carousel
Pair: Bucky x reader
Summary: You and Bucky keep breaking up and getting back together, stuck in a cycle of love, miscommunication, and missed expectations. In short, everyone around you just finds it toxic at this point.
Warnings: toxic relationship, emotional rollercoaster, love-hate sex! <3
Three years with Bucky Barnes. Three long, exhausting years. Not exhausting because of him. Well, maybe a little. But exhausting because at this point, everyone in your life seems tired of it.
When you first met Bucky, it was through one of those dating apps you never imagined he'd be on. He was old, ancient actually, but you figured he was trying his best to adapt. And hell, if he was on a dating app, then why not? You swiped, he swiped, and that was it.
The first date went surprisingly well. No awkward silences, no weirdness. Just a normal date with a guy who happened to be a former assassin with a metal arm. Then came the second, third, and somehow, the fourth. He ghosted you a little, sure, but when he came back, he had a reasonable excuse: he was busy. And it was true! You saw him on TV, helping people, fighting threats that no normal person could. He wasn't lying; he was just really busy. So, you understood.
Kind of.
The fifth date, he confessed that he was new to this but willing to make it work. You weren’t new to relationships, but Bucky was new to you, so you said the exact same words back to him. He seemed to appreciate it. By the sixth date, he was more comfortable. Comfortable with himself, his body, his past. He brought up sex.
Not in a crass way, but in a way that showed he was opening up to you. And when you finally got there, it was intense. He admitted he hadn’t come like that in years, which made you blush. And after that? Well, the rest was history.
Somehow, a whole year passed before either of you realized it. Everyone around you had opinions. Some were genuinely happy, others were just bitter that you had managed to bag the hottest Avenger. But Bucky wasn’t ready to talk about that yet.
“You know there’s a thing called the honeymoon phase, right?” a friend of yours, one with a little too much hidden animosity, quipped as you framed your first photo with Bucky and placed it on your bedside table. You rolled your eyes.
There was no phase. Bucky was from the ‘40s, a mature man who wasn’t some impulsive playboy. He wasn’t the type to chase one girl and then suddenly claim the next one was ‘the one.’ That wasn’t Bucky. And you? You were rational. You were mature. That’s why he picked you in the first place.
But oh, how wrong you were.
At the start, everything was exciting. The thrill of dating an Avenger, the little moments where Bucky let himself be soft with you, and the way he slowly learned how to be in a relationship in this era. It all made for a romance that felt like it was pulled from a storybook.
It was supposed to be perfect. But three years in, you’re starting to notice something you didn’t before.
The honeymoon phase didn’t exist in your mind because Bucky wasn’t the type. He wasn’t some player. He wasn’t some guy who’d jump ship the second things got too real. He picked you, and you picked him, and that was that. A steady, adult relationship with no childish fears of “phases” or “cold feet.”
But now? You’re starting to wonder if maybe your friend had a point.
It starts small.
The framed photo on your nightstand collects dust. Neither of you moves it, and neither of you acknowledges it. You don’t think much of it until you realize you haven’t taken any new photos together in months. He’s still busy, of course.
He always has been, but before he used to make time. Used to send you grainy selfies with captions like “this is me trying” or “the camera hates my metal arm.” Now? It’s weeks before he texts you back, and when he does, it’s nothing more than an “I miss you” or “sorry, things have been crazy.”
You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s Bucky. He’s from the ‘40s. He’s not glued to his phone.
But then, it’s the way he hesitates before reaching for your hand in public.
The way his kisses feel more like habits than something he actually wants.
The way your dates have turned into staying in, sitting on the couch, and watching the same shows in silence instead of the deep conversations you used to have.
Bucky isn’t a playboy. He isn’t the kind of guy who jumps from one person to the next, but something is off, and it’s been off for a while. And for the first time, you start wondering if maybe, just maybe, you are in a phase.
And maybe the phase is ending.
But you don’t say anything. Not yet. Because Bucky is Bucky, and you love him, and if this is just a rough patch, it’ll pass.
Right?
At first, you don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be the person who nitpicks every small change and turns it into some grand declaration that your relationship is falling apart. But when you really sit with it, when you really let yourself feel it, you realize something:
You’re holding your breath.
You’re waiting.
