertips ghosting off the edge of the gauze, where the bandage met his collarbone. He took both your hands in his, pulling them together and placing them tenderly over his heart. There must have been six layers of gauze over him – not a speck of dirt or blood poking through.

“Baby, look at me,” he whispered. You flicked your eyes up to his worried ones. His eyebrows were drawn together, mouth pressed into a firm line. “I’m fine.”

“James,” you sobbed, tears that were once held at bay now falling freely down your cheeks and falling onto his pants. You choked back any more words, nodding furiously as you found it hard to breath. He pulled your arms and yanked you to the bed and now you were sitting beside him, his hands now cupping the back of your neck, cradling your head against where his neck meets his collarbone. He cooed softly into your hair, whispering sweet nothings as he rubbed your back up and down.

“I’m okay,” he murmured. And all you could do was nod against his skin, crying more and more as he pressed each kiss onto your head.

It was probably ten minutes of crying before you calmed down, now laying against him in silence, your eyes shut resting against his shoulder. “You know,” he whispered, pulling you from silence. “I always love seeing you in your work clothes. All smart and sexy.” You couldn’t help but breathe out a laugh, snuggling further into him. “But you smell like coffee.”

…

Bucky was barred from missions for three months. And while he was physically healed within a week and a half, Steve wasn’t so sure about his mental state – and you weren’t so sure either. Actually, it had been a more than pleasant three months. He started off doing physical therapy once a day, then adding in workouts and phasing out the therapy. This occupied maybe four hours per day. That meant that the rest of his free time he spent in your office, at your apartment, and in your bed.

That would be fine with you if you could confidently say that Bucky was one hundred percent okay.

Most of the time, he’d spend all day next to you being a total chatterbox – actually, he any willing conversation he had would be about the book you were reading, that one episode of friends the two of you watched last night, rambling on remodels of his place and if he should paint his dresser. It was the unwilling conversations that he had that concerned you.

The words he’d mumble to himself as he rolled around in your bed having a nightmare. Every time, you’d spend five minutes trying to wake him up. At first you started out by nudging him awake, it developed to the state that now you had to fully grab his arm and shake him wildly to get him up. You’d sit there, pulling your hands through his hair, whispering sweet nothings until he calmed down. Every time, you’d ask him if he wanted to talk about it; he’d say now. You then asked him to tell you – you pleaded for him to let you into that side of his life. You begged to understand and cried for him – with him.

It was no different tonight.

If he wouldn’t talk, then you would. “Baby, you can’t keep doing this.” He sat up in bed, sheets twisted around his legs, leaning over with his back pressed into the iron-rung headboard. It was cool against his hot skin – the only thing making it semibearable as the bars pressed into the tight muscles in his back. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s not good for you.”

He didn’t say anything. He stared straight in front of him, his hands clasped over one another on his lap. You held one of his forearms in both hands, dragging your fingers in light patterns softly over his skin. You continue pleading with him: “you can tell me anything. Please, I hope you understand that.”

With this, he peers up at you with sorrow filled eyes. You can barely see them in the dark. “I know I can. It’s not a big deal, though. Nothing for you to worry about.”

You drop his arm in frustration, instead bringing your hands up to your hair and gripping it tightly, feeling like pulling your hair out might be a better option than bringing this conversation where it needs to go. “You have these nightmares every night, James. It’s only getting worse. I can tell that you’re hurting, and it hurts me to see you like that. No matter how much you don’t want to admit it, I can see that somethings wrong.”

He shrugs. “I can take it. Look, I’m sorry if I keep waking you up. I won’t stay over anymore.” He turns his head sheepishly towards his lap again, shoulders hunching forward. You know he thinks it’s a joke; he’s putting on an act. He wants you to curl up to his side, beg him to stay, make-out, have sex to take his mind off it, and fall asleep peacefully. You know because you’ve done it before. Multiple times.

God, he can be so annoying. “James.” Your stern tone had returned, you dropped your hands out of your hair and let them fall heavily on your lap. “A history of trauma can give you a high tolerance for emotional pain. Just because you can take it doesn’t mean you have to.”

He wasn’t sure what to do in that moment. There was nothing to say – nothing he could say. There wasn’t anything he could follow that up with; not a joke, not a sound, not even an intelligent sentence. He instead stared down at his hands, not even moving a muscle, not even to blink.

You were calm once again. You knew that your words had finally gotten through to him. Your relationship was strong: you’d built an emotional connection such that you two could be in the middle of the most serious discussions and still be able to crack a joke. But the both of you knew this wasn’t the time. That’s why he still hadn’t said anything: he didn’t have a smartass response, nor a comment he could make to get out of this one.

“Suffering is not a superpower.”

And with those final words, Bucky broke, his face contorting in pain, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling into an open frown. His shoulders shook slowly as he struggled to breath, holding his face in his hands. You couldn’t sit idly by, so you grabbed his hands and swung a leg over him, sitting on his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist so he had something to hold on to; his arms wrapped tighter around you as his head dropped to the front of your chest, quietly sobbing into your shirt. You secured your arms around him, looping them over his shoulders and around his neck.

You sat there absorbing his tears, not saying a word, not even whispering a small “shh.” It was about time he let his emotions out and you weren’t about to cut him off now. You’d spent every waking moment with him (save for his workouts and physical therapy) so you knew how long this emotional release had been building up inside of him. Every once and a while everyone needs a good cry – Bucky hadn’t had one in years.

You didn’t know how long the two of you sat there. His sobs turned into quiet sniffles turned into calm, steady breathing. You knew this conversation was far from over. He needed therapy, or at the least needed to vent to you more often. Whatever solution you two would come up with could wait until the morning. Right now, he needed rest, he needed tranquility.

