#EndGame | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandoalorian · 7 days ago

Text

to be yours [bucky barnes x f!reader]

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

“nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

inspired by the song turning page — sleeping at last.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

synopsis: when you break up with your boyfriend, you seek comfort and solace in the arms of your best friend, bucky barnes.

warnings: 18+ explicit content (unprotected p in v, f receiving oral, m receiving oral, fingering, body worship, bucky is obsessed with you) mdni, lots of pining and slow burn, friends to lovers, a smidge of angst in the middle, mentions of alcohol, bucky is in therapy, allusions to a toxic ex boyfriend, bucky comforts you through a bad breakup. set post endgame, pre tfatws.

w/c: 11,600>

masterlist

The Brooklyn skyline flickered through Bucky’s window, a jagged line of lights against the autumn dusk. Inside, his apartment was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning on the turntable—some old jazz standard Sam had insisted he’d like. Bucky didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t the music that held his attention. It was the phone in his hand, the screen glowing with a photo he couldn’t stop staring at.

You and him, last summer, sprawled on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park. You were laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled in that way that made his chest ache. He’d been mid-eye-roll in the shot, pretending to be annoyed at your bad joke about his “grumpy cat face,” but the corner of his mouth had betrayed him, curling into a smile. Sam had snapped the picture, saying something dumb like, “Y’all look like an old married couple.” Bucky had brushed it off, but the words had stuck, burrowing deep.

He set the phone face-down on the coffee table, like that could shut off the feeling. It didn’t. Bucky leaned back on the couch, running his flesh hand through his hair, the metal one resting heavy on his thigh. The apartment felt too big tonight, too empty. He’d gotten used to the quiet since moving back to Brooklyn after the Blip, after Wakanda, after everything. Therapy, amends, trying to be a person again—it was a routine, but it wasn’t a life. Not really. Not without you.

He’d known you for two years now, ever since Sam introduced you at one of those post-Blip support group things. You’d been volunteering, handing out coffee with that smile that could light up a room, and Bucky, fresh off his Wakandan reset, had barely known how to talk to you. But you’d made it easy, teasing him about his gloves, asking if he was hiding “super-secret spy gear.” He’d mumbled something sarcastic, and just like that, you were friends. Best friends, eventually. The kind who texted at 3 a.m., who showed up with takeout when the other needed it, who knew each other’s silences as well as their words.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky had fallen for you. Hard. Stupidly. The kind of love that made him feel like a kid again, all nerves and hope, but also like a fool, because who was he kidding? You were bright, whole, alive. He was a hundred-and-nine years old in a body that didn’t age, with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge and nightmares that didn’t quit. You deserved better. Always had.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it. Your name lit up the screen, and his heart did that traitor thing—skipping a beat before he could tell it to calm down. He grabbed the phone, swiping to open the message.

You: Hey Buck, you free this weekend? Things with Josh are… kinda weird. Could use some bestie time.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Josh. Your boyfriend of eight months, the guy who’d swept you off your feet with his easy charm and lawyer job. Bucky had met him a few times—dinners, game nights—and every time, he’d had to swallow the urge to say something. Josh wasn’t bad, not exactly, but he didn’t see you. Not the way you deserved. He didn’t notice how your laugh changed when you were nervous, or how you’d ramble about your day when you were happy, or how you’d curl your fingers into your sleeves when you felt small. Bucky noticed. He always noticed.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the knot in his chest: Yeah, I’m free. Name the time, I’m there. You okay?

The three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again. Finally: Not sure. Just… need you. Talk soon?

Need you. The words hit like a punch, soft but deep. He wanted to be everything you needed—friend, protector, more—but he’d settle for what you gave him. He always did.

Always, doll, he replied, the old nickname slipping out before he could stop it. He hoped it made you smile.

He set the phone down and stood, pacing to the window. The city hummed below, indifferent to the war in his head. He’d never told you how he felt, not once. At first, it was because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t think he could love anyone without breaking them. Then Josh came along, and Bucky had locked his feelings up tight, because your happiness mattered more than his. But every time you hugged him, every time you fell asleep on his couch during movie nights, every time you looked at him like he was more than a ghost of a man, it got harder to keep quiet.

He pressed his metal hand against the glass, the cold grounding him. Maybe he was selfish, hoping things with Josh were falling apart. Maybe he was broken, wanting you to need him in a way you never had. But he couldn’t help it. He loved you in the quiet way he did everything—fierce, steady, unspoken.

The record skipped, pulling him back. He crossed the room, lifting the needle and setting it back gently. The music started again, a saxophone weaving through the melody like a sigh. He sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it’d be like to hold you. Not as a friend, but as something more. Your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, your breath against his skin. The thought was so vivid it hurt.

He closed his eyes. One day, maybe, he’d be brave enough to tell you. But not tonight. Tonight, he’d wait, like he always did, ready to be whatever you needed.

A sudden knock at the door jolted Bucky upright, waking him in an instant. It was sharp, desperate, not the casual rap you’d usually give. His heart kicked up a notch, and he crossed the room in three strides, the metal arm whirring softly as he moved.

He opened the door, and there you were—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your face, mascara streaking down your cheeks like dark rivers. Your eyes were red, swollen, and you were shivering, arms wrapped around yourself like you could hold the pieces together. Bucky’s breath caught, a pang of something fierce and protective twisting in his chest.

“Jesus, doll,” he said, voice rough with worry. “Get in here.”

You didn’t move at first, just stood there, lips trembling. “He’s gone, Buck,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Josh… he just—ended it. Said I’m too much, said he’s done.” A sob choked out, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, like you could shove the hurt back inside.