For what? You’re not sure. Maybe for Bucky to snap out of it. Maybe for him to tell you what’s wrong. Maybe for him to look at you the way he used to, with that quiet, awed kind of devotion, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
But it’s been months, and he still hasn’t.
“You guys are still together?” Sam asks one evening, his voice laced with something between amusement and genuine surprise. It’s supposed to be a joke, but it hits wrong.
You force a laugh. “Of course we are.”
Sam hums. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s holding back. He’s been Bucky’s best friend for years now, and if he’s noticed something, then maybe, maybe you’re not just imagining things.
Maybe you should say something.
So you do.
It’s late when you finally bring it up. You and Bucky are sitting on the couch, some old movie playing in the background. He’s beside you, but he’s a world away, arm draped over the back of the couch, gaze locked on the screen, jaw tight like he’s thinking about something else entirely.
You take a deep breath. “Are we okay?”
Bucky blinks. Turns to you, brows furrowing. “What?”
You hesitate, then push forward. “Us. Are we okay?”
His frown deepens, and for a split second, you swear there’s something like guilt in his expression. But then, he shakes his head. “Of course we are.”
He says it so casually, so easily, that it makes you feel ridiculous for even asking.
But that feeling only lasts for a moment, because then he turns back to the movie without another word. Like that’s the end of the conversation. Like your question wasn’t even worth talking about.
You’re not in a relationship anymore. Not really. You’re just in something that’s familiar. And for the first time in three years, you wonder if it’s time to let go.
And like a twig, you snap it.
You break up with Bucky Barnes.
It happens so fast, so brutally, that even you can’t believe it. One minute, you’re sitting across from him, staring at him with tears in your eyes, and the next, the words are out in the open, sharp and final.
“We should break up.”
Bucky barely reacts. His jaw clenches, his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t argue. He just sits there, watching you, and that makes you angrier.
“Did you even love me?” you ask, voice shaking.
His brows furrow. “Of course I did—”
“Then what the hell happened?” Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it.
His answer? More of the same. The same cycle, the same excuses, the same carousel of it’s not you, it’s me and I don’t know how to do this and I didn’t mean to hurt you. Round and round and round. And by the time you leave, by the time the door shuts behind you and you step into the cold, you’re exhausted.
You’re done.
The news spreads fast. One minute, you and Bucky are celebrating your anniversary, and the next, it’s over. People ask what happened, but you don’t have an answer. At least, not one that makes sense. Because when you dig, when you let yourself go full detective-mode like your generation is so damn good at, you realize something:
There’s no other girl.
There’s no distractions.
No betrayal, no grand reveal of secrets.
Nothing.
Just Bucky. Just the quiet, steady way he pulled back, little by little, until he was barely there at all. Until you had to be the one to make the choice to end it.So now, you’re alone in your apartment, music blasting, trying to drown out the sound of your own sobs.
And when the tears slow, when the ache in your chest settles into something dull and familiar, you think.
Maybe he just got bored of me.
That’s it. No mess, no complications. Just a man who got tired of loving you.
Three months.
Three months of trying to unlove someone who had already let you go.
It wasn’t easy. The first few weeks were unbearable. Every morning, waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there, every night, fighting the urge to text him just to ask why. But you did what people do when they’re heartbroken: you healed. Slowly, quietly, in all the ways that weren’t pretty but were necessary.
You stopped crying. Stopped replaying the breakup in your head like a scene from a tragic movie. Stopped looking for him in crowded streets, in news reports, in the tiny spaces of your life where he used to fit so effortlessly.
And then one morning, without realizing it, you woke up and felt… okay. Not whole, not entirely yourself again, but okay enough to exist without him.
You thought that was the end of it.
But the universe? The universe wasn’t done with you.
Because three months later, on a perfectly normal Tuesday, you walk into your favorite café, the one you introduced Bucky to, the one that had always been yours first, and there he is. Standing at the counter, waiting for his coffee. Looking almost exactly the same, except for the way his shoulders tense when he sees you.
And just like that, it happens.
Like muscle memory, like fate, like some cruel joke the universe is playing on you. you fall in love with him all over again.
Your heart skips a beat. Your breath catches. You hate it. You hate that he still has this effect on you, that after everything, after all the pain and healing and moving on, one glance is all it takes to unravel you.