You didn’t know if he was asleep, and hell, you, yourself, were almost asleep. It wasn’t until he broke the silence when you got your answer. “Can we watch The Incredibles II?”

[quarantined-with-bucky]

I Was Good To You

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 4,000 (lol sorry)

Summary: You were good to Bucky

Warnings: Angst

A/N: I really love the song “you were good to me” by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler (actually they have a lot of good songs, together and separately). But I felt like this song needs to be read from the opposite perspective literally every time I hear it, hence this fic. It’s a little different than what I have written so far, so I hope you still enjoy it! I put some of the original lyrics in the fic as quote-block format; it’s mostly in the reader’s POV and I’m sorry in advance for having to do Bucky like this – it just fits the song.

...

It was a fairly new relationship. And while you and he were both equally cautious about taking said new relationship too fast, it couldn’t be helped that the two of you were inseparable. From the day you met, he had been invested in you – your life. He claims it was because he was frozen for so long; because he didn’t know how to live “normally” in the twenty-first century. He went from World War II to Hydra to today. While that made perfect sense to you, a part of you always wondered if it was something more. Sure, Bucky had never had the chance to (and likely will never the chance to) live mundanely. He won’t ever work a 9 to 5 job, he won’t spend nights cooking and washing dishes, he won’t be doing lawn maintenance, working on a dingey car, or grocery shopping (and then forgetting your grocery list at home). You thought that he may have attached himself so quickly to you so he could partly experience the normalcy of civilian life. Not that you were complaining.

He often spent nights at your house, sleeping in your too-small bed, sitting on your countertop, and lounging on your loveseat. Waking up next to him was heaven. If you weren’t securely wrapped in his arms, head laying on his bulky torso, then he was using your chest as a pillow, the weight of him almost making it impossible to breathe. But that extra weight was calming; he may have even been the weighted blanket that has been sitting in your Amazon cart for well over four months. You’d wake up from an uninterrupted night of bliss, fingers running through his long hair, Bucky refusing to get up until you promised pancakes.

But then, three months into it, he left. Its not like he had a choice, you reminded yourself, its his job. And you were well aware of it – he made you aware of it. He told you he would be gone for three weeks. And that’s fine; you could spare less than a month of your life for the good of the rest of the world? It felt almost selfish to think that way. He wasn’t yours; he had to save the world, he belonged to the world – to himself.

So, you tried to keep yourself busy to distract yourself. But there really wasn’t much to do; hobbies you once enjoyed felt exhaustive and boring. The issue is you used to do everything with him: eat, work, eat, shower, sleep. Now it’s eat alone, work alone, eat alone, shower alone, sleep alone; each task a glaring reminder how desolate it was.

Floating, but I feel like I’m dying

Your routine felt like nothing – it just felt empty, the way that it lacked conversation, playfulness, fun, it lacked him. Nothing, in fact, felt real. You walked around the neighborhood and it felt like a fever dream, like you were gliding along the sidewalks. Not a single thought roamed through your mind, just the absence of what used to be. The days always went by painstakingly slow, but every Friday night you wondered how the week had gone by so quickly.

Your friends invited you out on the weekend, and while you mostly said no, they made sure to drag you out a couple times. The company was honestly welcome, it just felt like an empty effort to get dressed up and go to the bar when you really would rather be there (or home – in bed) with someone else. But by the time your friends got you in a routine to go out, Bucky came back home to you.

Months went by while the two of you were attached at the hip, smiles never leaving either of your mouths.

You woke up one morning to a heavy figure sprawled across half of your naked body. Yawning and trying your best to inhale a breath with his chest laying directly on top of yours, you flexed your arms and legs straight out, cracking a few joints that had been overused just a few hours ago. Bucky’s eyes popped open, his blue iris’s peering into your own. He rubbed an eye-booger away with the palm of his hand and started off the morning with “I have to leave tonight.”

You were confused and you knew he could read it on your face. “No good morning?” You joked haphazardly, trying your best not to blurt out every thought racing across your mind at that moment – the main one being what the fuck?

“’M sorry, baby,” he mumbled, still half asleep, pushing his face into the corner of your neck, planting a wet kiss to your shoulder, then your collarbone, then your jaw.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone for?” Your fingers traced up and down his back, nicking on the scratches you left last night; nearly healed but you knew they were there.

He hummed and lifted his head to press a kiss to your lips. “Couple weeks.” Another kiss. “I’m not sure.” That being said, you didn’t bring it up again. It was better to spend the day binging pancakes and watching movies in bed than discussing it any further.

I know it’s easier to run

After everything I’ve done

It was finally time for him to leave. After all your distraction kisses didn’t work. As soon as the clock hit 8:00 pm, he stood, despite you feigning sleep beside him. He leaned over you on the bed and held a head to your cheek, then pushed the hair from your face. You opened your eyes, holding his hand in yours. He stood there for a moment that felt like an eternity, just watching each other with sad eyes. “I wish I could stay,” he murmured.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. As he straightened back up, you stood next to him, pulling a shirt on and following him to the door. After opening the door, he cupped your face with both his hands and pulled you close to him. “See you soon, okay, doll?” If this was his best reassurance tactic, it wasn’t very good. You met his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss, tongues swiping over each other, exchanging the words you couldn’t find earlier. Slowly, he kissed you back, releasing a long breath as he pulled away.

And then you did it.

“I love you.”

And then you regretted it.

He stared back at you, eyes scanning over the whole of your face: faltering smile, eyebrows drawn together, eyes suddenly glazed with worry.

“Goodbye, (Y/N).”

He turned and shut the door without looking back or saying another word. He really left. He really ran away.

