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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 3 days ago

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The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader - part1

Summary: You want to tell a story no one has told before—not of the Winter Soldier, but of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT in 2nd chapter. So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: I have been writing it for a while... having this idea in my head for over a year or so... I hope you guys like it reading at least as much as I loved writing it <3 Because the story is too long (ooopies) I need to divide it into two chapters, so apologies, but blame Tumblr, not me ;)

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

The city’s symphony hummed through your half-open window—a blend of car horns, distant chatter, and the rustle of wind against skyscrapers. Beneath it all, the low, smoky cadence of jazz from your turntable added a timeless rhythm to the scene. You sat at your desk, eyes drawn to the framed black-and-white photograph perched on its corner: your great-grandfather, uniform sharp as his gaze, shaking hands with Captain America.

The photo was more than a relic. Its corners were frayed, the edges softened by years of proud display, but its essence remained undiminished—a talisman of duty, an unspoken promise that had been passed down with every new generation. To you, it was more than a family heirloom. It was a call to action.

Maybe that’s why the Avengers had always felt less like strangers in capes and more like a cause you were meant to champion. You weren’t just drawn to them; you were tethered to their story, defending them when no one else would.

Your career in journalism hadn’t begun with dreams of fame or Pulitzers. No, it had been born out of something far simpler and more profound: a sense of responsibility. The day Tony Stark stood at that podium and declared, “I am Iron Man,” the world had turned on him faster than it had celebrated him. One moment he was a hero; the next, a reckless billionaire with a penchant for self-destruction. The headlines were ruthless, tabloids voracious in their takedowns. But you? You saw something else.

Instinct, or maybe that familial debt, told you there was more beneath the bravado. With a press badge still warm from the printer and a recorder borrowed from your college newsroom, you wrote your first piece. It wasn’t perfect—raw around the edges, maybe a little too earnest—but it defended Tony Stark in a way no one else dared to.

To your astonishment, it caught his attention. Months later, you found yourself in the legendary Stark workshop, an organized chaos of brilliance and madness. Tony, tinkering with a half-finished contraption, had barely glanced up when you entered.

“Nice piece,” he said, his tone as dry as the scotch he usually favored. “Didn’t expect anyone to actually get it right.”

You fumbled for a response, somewhere between awe and intimidation. “I just… wanted to tell the truth.”

He finally looked at you, a glimmer of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Well, aren’t you noble?”

That was the beginning. Over the years, you became a fixture in Tony’s world—not a friend exactly, but a constant presence. The one journalist he could count on to navigate the blurred lines between heroism and humanity without sensationalism. You stood by him through scandals and triumphs, from his bold experiments to the fallout of the Sokovia Accords.

“You’re one of the only people who doesn’t make me want to throw my drink at the TV,” he once told you at one of his infamous parties, raising his glass with a smirk. “That’s high praise, by the way.”

Your relationship with Steve Rogers was different. Where Tony was sharp edges and biting wit, Steve was all steadfast resolve and quiet strength. You first met him at a charity gala, where he lingered at the edges of the room like a man still learning how to fit into this new century. When you mentioned the photograph of your great-grandfather, his expression softened.

“Thank you for your family’s service,” he said, shaking your hand with sincerity that left a lasting impression.

Steve earned your trust slowly, just as you earned his. There was no pretense with him, no theatrics. He respected your work—even when it challenged him—and you, in turn, respected his unwavering moral compass. That respect brought you to his Brooklyn apartment one crisp autumn morning, your notebook clutched tightly in your hands.

Steve greeted you at the door, his hair slightly mussed from an early run, dressed in the kind of casual simplicity that made him seem all the more unassuming. He waved you inside with a curious smile.

“What’s this about?” he asked as you settled onto the worn couch.

You hesitated, knowing the weight of what you were about to say. “It’s about James Barnes.”

His expression hardened, his guard rising instinctively. “What about him?”

“I want to tell his story,” you said, keeping your tone steady but earnest.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiff. “Why?”

“Because people deserve to know the truth,” you replied. “Right now, all they see is the Winter Soldier—a weapon, a killer. But that’s not who he is. It’s not who he was. I want to give him a chance to tell his side, to show the world the man beneath the headlines.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Steve stared at a spot on the floor, the weight of your words sinking in. Finally, he looked up, his gaze filled with both caution and hope.

“And you think an article will fix that?” he asked softly.

“It’s a start,” you said. “Let me interview him. Let me write a series that goes beyond what he’s done—to who he is. Let people see him as more than his past.”

Steve exhaled slowly, the conflict evident in his furrowed brow. “Bucky doesn’t trust easily,” he said at last. “And I don’t blame him. What you’re asking… It's a lot.”