Bucky swallows, shifting awkwardly. “Hey.”
You grip your tote bag tighter. “Hey.”
For a second, neither of you move. The café bustles around you, but it all feels distant, like you’ve been pulled into some private, inescapable moment with him.
And just like that, you’re together again.
You don’t talk about the breakup, not really. There’s a few apologies, a few quiet I missed you’s exchanged between coffee sips and hesitant touches, but nothing deep. Nothing real. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to just feel the love again rather than question why it stopped in the first place.
People buy it.
“We’re trying again,” you say with a small smile.
“We love each other,” Bucky adds.
And because your friends are supportive, they nod and go along with it. They send congratulatory texts, say if you’re happy, we’re happy, and raise their glasses in a half-hearted toast to round two.
Then.. you break up again.
This time, there’s no big fight. No dramatic moment where someone walks out. Just exhaustion. Just the slow realization that maybe, loving each other isn’t enough. Everyone gets it. You cry into your best friend’s shoulder, and they pat your back and say, “Maybe it’s for the best.”
Then, a few months later, you and Bucky get back together.
No one claps this time.
No yay, you found your way back! or third time’s the charm! Just a long silence, a few shared glances, and one person daring to say, “Are you sure about this?”
But you don’t want to hear that. Because this time? This time, it’s going to work.
Except it doesn’t.
Another breakup. Another reconciliation. Another crash.
And by the time you both get back together for what might be the fourth, no, fifth time, your friends have stopped asking about it entirely.
No one cheers. No one comforts you. No one even reacts when you and Bucky inevitably call it quits again.
At this point, it’s just a bad game of whac-a-mole. One where everyone else stopped playing, but you and Bucky are still stuck in an endless loop, waiting to see which one of you will get tired of the game first.
“Three years of this shit, Bucky! Aren’t you fucking tired?”
Your voice cracks as you say it, as the words rip out of you like they’ve been waiting to be said for months. Maybe even years.
Across from you, Bucky exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. He looks just as exhausted as you feel. His jaw is clenched, his shoulders tense, but his eyes, his stupid, beautiful, heartbreaking blue eyes are filled with something you can’t even name anymore. Regret? Frustration? Love? All of the above?
“I don’t know,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to—” He stops, shakes his head. “I don’t know how to do this, okay?”
You let out a bitter laugh, shoving your hands into your pockets like that’ll keep them from shaking. “You’ve had three years to figure it out, James.”
He flinches. You see it. The tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers, the way his lips press into a thin line. But he doesn’t argue.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Because if he fought, if he yelled or got angry, at least it would mean he cared. But instead, he just stands there, letting you unravel, letting this whole thing crash and burn like it always does.
And God, you hate him for it.
Hate that he pulled you back in just to let you go again. Hate that he made you believe, one more time, that you could make this work. Hate that even now, as you’re standing here, practically begging for a reason to stay, you still love him.
And you think, that’s the problem, isn’t it?
You love him. He loves you.
But love was never the problem. It was everything else.
Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him.
At this point, you don’t even know anymore. The relationship is just a car that keeps skidding off the road, and neither of you wants to admit who’s behind the wheel. There are no more tears. No yelling, no throwing hands up in frustration. Just exhaustion.
You sit across from him, slumped in your chair, staring at the table between you. A silent battlefield of half-drunk coffee cups, an untouched plate of something neither of you had the appetite for, and all the words you’ve both been too tired to say.
You sigh.
Bucky sighs.
And for the first time in three years, you realize.. there’s nothing left to fight for. Not because the love is gone, no, that’s the problem. The love is still there. But love alone has never been enough.
Not for you. Not for him. Not for this.
Bucky leans forward, elbows on the table, staring at his hands like they hold the answer to all of this. “So… what now?”
You exhale slowly, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “I don’t know.”
Neither of you say it, but you both do know. It’s over.
For real, this time.
“I'm sorry, Y/N.”
His voice is quiet, almost too quiet, like he doesn’t want to break whatever fragile thing is still holding this moment together.
You look at him. Really look at him. He looks wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of something he can’t put down. You wonder if he’s been sleeping. You wonder if he’s been hurting the way you have.
And then you wonder if it even matters anymore.
Because sorry won’t fix this.