Bucky didn’t think. He reached for you, pulling you inside and kicking the door shut. The rain had soaked through your jacket, your shirt, leaving you dripping on his hardwood floor, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a blanket from the couch—a soft, gray thing he’d bought because you’d once said it looked cozy—and wrapped it around your shoulders, guiding you to sit. “Stay there,” he said, softer now, but firm. ��I’m getting you something warm.”

You nodded, barely, your eyes distant as you sank onto the couch, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Bucky moved fast, filling a kettle, digging through his sparse kitchen for the chamomile tea you liked. His hands were steady, but his mind was a mess—anger at Josh, worry for you, and that selfish, nagging ache that always flared when you were this close. He shoved it down, like always.

When he came back with the steaming mug, you were still shivering, staring at the floor. He set the tea on the coffee table and crouched in front of you, his flesh hand hovering near your knee before he pulled it back. “Talk to me,” he said, voice low, like he was coaxing a scared animal. “What happened?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to his, and the raw pain there hit him like a punch. “I don’t even know where to start,” you said, voice small. “It’s been bad for weeks. He’s been… distant, snapping at me for nothing. Tonight, we fought, and he just—he said I’m too emotional, too needy. Said he can’t deal with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, ashamed. “Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not,” Bucky said, sharper than he meant to. He softened his tone, leaning closer. “He’s a damn idiot, and he never deserved you. You’re not too much. You’re…” He stopped himself, the words you’re everything catching in his throat. Instead, he said, “You’re enough. More than enough.”

You gave a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes with the edge of the blanket. “You’re biased. You’re my best friend.”

Friend. The word stung, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make me wrong.” He stood, grabbing one of his hoodies from the armchair—a navy one you’d stolen before, the one he secretly loved seeing you in. “Put this on. You’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

You took it, fingers brushing his, and he felt that spark, the one he always tried to ignore. You peeled off your wet jacket, and he turned away, giving you privacy as you changed. When he glanced back, you were drowning in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the hem hitting your thighs. His heart did a slow, painful flip.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling the blanket back around you. You picked up the tea, cradling it, and patted the couch beside you. “Sit with me? Please?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat, close but not too close, though every nerve screamed to pull you into him. You sipped the tea, then leaned your head back, eyes closing. “You’re too good to me, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be fine,” he said, but his voice was rough, betraying him. “You’re tougher than you think.”

You opened your eyes, looking at him with something he couldn’t quite read—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

He wanted to say a thousand things, but instead, he reached out, his flesh hand resting lightly on your arm. “You don’t have to be. Not tonight.”

You set the mug down and, without warning, shifted closer, curling into his side. Your head found his shoulder, your body pressing against his, and Bucky froze. The blanket slipped, and you were so close—too close—your warmth seeping through the hoodie, your breath soft against his neck. His body burned, every muscle taut as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around you, to pull you even closer. She’s hurting, he told himself. She needs a friend, not you losing it.

But then you tucked yourself tighter against him, one arm sliding across his chest, and he was done for. His heart pounded, and he was sure you could hear it, feel it. Your fingers curled into his shirt, and you sighed, a small, broken sound. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?” you whispered.

“Long as you need,” he managed, voice low, almost a growl. He draped his arm around you, careful, like you might break, but you only nestled closer, your legs curling up under the blanket. His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean.

The storm roared outside, but inside, it was just the two of you, the quiet stretching until you spoke again. “You ever feel like… you’re just going through the motions?” you asked, voice soft. “Like, no matter how hard you try, you’re stuck?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling too well. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the rain-streaked window. “More than you know.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “Your therapy… is it helping? You don’t talk about it much.”

He stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn’t planned to go there, but your eyes were searching, and he couldn’t lie to you. “It’s… something,” he said, exhaling. “Dr. Raynor’s got me journaling, making amends. Says it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m moving forward. But most days, it feels like I’m just… checking boxes. Like I’m still the guy who did all those things, and no amount of talking’s gonna change that.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on his shirt. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re you. The guy who makes me tea at 1 a.m., who remembers I hate olives on my pizza. The guy who’s here, right now, when I’m falling apart.”

He swallowed hard, your words cutting deeper than you knew. “You make it sound easy,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Like I can just… be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” you said fiercely. “You just have to be you. That’s enough for me.”

His chest ached, and he looked down at you, your face so close he could count the flecks in your eyes. You were still curled against him, your body warm and soft, and his control was fraying. He wanted to kiss you, to pour everything he felt into it, but you were raw, broken from Josh’s cruelty. So he just held you, his flesh hand stroking your arm in slow, soothing circles, even as his body screamed for more.

“You don’t know how much that means,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You… you’re the best part of my day, you know that?”

You smiled, small but real, and it was like the sun breaking through the storm. “Right back at you, Barnes.” You shifted, your head resting heavier on his shoulder, and within minutes, your breathing slowed, your body relaxing into his as sleep took you.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t dare. You were asleep in his arms, your warmth seeping into him, and it was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have. His heart was a warzone—love, guilt, need, all fighting for space. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, so light you wouldn’t feel it, and whispered, “I’m here, doll. Always.”

The rain kept falling, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t feel alone.

The first morning you woke up in Bucky’s apartment, the smell of coffee hit you before your eyes even opened. You were curled on his couch, still wrapped in his navy hoodie, the blanket tucked around you like he’d checked on you in the night. The storm had passed, leaving a soft gray light filtering through the windows, and from the kitchen came the clink of dishes, the low hum of Bucky moving around.