Tears welled up into your eyes. Like that morning, the only thought you could process: what the fuck? albeit, this time, it was a little angrier than before. What did that mean? You immediately assumed he was done with you. But the more you laid on your bed, sobbing your eyes out into your pillow, the more that didn’t make sense. There’s no way he wanted to breakup with you – he was so happy before he left. Maybe he just didn’t love you? Maybe he loved you but he just wasn’t ready to say it? And honestly, knowing Bucky, it was most likely the last option. He enjoyed spending every waking moment with you doing the most absolute boring tasks; you don’t just suffer like that if you don’t love that person.

Then again, despite agreeing to take this relationship slow, he surely did not have a problem basically moving into your house and sleeping with you (which you would’ve assumed to be a much greater step than saying “I love you,” considering he was from 1917 where usually the order is reversed).

All that worrying seemed to be in vain. He returned to you no later than 13 days after.

You pulled open to your front door only to find a sheepish-looking Bucky on the other side. His hands were tucked into his pockets, shoulders shrugged unusually high as he stared directly at the ground. But as soon as that door swung open and he saw you standing bewildered on the other side, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you off the ground against his chest. He hummed softly into your collarbone, “I missed you.”

And suddenly your heart began beating out of your chest. You hands found his hair and you gently untangled the knots, while you shut your eyes and breathed in his earthy scent. So, you’d been right: Bucky was just weird. You didn’t want to relive that scene from two weeks ago, instead opting to relax in his arms. “I missed you, too.”

Growing, but I’m just growing tired

Now I’m worried for my soul

And I’m still scared of growing old

As time went on, him leaving became more frequent. You couldn’t help the fact that they were getting a lot of new leads. Honestly, you couldn’t be more grateful to have Bucky. Not only is he the light of your life, but invariantly the same for everyone else in the world. His job was to protect people and you couldn’t imagine the world if he wasn’t off doing what he did so well. But they became more frequent and longer. Lately, it had felt like the two of you had spent more time apart than together.

Laying on the couch, his cheek resting atop of your chest, his torso and hips nestled between your legs, you broke the calm silence. “So next Friday’s my birthday,” you mumbled.

He chuckles in response, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “Is this your way of reminding me to get you a gift? Because don’t worry, doll, I already got you something.” He winked and set his cheek back to his original position, softly shutting his eyes as you curled a lock of his hair around your finger.

“No,” you giggle back, rolling your eyes to yourself. “I want to take a trip. I think we should get away for the weekend.” You released the strand of hair, instead running your hand over the back of his neck. “What do you think?”

He sits up immediately, no disregard for your hands, and shakes his head. “(Y/N), you know that I can’t. What if they need me and I’m not here?”

You bite your lip, quickly searching for something to say. And what you blurt out actually happens to be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. “Aren’t there like a million Avengers? I think you can take one weekend off.”

Now he rolls his eyes and scoffs. “(Y/N), you can’t be serious. You know it doesn’t work like that.” And at this point, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the Avengers not working like that or if your relationship doesn’t work like that – after all, he still never said “I love you” back. Not when he came home that time, not when he left for the next mission, not for your one-year anniversary, and not after the fact he realized that date occurred while he was away on work.

“I know, but – ”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, his tone harsh. “But no.” The way his jaw sets and eyes narrow at you doesn’t make you think he’s very sorry.

Staring back at him, you nod, getting up from the couch before he can see the tears well up in your eyes (for the record, he saw them). “I’m tired, Buck. Goodnight.” And with that, you scurried off to your bedroom. You locked the door and fell onto the bed, silently letting the tears fall down your cheeks. You buried your face into your pillow, throwing his against the wall, the smell of your bed – that smelled like him – pissing you off beyond belief.

Was this going to be your life? Constantly leaving, never saying “I love you” when everything he does clearly shows that he’s in love with you. There as a point in your life when you thought men were confusing. But, damn, James Barnes is a whole new story.

He clearly got the message that he’d be sleeping on the couch that night. He didn’t disturb you for the rest of the night – he didn’t even try. Could he hear you sobbing in your room? You could only assume yes. But that clearly didn’t make a difference to him.

But that’s okay. You’ve learned how to console yourself, how to calm yourself down during a panic attack, how to make the tears stop on your own.

That would become your reality. Would that be your future? Bucky talked about the future – quite a lot, actually, especially for being the one who won’t say “I love you.” He wanted to settle down, he wanted the future that was taken away from him years ago: to eventually settle down, raise little babies, grow old with you. He surely liked to talk about it, but never show it. There had to be some way he could ask Steve to take a weekend off. If he was reluctant to do it now, would he ever? Or would you just live in the shadows of his life, tying down the house alone, raising babies alone, growing old alone.

The next morning, you woke up to Bucky next to you in bed. He stroked your hair until you opened your eyes (that you could only assumed were swollen and red). He had apologized for the night before, pleaded for you to understand, and even gave you your birthday gift early. While you decided to forgive him, for the sake of the universe, you still couldn’t bury the hatchet completely. You weren’t going to show it, but what you were thinking about was important, and dammit you were justified in asking yourself those questions. (Even more justified to ask him those questions, but it was just never the right time).

And I’m so used to letting go

But I don’t want to be alone

One day, months later, your grandfather had passed away. It came as quite a shock, and it took you a few hours to even process the fact that he was gone. You’d been through countless calls with other family members and friends checking in on you. And while everyone meant well, every call resulted with you in a rush to hang-up, falling into a fit of sobs as you ended each call.