Sorry won’t rewind time. It won’t erase the months of uncertainty, the constant breakups, the way you kept circling back to each other just to fall apart all over again.
You nod, because you don’t know what else to do. “Yeah.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Me too.”
And just like that, it’s done.
Bucky steps forward, hesitates for only a second, then wraps his arms around you.
One last hug.
You tell yourself that’s all it is. That it’s just closure, just a final goodbye, just something to soften the inevitable ache of walking away from each other for good this time. And like muscle memory, you accept it. Your hands grip the back of his shirt. His fingers press into your spine. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time, and for a moment, you almost feel normal again.
Then it lingers. Too long.
Long enough that you should pull away. Long enough that this isn’t just a goodbye anymore. Long enough that his nose brushes against your temple, his lips ghost over your skin, and suddenly, you’re tilting your head, giving him space to press a real kiss there.
You shudder.
And just like that, you’re gone.
Clothes come off without thinking. Without reason. Without logic.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna let go,” he mutters, voice rough and low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His hard cock already stirring in his jeans, pulsing against the zipper, and you know you feel it. How could you not?
The both of you are too close now, too wound up. You don’t even think, just yank his jacket off, letting it hit the floor with a dull thud, and his hands are on you again, shoving under your shirt, greedy for bare skin.
You don’t stop him, and that’s all the green light he needed. He peels your shirt up and off, tossing it somewhere in the room, and you do the same with his shirt next, ripped over his head, muscles flexing as you expose the hard lines of his chest, that metal arm shining over the dim lights again.
His eyes rake over you, drinking in every curve, every dip. Your tits, they’re perfect, soft and heavy, nipples pebbling in the chilly air. Bucky groans, a deep, guttural sound, and sinks to his knees right there in front of the couch, hands gripping your hips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good,” He growls, What a great way to break up you think.
He looks up at you with doe eyes before his teeth catch the waistband of your pants. He tugs, slow and deliberate, undoing the button with his fingers, the zipper sliding down with a rasp that’s drowned out by your thoughts of why the hell this is happening now. His fingers hook in and yank them off, leaving you bare, your slick cunt glistening in front of him pink and swollen, like a goddamn flower begging to be plucked.
He shoves his hand between your legs, parting your thighs, and his thumb grazes your clit, teasing that little bud till he feels you tremble. “So fuckin’ wet already,” He rasp, voice dripping with lust, and lean in, licking his lips before his tongue darts out, lapping at your inner thigh first, tasting the salt of your skin.
He gives good head when he’s breaking up with you, it annoys you but that annoyance fades when he dives in, mouth on your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around that soaked hole.
You shudder. “Fuck, Bucky.” You whimper, legs closing against his head but he forces them open again. “Oh fuck, you taste like heaven.” He pulls away momentarily before his tongue delves deeper, dipping into your slickness, playing with your juices as they coat his chin, sloppy and messy and so damn hot. He pulls back just a sec, making eye contact, letting you see the hunger in his gaze, “Fucking hell. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Bucky, please–”
“Look, Y/N I’m just trying to–”
“Jesus! You’re eating me out Barnes, can we fucking talk about it after?”
He blinks, nods, and just like that his hands roam, one cupping your ass, kneading that soft flesh, the other sliding up to pinch a nipple, rolling it between his fingers till he hears you gasp. You see him quickly stand, his dick’s so hard it’s probably aching, precum leaking through his jeans. He shoves them down, kicking them off with his boots, and his thick cock springs free, rigid, red, and throbbing, the head slick with need.
He grabs your chin, tilting your face up, “You talk too much sometimes and it annoys me.” and crashes his lips into yours, bruising and desperate. Your teeth click, tongues rolling together, fucking your mouth with his. You suck his bottom lip, biting it till it swells, then he swirls his tongue around yours, groaning into the kiss.
“And I hate when you leave the kitchen dirty like I’m some fucking maid.”
He scoffs, like what he’s hearing is so untrue. “On your knees,” He pants, voice shaking with want. His hand fists your hair, guiding you, and when your lips finally wrap around his dick, Bucky jolts, a sharp “Shit.” ripping from his throat. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him in, tongue swirling over his head, lapping up the precum as he thrusts his hips up, testing you.