You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and caught sight of him��hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders, his metal arm glinting as he flipped a pancake with surprising finesse. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and for a moment, you just watched him, this man who’d become your anchor. The ache in your chest from Josh’s betrayal was still there, sharp and raw, but seeing Bucky—steady, quiet, there—made it feel like maybe you could breathe again.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he called without turning, his voice warm but teasing. “Thought you’d sleep till noon.”

You grinned, despite yourself. “Not all of us are super-soldiers with no need for rest.” You stretched, the hoodie riding up, and caught his quick glance before he busied himself with the coffee pot.

“Pancakes?” he asked, sliding a plate across the counter. “Figured you could use some comfort food.”

You padded over, barefoot, and leaned against the counter, peering at the stack. “You made these from scratch? Who are you, and what’d you do with Bucky Barnes?”

He chuckled, low and rough, and the sound warmed you more than the coffee. “Sam’s fault. Kept going on about his mom’s recipe. Had to learn it to shut him up.”

You took a bite, and damn if it wasn’t perfect—fluffy, just sweet enough. “Okay, Barnes, you’re hired. Personal chef from now on.”

He smirked, but his eyes were soft, watching you like you were the only thing in the room. “Deal. Long as you keep stealing my hoodies.”

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm you hadn’t expected to feel so… right. You’d gone back to your place once, just to grab clothes and essentials, but the apartment felt haunted—Josh’s cologne still lingered on the couch, his half-empty beer in the fridge. You’d packed a bag and fled back to Bucky’s, and when you’d mumbled something about not wanting to impose, he’d just given you that look—half-exasperated, half-tender—and said, “Stay as long as you need, doll. I got you.”

So you stayed. His apartment became your sanctuary, a bubble of quiet warmth against the world. Mornings were coffee and pancakes or sometimes just cereal, the two of you bumping elbows at the tiny kitchen counter, trading sleepy smiles. Evenings were takeout or Netflix marathons, you sprawled on the couch with your feet in his lap, him grumbling about your cold toes but never pushing them away. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, his blue eyes soft but guarded, like he was holding something back. You didn’t push, though. You were too raw, too afraid of what you’d find if you looked too close.

But the moments piled up, small and intimate, stitching you closer. One night, you burned popcorn in his microwave, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch, teasing you about your “culinary skills” until you threw a pillow at him. Another day, he taught you how to shadowbox, his hands guiding your wrists, his voice low and patient as he corrected your stance. His touch lingered a beat too long, and you both pretended not to notice.

Then there was the morning you almost broke him.

You’d showered, forgetting to grab a clean towel, and figured you could dart to the linen closet without being seen. Bucky was out getting groceries—or so you thought. You stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair sticking to your shoulders, a towel barely wrapped around you, and froze when you heard the front door click open. Bucky stood there, bags in hand, his eyes locking onto you before he quickly turned away, cheeks flushing red.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, staring hard at the wall, his jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were…”

“It’s fine!” you squeaked, clutching the towel tighter, your own face burning. You bolted for the closet, grabbing a towel and scurrying to the guest room—his room, really, since he’d insisted you take the bed. When you emerged, fully dressed in his hoodie and your jeans, he was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries like his life depended on it.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I owe you for the heart attack, huh?”

He snorted, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah, warn a guy next time.” But his voice was strained, and you caught the way his hands shook slightly as he shoved a carton of milk into the fridge. You didn’t know it, but his mind was a mess—your bare shoulders, the water droplets on your skin, the way the towel had clung to you. He’d spent a decade as a weapon, trained to stay calm under pressure, but you in a towel? That was a mission he wasn’t equipped for.

That night, you sat cross-legged on the couch, a pizza box between you, some old rom-com flickering on the TV. You were quieter than usual, the weight of the breakup creeping back in. Bucky noticed—he always did. He set his slice down, turning to you, his knee brushing yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but searching. “You’ve been… off tonight.”

You sighed, picking at the crust. “Just thinking about Josh. Not him, exactly, but… how I didn’t see it. How I let myself feel so small with him.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated how fragile you still felt. “I keep wondering what’s wrong with me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger in his eyes—not at you, never at you. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said, firm but gentle. “He didn’t see you, not the way you deserve. You’re…” He stopped, swallowing hard, like the words were too big, too dangerous. “You’re incredible, you know that? The way you light up a room, the way you make people feel like they matter. He was too weak to handle that.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, and something shifted in the air—something heavy, unspoken. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” he said, and his voice was so earnest it made your chest ache. You reached for him, needing the comfort of him, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. You wrapped your arms around him, sinking into the warmth of him, the familiar scent of cedar and soap that was so Bucky.

His body tensed for a split second, like he was bracing himself. You were so close, your arms tight around him, your breath warm against his shirt, and it was torture. His flesh hand rested on your back, fingers flexing like he was fighting the urge to pull you closer. His mind was screaming—she’s hurting, she’s your friend, don’t ruin this—but his body wasn’t listening, heat pooling low in his stomach, his pulse racing. He’d dreamed of holding you like this, but not like this, not when you were broken and he was supposed to be your safe place.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, voice muffled against him. “I don’t deserve you.”

He laughed, a low, shaky sound. “You got that backward, doll.” His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean if he let himself feel too much. But you didn’t notice, just held him tighter, and he let himself have this moment, even if it was all he’d ever get.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were softer, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for letting me crash here,” you said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Anytime,” he said, and he meant it—every word, every syllable, every beat of his heart that belonged to you, even if you didn’t know it.