He had basically raised you since you were born and the fact that he had been ripped away from you so suddenly had burned you even more. Despite how sad you were, however, you had to be glad that you were able to fall apart in Bucky’s arms. Holding you tightly, reassuring you yet never telling you you’re overreacting. As someone who had been around loss his whole life, he definitely understood and thought it best to let you express your feelings earnestly.

That’s why, when Steve Rogers called his phone later that night, you couldn’t help but express your feelings very earnestly.

“Bucky, no, you’re not going.” You were sitting up in bed, in the middle of the night, darkness swallowing the room as Bucky stood to dress, not even bothering to turn on the lamp beside him.

“(Y/N), I have to. Please, don’t make this hard, baby.” His hand reached out to touch your cheek if only for a moment before he continued to dress and gather his things.

Tears fell down your cheeks freely, your voice coming out cracked as you begged him once more. It might have been pitiful, from his eyes, you’d assume. You were only one step away from looking like a sobbing toddler making grabby hands at her favorite toy. “Please, Bucky. You can’t leave me alone right now.” A sob rips through your throat and you nearly scream. “I’m always alone. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You’d done the research: there were at least 12 Avengers nowadays. You didn’t know who was in what galaxy, but you were positive that one of them could take his place. Its not like he even really had superpowers. He was basically an enhanced man – plus they already had one of those? Surely, he could be spared this time around.

He shakes his head but sits down to pull you in his arms. “Baby, please. You can’t do this to me.”

And it takes everything in your whole being to not scoff. Do this to him? What exactly are you doing to him? Oh, just something he does to you on the weekly basis. You swallow your tears and shove him away. You don’t know what made you pull a complete 180, but it did finally feel good to get some things off your chest that had been plaguing your mind recently. “You always leave. I’m used to it.”

He opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. He watches you pull the covers over yourself and turn away from him. He closes his mouth and leaves the room.

God only knows where our fears go

Hearts I’ve broke, now my tears flow

You’ll see that I’m sorry

Cause you were good to me

It was the post-mission jitters. The remnants of the adrenaline from earlier that day still coursed through his veins as he paced back and forth around the jet, eagerly anticipating his return to you.

“What’s up yours?” Sam asks, eyes narrowed at Bucky, clearly in confusion but also in annoyance.

Bucky stops in his tracks, eyes wide, feeling as though he had been invisible for the whole plane ride. He shrugs, and as Sam raises an eyebrow, he offers an explanation: “I’ve gotta see (Y/N).”

A grin breaks out on Sam’s face. He falls back in his chair, throws a hand over his heart and pretends to faint. “Oh, you have to see your lover. I’m Bucky, I’m so in love,” he mimics in a high-pitched voice.

Where Bucky normally would threaten to beat Sam to within an inch of his life, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He stood, staring at Sam’s hideous imitation of himself – he swears his heart stopped beating. “Yes, exactly.”

Sam chokes and stutters a “what?” before Steve interrupts them from the cockpit.

“We’re landing, guys. Buck, grab a seat.” So, Bucky does exactly what he’s told, plopping himself into the seat across from Sam, ignoring all the questions and comments from the man across from him.

God, he mentally kicks himself. It’s been almost two years. Two years you let him treat you like that. Now, while Bucky doesn’t think he’s done anything outwardly wrong and had obviously never purposely tried to hurt you, maybe he could’ve been a little better regarding work. Maybe he could’ve taken that weekend off with you.

You really consumed his whole life. His thoughts were constantly about you (mostly sweet and innocent, sometimes dirty), he constantly wanted to be by you, talking, laughing, touching.

He made up his mind before the plane even lands. The last mission is over, and new – personal – one begins.

He leaves the complex, stopping by the florist to buy the biggest bouquet of roses he can get his hands on. A grin is itching at his mouth as he anticipates your reaction during the rest of his drive. His heart is racing – in a good way. In a way he hasn’t felt in, well, forever. His confidence is at an all-time high as he’s never felt surer of himself in his life.

He’s already planned it out. You’ll open the door and he’ll scoop you up in his arms, hand you the flowers, and finally say “I love you.” He doesn’t know what took him so long anyway.

And now I’m closing every door

Cause I’m sick of wanting more

You know he didn’t get to decide when he left and for how long he’d be gone.

But he did get to decide his priorities. And honestly, you weren’t even sure if you were one of them anymore.

You were torn because you know how much his work means to him. Not only was it his calling, but it was something he thought was important to use his good work as a means to make up for all the bad things he’s done in the past. And while you’ve told him multiple times that that’s definitely not how it works, nothing will change his logic. So, you’ve stood by him; if it was important to him, it was important to you. Of course, you wanted to see your boyfriend exceed, feel fulfilled.

Now, you were just tired of seeing Bucky like that when it cost you everything. He was your everything. You had a job, yes, a home, a family. But the one person you were supposed to be with – actually be with – didn’t value you the same as his job. And thinking that to yourself just has to be the worst, most necessary wake-up call you need.

That was all you needed. You sat at your desk with a pen and a piece of paper. You couldn’t even think of an opening line for about two hours. Sitting there, chewing the inside of your cheek, you wrote countless paragraphs, scrapping some, keeping others, adjusting sentences, trying not to sound too mean – then having to start over because your teardrops fell onto the paper and smudged the ink.

All in all, it took you two days to write him the note – note turned letter. You folded it in three, left it on his pillow. As you placed it down, you broke out in tears. Falling to your knees, you shoved your face into the mattress, wailing into the sheets one last time. It remarkably still smelled of Bucky’s soap; probably just god handing you one more gut-wrenching blow.