“Take my dick, shit, just like that,” He grunts, hips rocking, and you deep throat him, wet heat engulfing him till he feels your throat tighten. and he slows it down, pulling back, trembling as he fights the urge to blow right then. “Not yet,” he huffs, voice wrecked, “Wanna fuck you first.”
He yanks you up, spinning you around, and shove you onto the couch, ass up. His hands splay across your back, raking nails down your spine as he line up, rubbing his cock up and down your slit, teasing that dirty little pussy of yours.
“I hate when you tell me what to do like I’m your child. I’m your fucking boyfriend, Y/N.” He murmurs, breath tickling your ear, and then he sinks in. Slow at first, stretching your slick pussy wide, groaning loud as he buries himself deep.
“Oh fucking hell, so tight,” He moans, setting a rhythm, “Fuck, James. You’re so–” he snaps his hips, pounding into you, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. Your ass bounces with every thrust, “I hate when you–” You throw your head down, whimpering. “When you don’t pay attention to my achievements.” and he switches it up—pulling out, slick with your juices, and pounding back into you again.
“God! You’re such a fucking asshole,” you growl, and he pushes back in, slow and brutal, feeling you quake around him.
The pace builds, wild thrusts slamming into you, his hands clutching your shoulders, then your tits, kneading them rough. “Oh fuck, oh my fuckin’ pussy’s yours James,” You hear him groan, lost in it, and when he feels that climax creeping up, he slowly drags it out, letting his cock pulse inside your pussy.
“If I’m an asshole, then you’re a bitch. But god, you’re the only one I want.” Then he snaps hard, one last time, and explodes his massive load spilling deep inside, your whole body shaking as you also reach your climax just in time with him.
What a time to be in sync.
You cry out, “Fuck!” And he collapses over you, panting, soaked in sweat and filth, the room quiet again with nothing but you and Bucky’s heavy breaths.
You’re both panting, bodies tangled together on the couch, the heat of what just happened still clinging to your skin. The room smells like sex.
The silence is thick. Too thick.
You stare at the ceiling, heart still hammering, and let your mind wander back—back to all the fights, all the words said in anger, all the things that chipped away at whatever this was.
The things he hated. The things you hated.
Maybe that’s what keeps breaking this relationship apart. Maybe it was never about bad timing, or Bucky not knowing how to love, or you expecting too much. Maybe it was just this.
A cycle. A loop. A bad habit neither of you know how to quit.
Your fingers trace over his metal arm, absently following the lines of it, before you finally ask, “Did you mean it? Those things you said?”
Bucky tenses beside you.
You don’t specify which words you mean, because there were so many. Words spit out in the heat of a fight, words muttered in exhaustion, words you’re still carrying like stones in your chest.
He shifts slightly, running a hand down his face. “Which ones?”
You huff a small, humorless laugh. “The bad ones. Your way of dirty talk I guess.”
He exhales sharply, like he already knows where this is going but doesn’t want to go there.
“I don’t know,” he admits. His voice is rough, tired. “I was angry. You were angry.”
“So maybe you did mean it.”
Bucky turns his head, finally looking at you. He looks wrecked, like he hates that you’re even having this conversation. “Do you think I did?”
You swallow. “I don’t know.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know.
Because even now, even after everything, part of you still wonders if all those fights, all those cruel little truths that slipped out when the gloves came off, maybe they weren’t just words. Maybe they were real. And maybe, no matter how much you love each other, you were never meant to work.
Bucky kills your thoughts as he shifts beside you, his fingers absently tracing circles on your bare thigh. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
"Remember when I said I was new to this? And you said the same thing?"
You do.
It was on your fifth date, when things still felt fresh, when love hadn’t yet turned into a battlefield. When he admitted, hesitantly, that he didn’t really know how to do this, how to be in a relationship, how to navigate something that wasn’t war or survival or duty.
And you, thinking you were being clever, had just repeated his words back to him. I’m not new to this, but I’m new to you.
Back then, it felt sweet. Like a promise. Now? It feels like irony.
Because after three years of trying, of breaking and fixing and breaking again, you realize, maybe neither of you ever figured it out.
Maybe you both thought love would be enough to bridge the gap between what you wanted to be and what you actually were. You swallow, turning your head to look at him. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I remember.”