Weeks had gone by and the storm outside persisted, thunder cracking loud enough to rattle your nerves. Inside, the tension was worse—a coiled, unspoken thing that had been simmering all evening, growing sharper with every glance, every forced smile. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, your phone gripped too tightly in your lap, the screen dark but burning with the memory of Josh’s text from earlier that day: Still living with Barnes? Figures. You were always his, even when you were mine. No wonder you’re alone now.

The words had sunk their claws into you, dragging up every doubt, every fight you’d had with Josh about Bucky. “You’re obsessed with him,” Josh had snapped once, months ago, when you’d canceled dinner to help Bucky through a rough night. “It’s not normal, you know? You’re too close, and he’s too screwed up to be just a friend.” You’d defended Bucky then, furious, but now, weeks after the breakup, living in Bucky’s apartment, leaning on him for everything, Josh’s voice echoed louder. Were you too much? Too needy? Had you pushed Josh away by being too close to Bucky? And worse—were you dragging Bucky down with you, burdening him with your broken pieces?

You glanced at Bucky, who was in the kitchen, drying dishes from your earlier dinner with that quiet focus you’d come to rely on. His hair was loose, brushing his jaw, his henley clinging to his frame, the metal arm glinting under the soft light. He was beautiful, you’d realised weeks ago, but tonight that thought felt like a betrayal—of Josh, of your friendship, of yourself. You didn’t deserve Bucky’s kindness, not when you were such a mess, not when Josh’s words made you question everything about who you were to him.

“You’ve been staring at that phone like it’s gonna bite you,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through the silence, light but tinged with concern. He leaned against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

You forced a shrug, setting the phone face-down on the couch, but your fingers twitched, betraying your nerves. “Just… nothing. Stupid stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, the metal one whirring softly. “You’ve been off all day, doll. Don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. What’s going on?”

The nickname—doll—hit you harder than usual, warm and familiar but laced with something you couldn’t name. You looked away, your chest tight, Josh’s text looping in your head. “It’s Josh,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He texted me today.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. He stepped into the living room, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’d that asshole say?” His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the anger simmering beneath it.

You hesitated, the words stuck in your throat. Telling Bucky felt like opening a wound, but his eyes were steady, waiting, and you couldn’t lie to him. “He said I’m still… living with you. That I was always yours, even when I was with him.” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “He said that’s why I’m alone now.”

Bucky’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles whitening. “He’s got some nerve,” he growled, leaning forward. “He’s the one who hurt you, and now he’s throwing this shit at you? He’s wrong, you know that, right?”

But you didn’t know that. Not anymore. The doubt had taken root, and it was choking you. You stood abruptly, needing to move, pacing toward the window where the rain streaked the glass. “What if he��s not wrong?” you said, voice rising, sharp with self-loathing. “What if I am too much? Too clingy, too dependent? He always said I was too close to you, that I leaned on you too much, and now look at me—living here, eating your food, crying on your shoulder every damn night. Maybe I pushed him away because I was always running to you.”

Bucky stood, his boots heavy on the hardwood, and you could feel his presence behind you, solid and warm. “That’s his poison talking,” he said, voice firm but strained. “He wanted to control you, make you feel small. You’re not too much. You’re—”

“Then why did he leave?” you snapped, spinning to face him, tears burning your eyes. “Why did he say I was never really his? Because of this—because of us, because I can’t seem to function without you! And now I’m here, dragging you into my mess, making you deal with me when you’ve got your own life, your own demons. I’m screwing this up too, aren’t I? Just like I screwed it up with him.”

The words poured out, raw and jagged, and you saw the hurt flash across Bucky’s face, his eyes widening like you’d slapped him. He stepped back, his expression tightening, and your stomach dropped. Oh god, what did I just say? Your inner voice was screaming, replaying your words, realizing how they must’ve sounded—like you blamed him, like your closeness was the problem. But it wasn’t him, it was you, always you, ruining everything.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you started, but he cut you off, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“You think you’re screwing this up?” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing with something you’d never seen before—anger, yes, but something deeper, more desperate. “You think being here, being with me, is some kind of mistake? Because let me tell you something, doll, I’ve been carrying this for years, and I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”

Your breath caught, confusion and fear mixing with the pounding of your heart. “Carrying what?” you whispered, but you knew, deep down, you knew, and it terrified you.

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound, running his flesh hand through his hair. “You really don’t see it, do you? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you, and every single day since has been me trying to be what you need without asking for anything back. But hearing you say you’re dragging me down, that we’re the problem? I can’t take it anymore.”

The words hit you like a thunderclap, stealing your air, your thoughts, everything. You stared at him, his chest heaving, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and your mind reeled. He loves me. The realisation crashed through you, shattering every doubt, every wall you’d built. You thought back to the nights he’d stayed up with you, the mornings he’d made you laugh, the way his touch lingered, soft and reverent. Josh’s accusations had twisted it, made you question your bond, but now it was clear—Bucky wasn’t just your friend. He was your home, your heart, and you’d been too blind to see it.

“Bucky,” you said, voice trembling, stepping closer, but he shook his head, backing away like your nearness hurt him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t come closer, because if you do, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself. I’ve been holding this in for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your heart was racing, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you hated yourself for hurting him, for making him think he was anything less than everything. Josh’s words were ash now, meaningless against the truth standing in front of you. You’d been running from your feelings, afraid of ruining what you had, but now you saw it—the way your heart leapt when he smiled, the way your body craved his touch, the way you felt whole with him in a way you never had with Josh.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, stepping toward him, ignoring his warning. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not blaming you—I’m blaming me, because I’m scared, Bucky. I’m scared I ruined everything with Josh, and I’m terrified I’m going to ruin us too. But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you, because…” Your voice broke, and you took another step, close enough to feel the heat of him. “Because I love you too.”