You’d spent the night on the couch, unable to bear the sight of that letter or the smell of those blankets. The next morning, you tried to keep your head as clear as possible. No breakfast (no more pancakes with Bucky), no music (no reminders of your song), no phone (no messages from Bucky). It was time to leave. Time to leave this house, this life, this relationship. You’d quickly shoved a few bags full of clothes and necessities and threw them in the back of your car, not looking back. Just like he did after you’d told him you loved him.

Swear I’m different than before

I won’t hurt you anymore

Cause you were good to me

He practically skips up the steps. Knocking first, he rocks up and down on his tip-toes unable to contain his excitement anymore. Not getting an immediate response, he knocks again.

It would make sense that you weren’t home if it was work hours, but it was 7:00 pm. Bucky was thrown-off; you’d be at home eating dinner right now. Chalking it off to maybe you were in the bathtub, he digs around in his pocket for the key. Pushing the door open, he cautiously looks around the kitchen, then the dining room and living room, unable to find you. The bathroom was empty, and you hadn’t responded to him calling your name, echoing throughout the house.

He pulled out his phone while carefully kicking the bedroom door open with his foot. Straight to voicemail. Voicemailbox full. He tosses the roses beside him on the bed and sits on the edge, nearly ready to go searching again before a piece of paper catches his eye.

His heart drops.

It sinks.

There’s not a time in his whole one-hundred-year existence that he’d felt this much anticipation and fear.

He grabs the letter with shaking hands, carefully unfolding it and his eyes are fixated on the date you’d scribbled at the top of the page. Two months ago.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Poetry

Thanks for reading!! It means so much to me! Feel free to reach out for anything! The poem is not mine!

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 2,200

Summary: You find ancient poetry interesting. Bucky finds you interesting.

Warnings: Maybe angst but not really?

A/N: I found this poem on tumblr years ago so I don’t know the source but if you do please reach out!

...

Studying Ancient Greece and Rome had obviously been around since – well, since they were around, you supposed. The philosophy itself had always been intriguing to you: from Plato and Aristotle to Cicero and Marcus Aurelius. Its fascinating to know that these philosophers had originated some of the most widely accepted yet widely debated topic of mankind – or, at least they wrote them down first. And while Homer, Ovid, and Virgil may not be the easiest publications to read, you couldn’t help but immerse yourself in these works as if only to understand why they’re so popular and important.

You wouldn’t necessarily call yourself a nerd, despite what Sam Wilson might playfully argue, but you did enjoy the occasional novel or documentary; that’s what drew James Barnes to you in the first place. Maybe it was the fact you were an absolute sponge for information. It didn’t even have to be related to the aforementioned history or philosophy; if someone was teaching it, you were definitely going to be there learning it. However, your fascination for ancient culture is what piqued his interest in you.

As previously established, the study of ancient civilization had, in fact, been around since forever. But it was something generally reserved for those who could – for lack of a better word – afford to study it: it was a rich man’s subject; for those who could afford to spend their time studying such subjects that would not earn them much income. But while school wasn’t necessarily a challenge for Bucky, it surely wasn’t that heavily emphasized. Hell, back in the day, only about 50% of kids even graduated high school, let alone attend college. And with the war going on? Forget about it. It was already expected that he’d graduate school and go on to work to earn a living. He couldn’t afford college, nor did he have the time for it. Once he was of age, Bucky was expected to work. Things changed with the war; expectations pointed to the Army.

Leaving all that in the past, Bucky turned to you to help him acclimate to his new life. Upon his return to civilization, he was met with Sam: “witty” (his word, not Bucky’s) and nonstop chatterbox, Steve: more serious than Bucky had remembered from one-hundred years ago, and Tony: don’t get him started. He learned to find that each of the Avengers had their own charming personalities, but they also had their own cliques. Of course, everyone had welcomed Bucky with open arms, but everyone was already a little too friendly with each other to make him feel at home.

Having lost all his charm and charisma long ago, he took solace in your quiet studies. You were new to the Avengers, as well. And while you got on with everyone and considered yourself friends with everyone (even family with some of them), you were a bit too green to be in on all their inside jokes and old-timer stories. As much as Bucky hated seeing you feel out of place, he secretly loved the fact he had someone to bond with about it.

Bucky belly-flopped onto your bed, making your whole body bounce up and down where you were laying on your back on your bed. You set your laptop down beside you and stared at the young man before you. “Whatcha doin,’” he smiles up at you, holding his chin up on his folded knuckles, propped up on his elbows.

“Reading,” you respond, flopping onto your stomach, mimicking his smile and hands. Bucky stared into your eyes for a moment, his smile never faltering. He was barely ever this close to you – close enough that you’re breathing the same air. Your eyes sparkled with the reflection of the candle burning beside you, your cheeks rosy from the warmth in your room and the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “And what are you up to, Buck?”

He shrugs, pulling his mouth into a tight line. “I’m bored.”

You roll your eyes playfully, wasn’t he bored everyday? “Nobody to hang out with?” You gently prod.

“I want to hang out with you,” he responds firmly. Was he bothering you? Would you rather have him bother someone else instead of you? You wanted him to leave, right? Panic flooded his system as he began to sit up, preparing himself to leave. He knows how much you loved reading and your alone time. The last thing he wanted was to bother you.

Your heart blossomed momentarily. He wanted to hang out with you? All you did was sit in your room and read. He watched a few shows with you, but he always fell asleep. “What do you want to do?” you mumble.

Another shrug. “What are you reading?”

“Poetry.” His eyes squinted at your one-word answer, so you continue. “You know, rhyming words, short sentences – ”

His chuckles cut you off, his eyes shutting in laughter, bright white teeth grinning as he drops his head forward on the mattress. “I know what poetry is, thanks (Y/N).” He picks his head up. “Why are you reading it on there?” His eyes move to the discarded laptop beside you. “You’ve got all these books.”