Bucky exhales, staring up at the ceiling. “I meant it. I still do.” He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. “But I think we kept making the same mistakes because we never actually learned from them.”
Your chest tightens. You want to argue, but deep down, you know he’s right.
You love him. He loves you.
But love alone was never the problem.
It was everything else. The way you never really talked, not about the things that mattered. The way you both kept waiting for the other to fix things, steering this relationship straight into the same crash over and over again. Bucky sighs, rubbing his hands over his face before turning to you. His expression is raw, tired, honest, real.
“Over time, everything feels amazing and great, but then… I just felt like you’re moving, and I can’t catch up that quickly, Y/N.”
Your heart clenches.
“I’m a man out of time,” he continues, voice low, almost like he’s ashamed to admit it. “And as I’m slowly getting some of that back, I just… I just need a hand to walk with. I don’t want to go to your friends’ parties sometimes, or go to a concert of that Swift girl—”
A huff of laughter escapes you at that, but he’s not joking.
“Maybe I just want to stay here with you,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands. “And learn more of what I’ve missed for the past century.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t hit you right in the chest.
Because for all this time, for all the back and forth and the constant breaking apart, maybe this was part of it. Maybe you were trying to drag him into your world, into now, without realizing that he was still catching up. That he was still learning how to exist, how to breathe in a time that wasn’t his own.
You never thought about it like that. You never thought he might have felt left behind.
Your throat tightens, and suddenly, you don’t know what to say.
You reach for his hand instead, lacing your fingers through his. His grip is warm, solid, and when he looks up at you, it’s with something you haven’t seen in a long time, hope.
Maybe you two were never meant to work. Or maybe you just needed to understand each other better.
You squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Bucky exhales, shaking his head. “It’s okay. I had my faults too. I wasn’t open to you.. And I just thought if I told you, you’d find me boring.”
Your brows furrow. “That’s not true, and you know that.” You sit up a little, your fingers still tangled with his. “I guess in my perspective, I just wanted to show you everything, but I never really thought about what you’d feel first. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”
Bucky watches you carefully, his lips pressing into a small, almost sad smile.
“We were both just trying,” he murmurs. “Trying to make it work in our own ways.”
You nod. That’s exactly it, isn’t it?
You wanted to pull him forward, into your world, your life. And he just wanted time, time to settle, time to understand, time to figure out who he was now, after everything.
Neither of you were wrong. Neither of you were right.
You glance down at your joined hands, then back up at him. “So… what do we do now?”
Bucky tilts his head, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admits softly. Then, quieter. “But maybe we actually take our time figuring it out.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the couch. “Okay, you know, my friend had this phase with his boyfriend too. And guess what?”
Bucky raises a brow. “What?”
“They figured out that they were just both missing each other and hadn't had sex in months.” You turn to look at him, half-serious, half-amused. “And after that, they made sure every time they could. And boom! they’re married.”
Bucky blinks.
Then, he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Are you saying we just needed more sex?”
“I'm saying maybe we were overcomplicating things.” You smirk, nudging his side. “I mean, look at tonight.”
Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes, but there’s something softer in the way he’s looking at you now. A little lighter.
“Alright,” he says, squeezing your hand. “So, what? We just keep fucking and hope for a ring at the end of it?”
You laugh, feeling something inside you ease for the first time in a while. “Not just that,” you tease. “But.. I think we stop trying to make this relationship fit some perfect idea of what it should be, and just–” You shrug. “Be. Together. The way that works for us.”
Bucky watches you for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I like that plan.”
You squeeze his hand a little tighter, eyes searching his. The weight of everything, the fights, the breakups, the uncertainty, hangs in the air between you. But so does something else. Something softer.
“I love you.”
Bucky’s breath hitches, just for a second. His grip on your hand tightens like he needs to hold onto you, to this moment. And when he exhales, it’s slow, careful, like he’s letting something settle inside him.
Then he looks at you, really looks at you, and he smiles. Like ‘Finally. You see me.’
“I love you more, Y/N.”
And this time, it doesn’t feel like a promise they say in movies, or something said out of desperation. It just is.
Like breathing. Like something inevitable. Like something real.
And for once, you think, maybe this time, we’ll get it right.
a/n: based on true events .. ?
divider from: omi-resources