He froze, his eyes searching yours, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “What?” he whispered, voice raw, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, surer, the words spilling out like it was the purest thing you’ve ever known. “I was too stupid to see it, but I love you, Bucky. I’m in love with you.”

He stared at you, his breath ragged, and then he moved—fast, desperate, his hands cupping your face as he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was fire, years of longing and pain pouring into every press of his mouth, his teeth grazing your lip, his tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste you to believe you were real. You gasped into him, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with everything you had. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard planes of his body, the heat of him, the way he trembled like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You stumbled back, his arms steadying you, and you hit the wall, his body pressing into yours, pinning you there. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, hot and urgent, and you moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m sorry,” you gasped between kisses, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pulled back, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You didn’t,” he said, voice rough but soft, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re here. You love me. That’s all I need.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deep and tender, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he held you like you were everything. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was certainty, love, the kind that burned away every doubt. “I’m yours,” you whispered against his lips, and he groaned, kissing you harder, his hands sliding under your hoodie, his touch setting your skin alight.

“Bucky,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but searching, checking.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained, like it was killing him to pause. “Because I’m all in, doll, but I need you to be too.”

You nodded, your hands framing his face, thumbs tracing his jaw. “I’m sure. I want you. I want us.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and then he was kissing you again, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bedroom, the storm outside fading as you fell into each other, ready to claim what you’d both been denying for too long.

His kiss was a wildfire, consuming, years of unspoken love and longing poured into every slide of his mouth, every graze of his teeth. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he pressed you against the doorframe, his metal arm holding you effortlessly, his flesh hand gripping your hip like you were his lifeline.

“Bucky,” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your forehead pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the dim light. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but beneath the hunger was something softer—reverence, awe, like he couldn’t believe you were here, in his arms, saying you loved him after all this time. “I need you.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, his lips brushing your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his teeth grazing your pulse point, a soft nip that made you shiver, your hips rocking against him instinctively. “I’ve wanted you for so long, doll—every day, every night, for years.”

His words were a spark, igniting something deep inside you, a mix of love and desire so intense it stole your breath. You tugged at his henley, your fingers clumsy with urgency, needing to feel his skin, to know he was real. He set you down gently, just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow across his chest, illuminating the hard planes of muscle, the faint lines of old wounds, and the stark, jagged scars where his metal arm fused with his shoulder. He froze, his breath hitching, his eyes flickering with a shadow of doubt, like he expected you to pull away, to see the broken parts of him and flinch.

You didn’t. You stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him, your fingers tracing the raised scars with a tenderness that made his breath catch. The skin was uneven, a map of pain and survival, and you felt a lump in your throat, not from pity, but from love—so fierce it hurt. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick, “these don’t make you less. They make you you. And you’re beautiful—every part of you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re gonna ruin me, doll,” he said, his voice raw, almost broken, and when he opened his eyes, they were glistening, a mix of desire and vulnerability that made your heart ache. “You don’t know what it means… hearing you say that.”

“I mean it,” you said, stepping closer, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thump of his heart. “I love you—all of you. The scars, the past, everything.” Your fingers traced the line where metal met flesh, and he shivered, a low sound in his throat as you pressed a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering, reverent.

He exhaled shakily, his hands—flesh and metal—finding your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in it, only wonder, and then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, his lips soft but urgent, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you. His hands slid under your hoodie—his hoodie, the navy one you’d claimed weeks ago—and he paused, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, his eyes searching yours for permission.

You nodded, lifting your arms, and he peeled the hoodie off, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The air was cool against your skin, your bra the only thing left, and his gaze was searing, drinking you in like you were a dream he was afraid to wake from. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering, trembling, before they settled on your shoulders, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. I’ve imagined this so many times, but you’re… more.”

Your cheeks flushed, your body humming under his touch, and you reached for him, needing to feel him too. Your hands roamed his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the faint scars from battles long past, the warmth of him that felt like home. You traced the line of his metal arm, marveling at the smooth, cool vibranium, and he watched you, his eyes dark with something like awe. “You don’t mind it?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant, nodding toward the arm.

“No,” you said, firm, your fingers curling around the metal, feeling its strength, its weight. “It’s you. I love every part of you.” You pulled his metal hand to your lips, kissing the knuckles, and he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion, and he pulled you closer, his hands sliding down your sides, exploring every curve, every inch of skin like he was committing you to memory. He unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, letting it fall, and his breath caught, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp. “So perfect,” he murmured, his lips following his hands, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing but reverent.

You arched into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal under your palms. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need, and he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, his hands stilling on your hips. “Anything, doll. I’ll give you anything.”

“You,” you said, your hands sliding to his face, framing his jaw, your thumbs brushing his stubble. “I want you. All of you.”

He groaned, kissing you again, his hands roaming lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your jeans, teasing but not yet undoing them. He was taking his time, savouring every touch, every gasp you let out, and you could feel his obsession, the way he worshipped every inch of you like you were a miracle. Your hands explored him too, sliding down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle, the faint scars, the way his body tensed under your touch.

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin. His dog tags dangled between you, cool against your chest, and you tugged at them, pulling him into another kiss, deep and slow, your tongues tangling as you pressed yourself closer. His hands roamed your back, one warm, one cool, and you shivered, the contrast driving you wild.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding to your thighs, squeezing gently, then up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “Dreamed of touching you, feeling you like this.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you moan, your hips rocking against him, feeling the hardness of him through his jeans.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his chest, your fingers brushing his scars again, and he tensed, his breath hitching. You pulled back, meeting his eyes, seeing the flicker of insecurity there. “Hey,” you said softly, your hands framing his face. “These scars? They’re proof you survived. They’re proof you’re here, with me. And I love you for it.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands tightening on your hips. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but you shook your head, kissing him softly, your lips lingering on his.