And he’s right, your room was lined with bookshelves, most works read, although you couldn’t bring yourself to start up on some of the more daunting longer novels. This time, it was your turn to shrug. “Sometimes its nice to read something short and sweet. Y’know, so it’s not dragging on forever.”

He nods, still eyeing your bookshelves. “Any of these any good?” He almost grimaces, noticing the long novels with matching sequels.

You fake gasp. “Bucky, they’re only the most important works in literary history.” You hop up off your spot on the bed, leaving behind your blankets and Bucky. “Here, since your so bored.” You plucked Homer’s The Iliad off your shelf, tossing it on the bed beside him. His eyebrows were drawn together at the book sitting beside him. “They make kids read it in high school nowadays – I’m sure you can handle it.”

With that, you plop yourself back onto your bed, picking up your laptop, and continuing your reading on your laptop. Buck grabs the book from beside him and opens it to the first page, trying not to crease the perfect spine. He almost wonders how you don’t notice him staring at you instead of the book. He admired your intelligence but also your looks. He doesn’t think he could ever  grow tired of looking at you: the way that your eyebrows furrowed in concentration when you read, the soft tug of your bottom lip between your teeth as you anticipated the ending.

Every time you glanced towards Bucky; he brought his eyes back down to the page. He must be having a hard time with that – he’s been on the first page for ages.

It was hard to focus on reading with him next to you – hell, not that you were complaining. His breathing was so calm and perfectly timed. His head was turned down towards the book, but while the rest of his body only moved in synch with his breathing, his hair kept falling from where it was tucked haphazardly behind his ear. He wasn’t frustrated about it (you, on the other hand, would’ve thrown your hair into a bun while threatening yourself to shave all your hair off). His lips were almost always red, and it constantly consumed your thoughts. Did he bite his lips a lot, were they constantly chapped? They don’t look chapped; maybe he just drank a fruit punch, so they were always stained red. You were dying to find out the reason, if only by the feel of your own lips on his.

He could feel your eyes on him; your body ever so slightly shifts and your breathing changes. He bit his lip, still struggling on this first page. His mid was racing elsewhere. He was a trained assassin: he could combine factors of wind, speed, humidity, distance, altitude, and spindrift in goddamn ballistics physics all in his head just to shoot one person. He could speak a million different languages – he actually couldn’t count how many he knows. (He could definitely read the original Divine Comedy in old-school Italian, unlike the translated version that sat across the room on your shelf). Sure, he was highly intelligent, but damn this book was boring.

“I can’t do this one,” he huffed suddenly, shutting the book in front of him. He (over)dramatically rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He then peers up at you with puppy-dog eyes. “It’s hard.”

“It is a tough one, but I thought you could take it,” you respond casually, a smirk forming on your lips. And what Bucky wouldn’t do to have his lips on top of yours at that moment…

With a roll of his eyes, he nudges his way next to you and under the blankets you’ve re-snuggled up in. His cheek was burning into your arm, his metal arm laid loosely over your lap in a half-hug. “How’s the poetry going? Why are you reading it online?”

“It’s good,” you breath shakily. Who knew having him this close to you would actually make your heart leap out of your chest? God and you just knew that he could feel it, too. “It’s just poems people wrote online. Not really published officially, but it’s still really good. ‘S about mythology; the gods and myths and stuff.”

“Can you read me some?” He closed his eyes, nuzzling his nose into your shirt, pulling the blanket farther around him.

You peer down at him, using all your willpower to not stroke that one strand of hair out of his face. You scroll back up to what you were reading, and your mouth suddenly goes dry. You start softly, so softly that you’re not even sure he can hear you.

“Hero,” they’d whisper as the young boy walks by.

“Hero,” they’d cheer and the young boy wonders why.

Why was I picked for this life full of glory?

Why must tragedy be the end of my story?

I want to be a hero but I want happiness too.

And heroes may win the war but they rarely live through.

You know what – fuck it – you bring your hand up to his forehead and ever so slightly brush your fingertips against his skin, pulling the soft brown hair along to the side with you. He’s breathing slowly, but once you touch him his eyes open. Not a single other muscle has moved, he remained completely still.

And it resonates with Bucky – obviously it resonates with Bucky. He didn’t know much about Greek mythology but knew enough to recall the bloody battles and ruthless victories of the myths. “Who is that about?” He asked.

You. “Achilles,” you whispered, hand not moving from cradling the side of his face. His eyebrows were drawn together, crinkles forming around his eyes and bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

He just lays there, replaying the words in his head. Was his life a Greek tragedy? Was he Achilles? His life was already a tragedy. His life was now full of glory – at least that’s what Steve made it sound like. He had a terrible past, sure, but now he was destined to be this great new Avenger. Bucky would scoff if he wasn’t so focused on laying in your arms.

Does anyone think of him as a hero? Can they really forgive him for all his past atrocities? Like Achilles, Bucky finds himself questioning others calling him that. They can call him a hero but at what cost? What did it cost Bucky? His life, his family, friends; his body, his mind; his thoughts, his freedom?

He won the war – he’s free now. Is all of him really dead inside? Is there any human part of him left to be a hero?

The dragging of your knuckles against his cheek pulled him out of his thoughts. But that’s when he realized he is not the tragedy. You were.

The thought of losing you would be his tragedy. Just like Achilles losing Patroclus: the love of his life.

That’s when Bucky grabbed your hand in his – metal that was cool to the touch, in contrast with your warm skin. He whispered your name into your open palm that he pressed against his lips. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, quickly, without thinking – without stopping to think about what a bad idea this probably was – he slid a hand behind your neck and pulled your lips to his. You gasped against his lips and right when he was about to pull away and leave with his tail tucked between his legs, you pressed your lips into his. He simply held you there, one long continuous kiss, time frozen between the two of you.