“You do,” you said, fierce, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, kissing them, one by one, until he was trembling under your touch. “You’re everything, Bucky. Everything.”

He groaned, flipping you gently onto the bed, hovering over you, his dog tags brushing your skin as he looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire and love. “I’m never letting you go,” he said, his voice rough, and then he was kissing you again, his hands exploring every inch of you, slow and deliberate, like he was worshiping you, like he’d never get enough.

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to pull him closer. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I want you, Bucky. Every part of you.” Your hands slid down his shoulders, tracing the scars where his metal arm met flesh, a reminder of his past, his survival, his strength. He shivered under your touch, his breath hitching, and you leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering as you murmured, “You’re perfect to me.”

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through you, and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting of desperation and devotion. His hands roamed your sides, warm flesh and cool metal igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, needing more, needing him. He pulled back, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point, the sting of his teeth making you gasp, your hips bucking against his.

“Need to taste you,” he rasped, his voice almost pleading, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. His eyes flicked to yours, asking permission, and you nodded, your breath shaky, your body already aching for him. He unbuttoned your jeans with deft fingers, sliding them down with your panties in one slow, deliberate motion, his hands grazing your thighs, your calves, as he bared you completely. You kicked the jeans aside, vulnerable under his gaze, but the way he looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he’d worship at your altar—made you feel powerful, desired, loved.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently as he knelt between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. “You’re… everything. So goddamn perfect.” His voice was reverent, his fingers trembling as they traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, exploring, making you squirm. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone, then another, lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above your core, his breath warm and teasing. “Wanted to make you feel good, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets, your body already trembling with anticipation. Your inner voice was a whirlwind, marveling at the intensity of this moment, at the man before you who’d held your heart for years without you realising.

He didn’t make you wait. His tongue flicked out, a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you cried out, your hips bucking as pleasure sparked through you. “Oh, god, Bucky,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as he groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of heat through your core. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, then flattening, licking with a reverence that made you feel cherished, worshipped. His metal hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while his flesh fingers traced your entrance, teasing but not yet entering, drawing out your need.

“You taste so good,” he murmured between licks, his voice muffled, raw with desire. “Sweet, perfect, mine.” He sucked gently on your clit, and you moaned, your body arching, your mind blanking as he lavished you with attention. His fingers finally slipped inside, one at first, then two, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars. He pumped them slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Bucky, I’m—” you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he grazed his teeth softly over your clit, a hint of a bite that sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you, sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands tugging his hair, grounding yourself in him. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, trembling, pulling him up to kiss you.

You tasted yourself on his lips, the intimacy of it making your heart race, and you kissed him harder, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, needing to feel him. “Your turn,” you whispered, your voice husky, your fingers trailing down his abs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. You reached for his jeans, your hands fumbling with the button, and he chuckled, low and shaky, helping you push them down with his boxers, freeing him.

He was thick, hard, the sight of him making your mouth water, your core clenching with renewed desire. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the velvety heat of him, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your touch. “Fuck, doll,” he groaned, his head falling back, his hands gripping the sheets like he was holding himself back. You looked up at him, his eyes dark with need, his chest heaving, and felt a surge of power, knowing you could unravel him like this.

“I want to taste you,” you said, your voice firm, and his eyes widened, a mix of awe and desperation. “Let me, Bucky.” You pushed him gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he obeyed, his hands trembling as they settled on your shoulders. You knelt between his thighs, your hands spreading them wider, and he watched you, his breath ragged, his dog tags glinting against his chest.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft bite to his inner thigh, making him gasp, his hands tightening on your shoulders. “Jesus, doll,” he breathed, and you smiled, kissing the spot you’d bitten, then higher, your lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.

“I want to,” you said, echoing your earlier words, and then you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hands tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed the anchor. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, bobbing slowly, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. His thighs tensed under your hands, his breath coming in sharp pants, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening.

“God, your mouth,” he gasped, his voice rough, his hips twitching like he was fighting not to thrust. “Feels so fucking good, doll.” You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and the way he looked at you—like you were his everything—made your heart swell, your movements growing bolder. You took him as deep as you could, your tongue pressing against the underside, and he groaned your name, his hands trembling, his control fraying.

You pulled back, licking a slow stripe along his length, your hand pumping him as you kissed the tip, teasing, drawing it out. “I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against him, and he shuddered, his eyes glistening with something more than desire.

“I love you too,” he said, voice breaking, and you took him back into your mouth, working him faster now, your hand and lips in sync, determined to make him feel as good as he’d made you. His groans grew louder, his hips bucking slightly, and you felt him tense, his breath hitching. “Doll, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained, but you didn’t pull back, wanting to give him this, to show him how much you wanted him.

He came with a groan, hot and sudden, spilling into your mouth, and you swallowed, your hands stroking him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he was shaking, pulling you up to kiss you. His kiss was desperate, messy, tasting of both of you, and he held you close, his hands roaming your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands framing his face. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.” Your body was still humming, your desire for him burning hotter, and you knew this was only the beginning, the storm outside a mere echo of the one you’d unleash together.

Bucky pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes dark and glistening, pupils blown wide with need but softened by something deeper—love, raw and unguarded. His dog tags dangled between you, brushing your chest, cool against the flush of your skin, and you reached up, tugging them gently, pulling him into another kiss, slow and deep, your tongues tangling as you savoured the taste of him, of us. He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, and you pressed yourself closer, your thighs straddling his, feeling the hardness of him against you, still bare from the jeans you’d stripped away.