He parted from you to suck in a deep breath, slowly releasing a sigh from between his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours. “Bucky,” you sighed, eyes still shut, blindly tilting your head forward searching for his lips, searching for another kiss (to which he obviously obliged). With a few more chaste kisses, you laughed against his lips. “Took you long enough.” And to this, he grinned against you, pulling away just far enough for you to see his blue eyes glazed over with joy. And for the record, Bucky Barnes definitely did not have chapped lips.

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Silence

Hi! This is my first fic on this new tumblr! I want to start writing more so feel free to send any requests, questions, or comments! 

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 2,300

Summary: You and Bucky are on vacation. He has a nightmare and you do your best to distract him, he gets lost in his thoughts on the way.

Warnings: Implied smut

...

The room was pitch black when you woke up. Two layers of curtains pulled shut above the air conditioner that emitted a soft hum throughout the room. You untangled yourself from the sheet that you thought had been long forgotten earlier in the night. You also had thought you fell asleep in the arms of the man next to you – must have rolled off him in the middle of the night. Speaking of the human radiator beside you, you rolled over only to find him curled on his side facing away from you. However, you didn’t need to see his face to know his brows were furrowed and his jaw clenched tight. His shoulders were shaking, his metal arm tense while it caught a reflection from the alarm clock beside him.

Pushing the blanket off your legs, you sat up and turned to face him. His spine was prominent through the thick muscle that covered his back. You listened to his ragged breathing if only for a moment before you reached out your hand and held it to his burning hot skin; you brushed your fingers every so lightly along his shoulder blades. He awoke with a soft gasp, his eyes instantly snapping open. It was that super-soldier sense – you barely had to touch him.

“Did I wake you? Sorry,” he huffed, voice hoarse and thick in the back of his throat. He turned to lay flat on his back, holding his hands up to rub his face, wiping the remnants of sweat off his forehead.

“No, baby,” you coo, grabbing his arm, pulling it into your lap while you ran your hands over his vibranium arm, fingertips dipping in each crevasse of the metal plate. “Do you want to talk about it?” He never openly spoke of his nightmares. It took you poking and prodding for months to finally get him to tell you anything about that part of his life. At first you thought it was because he didn’t want you to know anything about that part of his life, as if it would be a worry – burden on you. You later found out that it was it was just him not wanting to relive it aloud; it was as if it was solidifying the memories that plagued him: the memories he’s spent years trying to forget. You’d always told him that his past doesn’t define him; however, he felt that speaking of it (especially in his safe place of his bedroom with you) would make you think he’s a monster.

He shook his head firmly, a few strands of his chestnut hair falling into his face. His eyes were shut tight, creases forming around his eyes and between his eyebrows. Sucking in a deep breath, he sits up with no disregard to his arm in your lap. Swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, he pauses before standing. “You should go back to sleep. Don’t wait up.” He trots to the bathroom, pushing the door open and switching the fluorescent light on. You squint in response all the way at the bed and lie back down folding your arm over your head, shielding your eyes from the light with your elbow.

You can’t help but smirk, a breathy laugh escaping your lips. “You’re the one who said we can sleep ‘til the afternoon.” A normal person, such as yourself, wouldn’t be able hear you over the sound of running water, as he splashed the cold water over his face. You know better than to ever assume the super-soldier can’t hear you.

…

“James, look, it’s so beautiful,” you gasped, rushing over to the large window at the end of your hotel room. The view was mostly ocean, the beach before it lying nine stories below you. The sun was long gone behind the hotel, the early nighttime sky fading into black at the edge of the water. The few stars that made it out this early reflected on the still waters. The bright moon was starting to prod its way through the clouds and above the horizon.

Bucky tosses the bags beside the bed, sauntering over to stand behind you. He wraps his arms firmly around your hips, leaning over to press his chin in the crook between your collarbone and neck. He hums in response. “I’ve seen more beautiful,” he mentions casually, rubbing your hip before fully removing his hand to pull the curtains closed.

You turn around under the grip of his metal arm, looping your arms loosely around his neck. “Oh yeah?” You tease through a small smile. “Where would that be?”

He grins: all teeth, crinkles around his eyes, a spark in the eyes staring back at you – bluer than the ocean on the other side of that window. There wouldn’t be a moment in your life that you didn’t want to get lost in those oceans before you. You pull your fingers through the tangled strands of his hair, tucking the loose pieces behind his ear. He leans in close to you, his breath against your ear, scruff tickling the soft skin on your neck. “Here,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, planting a kiss behind your earlobe. “And here.” A kiss on the corner of your jaw. “Here.” He lifts his head to plant a kiss on your forehead. “Here.” He tilts his jaw down, eyes peering down into yours, then plants a kiss to the tip of your nose. A small blush creeps up on your cheeks, biting your lip to hold back your own smile. “And here,” he breathes, bringing his own lips on top of yours, brushing ever so slightly as he speaks.

You tilted your own chin up, meeting his lips in a firm kiss. As his hands pulled your hips into his, you rolled your eyes and dropped your head backwards, his lips now dragging against your extending neck. “Buck,” you breathed, rolling your eyes. “The flight was so long. I’m so tired.”

He smirked and made quick work of planting a trail of kisses along your neck. “That’s ok, doll, I’ll do all the work.” He couldn’t even stop himself from smiling against your neck as his hand trailed from your hip to the zipper on your pants.

You choke back a laugh and grab his wrist. “Baby.” You curl your bottom lip and try to pull off your best doe-eyed Bambi impression. “Sleep.”

He stops to study your face with his eyebrows pulled together, eyes studying you. “Let me take care of you.” He presses another chaste kiss to your lips. “I’ll help you relax. And then, I promise, we can sleep all morning and afternoon tomorrow.”

You raise your eyebrows. Bucky Barnes offering you a night of bliss even without the promise of sleeping in all day was already too good to pass up. Between the countless missions he’s been on and the extra hours you’ve had to work lately, this vacation was well deserved for the both of you. Its not like you had an actual agenda – its not like you had to wake up for anything in particular. “Deal.”

You swore there was a glint behind his eyes when he smiled down at you. You meet in the space between you for another kiss that’s full of passion and giggles. His lips slide over yours smoothly as he runs his tongue across your bottom lip, begging for you to open your mouth. You do, and lean into him, tightening your arms around his neck. He grabs the back of your thighs, hoisting you up so you’re at an even height with him. You bite his bottom lip and he lets out a sigh against your lips.

He turns and tosses you on the bed; you’re unable to control your laughter as you bounce on the mattress. He leans over you to continue the kiss through smiles. “Besides,” he begins, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours. “Its only nine.” After another kiss planted to your lips, he plants a trail of wet kisses against your throat, hands playing with the hem of your pants. You shove your hands through his hair and tug slightly. He bites your shoulder, following it up with a sloppy kiss. “I figure we’d be at this until about three or four in the morning, then have the rest of the day to sleep.”

…

He returns to sitting on the edge of the bed with a huff. You climb across the bed and sit behind him, scooching near to him such that your bare chest is pressed against his back and legs are sprawled on either side of him. This time its your turn to wrap your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his spine. His skin is soft and warm; your fingers gently dragging over the scars that adorned his sides. His hands soon cover yours, rubbing circles on your knuckles.

“’M sorry,” he mumbles, unsure if you’d even hear it.

You press your lips to his skin. “Nothing to apologize for.” You pull yourself closer to him, closing your eyes and letting him feel your weight against his back: you’re his lifeline; the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. “I love you.”

You’re unsure for how long you sit there for. It could be two minutes; it could be thirty minutes. You peek your eyes open and catch a glimpse of the alarm clock on the bedside table beside you. 5:48 am. It must’ve been a hell of a nightmare – the two of you were in earnest probably asleep for a few hours. You suddenly lift yourself off of him and pull your hands out of his grasp. He’s almost startled, body relaxed as if he was sleeping in your arms, but you knew his mind was wide awake. Pulling yourself into a seated position next to him, you rub the rest of the sleep from your eyes and intertwine your fingers with his. “Come on, let’s go.”

You stand, pulling him with you and begin to search the room for clothes he had haphazardly thrown across the room the night before. Once you dress, you grab two towels from the bathroom and find Bucky staring at you quizzically. “Where are we going?” His voice is nothing but a whisper, the desire to stay inside and sulk evident in his tone.

You simply hold out your hand and he rolls his eyes playfully before biting back a smile and slipping his hand into yours. You were always up to something.

You drag him out of the hotel in silence, the love between the two of your speaking volumes in and of itself. When Bucky had arrived at the tower, he was always silent; everything was cold, quiet, and dark. It was what he was used to – the environment he was conditioned to live in. Then he met you: a civilian – someone normal, who knew nothing of his harsh world, his traumatic past, his own pain. And he’d remained like that, holed up by himself, unsure who to trust and how to act. Everything Steve had done to bring Bucky out of his shell was in vain. Then you entered the picture and you suddenly brought color back into his world. You brought warmth, light, and emotion back into Bucky Barnes. He’d slowly learned what it means to be human again: how to laugh, how to feel.

That’s why when you told Bucky the two of you needed a trip to unwind, he said he’d go anywhere you wanted. Having some semblance of knowledge about his past, you’d chosen one of the small islands of the Caribbean. And, no, he doesn’t remember the last time he’d been somewhere tropical or even that warm for that matter. Sure, it had to be sometime in 1934. He didn’t remember much about whatever girl of the week he had brought, or the girl she brought for Stevie. He liked the sun dancing on his skin and the cool water on his legs. He doesn’t remember what they even did at the beach that day, but he does remember the sand getting everywhere. His mother swore he brought back half the beach with him – and boy did he hear an earful about it.

Sure, he might not like sand, but he likes you.

So, he’d agreed to take the trip with you. That’s how he ended up with you dragging him onto the beach at 6 am, laying towels down on the soft sand in the darkness. You plopped down on the towel, feet still dug under the sand, and patted the towel next to you. Bucky followed suit, but soon decided you weren’t close enough for comfort. He spread his legs open and you crawled between them, getting comfortable with a content hum, resting your back against his chest and your head falling against his collarbone.

Bucky had grown to like the silence created by the two of you. Before, he sat alone with no sound other than the voices in his head tormenting him alongside the ringing in his own ears. You, on the other hand, were serene. Silence between the two of you was shared in bliss, it brought him tranquility and a sense of calm – a feeling he hadn’t felt since before. He liked your comfortable silence, but it was only his second favorite feeling with you.

And then there was his top favorite new feeling – something he most definitely hasn’t felt ever: not before or during Hydra, that’s for damn sure. This feeling was accompanied by shared breaths, bodies slick with sweat, entangled limbs, and messy kisses. It was this type of silence Bucky preferred over actual silence; the kind that the two of you shared that was often broken by moans and sighs, heavy breaths, and you calling out his name like a prayer – a filthy prayer.

The blue skies before him had faded into pink, yellow, and white. It didn’t take long for the sun to appear over the horizon, reflecting in the blue water that you still didn’t compare to Bucky’s eyes.