“God, doll,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost broken, as he kissed along your jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t believe you’re here, that you’re mine.” His hands slid down your sides, warm flesh and cool vibranium tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, like he was memorising every inch of you, worshipping you with every touch. His lips found your neck, nipping softly, a hint of teeth that made you gasp, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with desire, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the faint scars, the warmth of him that felt like home. Your fingers brushed the jagged lines where his metal arm met his shoulder, and he tensed, just for a moment, his breath hitching. You paused, pulling back to meet his eyes, seeing the flicker of vulnerability there, the fear that his past, his scars, might still push you away. “You’re so beautiful,” you said, fierce and sure, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

He exhaled shakily, his eyes glistening, and leaned into your touch, his metal hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was soft but searing, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion, and you smiled, kissing him deeper, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, grounding him in your love.

“I love you,” you whispered, and he groaned, flipping you gently onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you, his dog tags brushing your skin. His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, one cupping your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, making you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His lips followed, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing, reverent, before trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin just above your hipbone.

“Need to feel you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently. His fingers—flesh first—traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, making you squirm, your body already aching for him. “Gonna take my time, doll,” he said, his eyes meeting yours, dark with promise. “Wanna make you feel so good you forget everything but me.”

Your breath hitched, your inner voice a whirlwind of love and desire. He’s here, he loves me, and he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. The thought made your heart swell, your body humming with need, and you reached for him, your hands tangling in his hair. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling, and he smiled, soft but wicked, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, brushing your folds, already slick from your earlier release.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, his voice rough, his fingers teasing your entrance, circling but not yet entering, drawing out your need. “All for me, doll?” His eyes flicked to yours, and you nodded, biting your lip, your hips bucking slightly, seeking more. He leaned down, kissing your thigh, his teeth grazing the skin, a soft bite that made you gasp, the sting blending with pleasure. Then his fingers—two, warm and sure—slipped inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, your body arching as he pumped his fingers, slow at first, then faster, his thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm. His metal hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, the cool vibranium a contrast to the heat of his touch, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling under his attention. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, like he was committing it to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent. “So fucking beautiful, falling apart for me.” He leaned down, kissing your stomach, his lips soft but urgent, his fingers relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, doll,” he whispered, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands reaching for him, needing him closer.

He worked you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every wave until you were trembling, oversensitive, your breath coming in sharp pants. He kissed his way up your body, his lips soft on your ribs, your breasts, your neck, until he reached your mouth, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his fingers slipping out, leaving you empty, aching for more.

“Bucky, please,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his back, feeling the scars, the muscle, the warmth of him. “I need you—now.” Your hips rocked against him, feeling the hardness of him, and he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, his control fraying.

“Gonna give you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he positioned himself between your thighs, his hands guiding your legs around his waist. He teased you first, dragging the tip of himself through your folds, slick and warm, making you whimper, your body desperate for him. “You sure, doll?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“Yes,” you said, fierce, your hands framing his face, pulling him into a kiss. “I’m sure. I love you.” Your words seemed to break something in him, and he pushed in, slow and deliberate, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you in a way that was perfect, overwhelming. You both groaned, your foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged as he stilled, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his lips brushing yours. “So tight, so perfect, like you were made for me.” He started to move, slow and sensual, every thrust deep, deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that made you gasp, your nails digging into his back. His hands roamed your body, one cupping your breast, the other sliding to your thigh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Bucky,” you moaned, your hips meeting his, matching his rhythm, your body humming with pleasure. His lips found your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you cry out, the sting blending with the heat building inside you. He was everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his body—filling you, consuming you, and you wanted it all, wanted him in a way you’d never wanted anyone else.

“Love you,” he gasped, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the slow sensuality giving way to something raw, desperate. “Love you so much, doll.” His metal hand slid between you, fingers circling your clit, and you arched into him, your body trembling, the pleasure building to a crescendo. His other hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, and you loved it, loved the way he held you like you were his, like he’d never let go.

“More,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his ass, pulling him deeper, and he growled, his pace quickening, his thrusts rougher, the bed creaking beneath you. He bit your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you moan, the sting sending you closer to the edge. His fingers on your clit were relentless, his thrusts primal, desperate, like he was pouring years of longing into every movement.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice rough, possessive, but there was love in it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Say it, doll.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your body clenching around him, the pleasure overwhelming. “I’m yours, Bucky.” Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his thrusts erratic, his breath coming in sharp pants, his fingers circling faster, pushing you both toward release.

“Come with me,” he groaned, his lips crashing into yours, his kiss messy, desperate, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you screamed his name. He followed, his body shuddering, his release hot and deep, his face buried in your neck as he gasped your name, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You held each other, trembling, the storm outside a distant hum as your breathing slowed. He didn’t pull out right away, staying close, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, soft and reverent. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, and you nodded, your hands stroking his back, feeling the scars, the sweat, the warmth of him.

“Perfect,” you said, smiling, and he laughed, a soft, shaky sound, rolling you both so you were on top, still connected. You leaned down, kissing him slow, deep, tasting the salt of sweat and tears—yours, his, it didn’t matter. His hands traced your spine, gentle now, and you felt cherished, worshipped, loved in a way you’d never known.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his eyes soft, and you believed him, every word, every touch, every beat of his heart against yours.

By the time morning crept into Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment, soft gray light filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets. You woke slowly, your body heavy with a delicious ache, every muscle humming with the memory of last night—Bucky’s hands, his lips, his desperate, reverent love poured into every touch. He was still beside you, his arm draped across your waist, the cool vibranium a soothing contrast to the warmth of his bare chest pressed against your back. His breath was steady, soft against your neck, and for a moment, you just lay there, savouring the weight of him, the reality of us.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightened, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy murmur. “Where you goin’, doll?” His voice was rough with sleep, laced with that familiar warmth that made your heart flutter, and you smiled, turning in his arms to face him.

His eyes were half-open, blue and soft in the morning light, his hair a messy halo on the pillow. The dog tags rested against his chest, glinting faintly, and you reached out, tracing them with your fingers, feeling the engraved letters under your touch. “Nowhere,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Just… looking at you.”

He chuckled, low and lazy, his flesh hand sliding up your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. “Creep,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners, and you laughed, the sound light and free in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Guilty,” you said, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, your lips lingering against his. He hummed into the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it was just this—just you and him, tangled together, the world outside a distant hum. The kiss deepened, a spark of last night’s heat flickering, but you pulled back, grinning. “Careful, Barnes. You’re gonna start something we don’t have time for.”

“Who says we don’t have time?” he murmured, his voice low and playful, his metal hand sliding to your hip, squeezing gently. But his eyes softened, and he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips. “You okay? After… everything?”

You nodded, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “More than okay,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “Last night was… perfect. You were perfect.” You traced the scars where his metal arm met his shoulder, a habit now, and he didn’t tense like he used to, just watched you with a quiet intensity. “I love you, Bucky. I’m just… still wrapping my head around the fact that this is real.”

His expression faltered, just for a second, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. “Real enough for you to stick around?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he could handle. “I mean, you’ve got your life, your place… I don’t wanna hold you back, doll. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he still thought he might not be enough, even after last night, after you’d poured your love into every kiss, every touch. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him fully, your hand framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Bucky, listen to me,” you said, fierce but gentle. “You’re not holding me back. You’re my home. I don’t want to go back to my place, not if it means leaving this—leaving us. I’m all in, okay? For you, for us, for whatever comes next.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, just swallowed hard, his hand tightening on your hip. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, leaning down to kiss him, soft and sure, pouring your certainty into it.

“Every word,” you said, pulling back, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere unless you’re with me.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and pulled you into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest, his lips pressing to your forehead. “Good,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. “’Cause I don’t think I could let you go now, even if I tried.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin, and nuzzled closer, relishing the warmth of him, the way his arms felt like the safest place in the world. “You’re stuck with me, Barnes,” you teased, and he chuckled, the vibration rumbling through you.

“Worst punishment I ever heard,” he shot back, but his voice was warm, playful, and you swatted his chest lightly, grinning.

You lay there for a while, tangled together, the drizzle outside a soft backdrop to the quiet intimacy. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, and you let your hand wander his chest, feeling the scars, the steady rise and fall of his breath. The weight of last night—of your confessions, your fight, the way you’d finally given in to years of love—settled over you, not heavy but grounding, like a promise you both intended to keep.

“So,” you said eventually, your voice soft, playful, “what’s the plan now, super-soldier? You gonna keep cooking me pancakes every morning, or is that just a temporary-roommate perk?”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a grin that made your heart skip. “Pancakes are a lifetime deal, doll,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But I’m thinking we upgrade from roommates to… something else. What do you say? Wanna make this official?”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the joy that flooded you, the certainty that this was right, that he was your future. You reached up, tugging his dog tags to pull him closer, your lips brushing his. “Official sounds good,” you whispered, smiling. “Boyfriend has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Boyfriend,” he repeated, testing the word, his grin widening. “Yeah, I like that. Long as you’re my girl.”

“Always,” you said, and he kissed you, deep and slow, like he was sealing the promise. The kiss lingered, soft and sweet, until your stomach growled, loud and unromantic, and you both burst out laughing, the tension breaking in the best way.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Bucky said, rolling out of bed, and you couldn’t help but admire him—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the scars that told his story. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants, pulling them on, and caught you staring, smirking. “Keep looking at me like that, and breakfast is gonna have to wait.”

You grinned, sitting up, the sheet clutched to your chest. “Tempting, but I’m starving. You promised pancakes, Barnes. Don’t make me regret this whole boyfriend thing.”

He laughed, tossing you his navy hoodie—the one you’d claimed weeks ago—and you pulled it on, the familiar scent of cedar and Bucky wrapping around you like a hug. You followed him to the kitchen, barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and leaned against the counter as he started pulling out ingredients, his movements easy, practiced.

The morning unfolded like a dream—Bucky flipping pancakes with that super-soldier precision, you stealing bites of batter and teasing him about his “grumpy cat face” when he pretended to scold you. You sat at the counter, knees brushing, trading stories about nothing and everything—memories of your friendship, plans for a real date, the quiet hope of a future together. He reached over at one point, brushing a smear of syrup from your lip with his thumb, and the simple touch sent a spark through you, a reminder of last night, of the love that had finally broken free.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down, his eyes soft but serious, “you really wanna stay here? Not just crash, I mean… move in, make this our place?”

You paused, your heart swelling at the question, the way he said our like it was a prayer. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I want that. This feels like home, Bucky. You feel like home.”

He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile that lit up his face, and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you, his lips brushing your temple. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We’ll make it ours.”

You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in weeks, the ache of your breakup, the doubts Josh had planted, felt like a distant memory. With Bucky, you were whole, loved, and ready for whatever came next—pancakes, late nights, fights, and all.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future works<3

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fic #james bucky buchanan barnes #avengers #endgame #tfatws #iamsebastianstan #seb stan

490 notes · View notes