“I know,” you said, leaning forward. “But I believe in him, Steve. And I think you do, too.”

For a moment, the room felt heavier than the two of you. Then, Steve nodded, his resolve softening. “I’ll talk to him. But it’s his decision. If he says no…”

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

As you stepped out into the brisk fall air, your chest felt lighter, the ache of doubt replaced by the spark of determination. This wasn’t just another story. It was a chance to rewrite the narrative, to shed light on the shadows Hydra had left behind.

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

The kitchen in the Avengers Compound was unusually still, save for the soft hiss of the espresso machine steaming milk. Early sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching motes of dust in its golden glow. Steve Rogers sat at the island, his hands wrapped around a glass of water. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm against the countertop, betraying the careful composure of his expression. He was rehearsing his words, running through the conversation he was about to have—one he knew wouldn’t be easy. But then again, when did anything involving Tony Stark ever come without complications?

The sound of footsteps broke the quiet. Tony breezed in, tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee mug in the other. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a faded logo of a band whose prime was decades past, hung loose over a pair of well-worn jeans. His mismatched socks peeked out as he moved, their carelessness somehow perfectly in character.

“Cap,” Tony greeted without pausing, setting his coffee down with a deliberate clink. “You’ve got that look. What is it this time? End of the world? Time travel? Or did someone touch my lab without leaving a thank-you note?”

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Tony. It’s not that serious.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony drawled, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Serious to you usually means catastrophic to the rest of us, so go ahead. Lay it on me.”

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “It’s about Bucky.”

Tony stilled mid-sip, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly before he set the mug down. “Of course it is,” he said, his tone sliding into mock exasperation. “Alright, what’s going on with Barnes this time? And don’t tell me this is where you ask me to bankroll his therapy bills. I will, but only because I’m a masochist.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitched—a shadow of humor undercutting the still-fresh scars of their shared history. Years had softened the rift between Tony and Bucky, but some wounds lingered like phantom pains, waiting for moments like these to ache.

“It’s not that,” Steve replied, shooting him a sharp look. “This is… different. Someone wants to help him.”

Tony’s brow arched, skepticism flickering in his dark eyes. “Someone? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you mean her—our resident do-gooder with a press badge.”

Steve nodded.

Tony whistled low, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to hand it to her. Girl’s got guts. And a death wish if she thinks she can crack open that vault of suppressed trauma Barnes is carrying.”

“She’s not just doing this on a whim, Tony,” Steve said firmly. “She wants to tell his story. The real story. Not just the headlines or the conspiracy theories.”

Tony tilted his head, his lips quirking in thought. “I’ll give her this: she’s got a way of spinning truth into something people can stomach. Hell, if it weren’t for her, the world would still think I’m just an egomaniac with a God complex. Not that they’re entirely wrong.” He grinned briefly before sobering. “But Barnes? That’s a mountain of baggage even she might not be able to unpack.”

“She can handle it,” Steve said, unwavering. “If anyone can, it’s her.”

Tony ran a hand over his face, the humor ebbing from his expression. “Alright, Rogers. Sell it to Barnes. But if he snaps and puts another dent in my walls, you’re footing the repair bill this time.”

---

In the compound’s gym, the rhythmic thud of fists against leather echoed through the space. Bucky Barnes was relentless, his punches driving into the heavy bag with the precision of a man who had fought too many battles to count. Sweat slicked his brow and clung to his shirt, but he didn’t pause. The steady impact was the only thing keeping the noise in his head at bay.

“Bucky,” came Steve’s voice, quiet but firm, from the doorway.

Bucky stopped mid-swing, his breath heavy as he turned. Steve approached slowly, hands in his pockets, his expression calm but resolute—the way he always looked when he was about to say something he knew wouldn’t go over well.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, reaching for the towel draped across a bench.

Steve leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “It’s about someone who wants to talk to you. Someone I trust.”

Bucky frowned, suspicion tightening his features. “Talk to me? About what?”

“Your story,” Steve said simply. “She’s a journalist. Someone who’s been with us since the beginning. She’s defended Tony, stood by me… she understands what it means to fight for the truth, even when it’s hard.”

Bucky scoffed, tossing the towel aside. “What truth is there to tell, Steve? The world doesn’t want to hear it. They don’t care about who I was—they only see what I’ve done.”

“That’s exactly why she wants to do this,” Steve countered. “To show people who you are now. Who you were before Hydra. To give them a reason to look beyond the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gaze falling to the floor. “You think one article will fix everything? That people will forget the blood on my hands?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. “But it might make them see the full picture. And if anyone can get it right, it’s her.”

Bucky was silent, the weight of Steve’s words pressing down like the memories he tried so hard to suppress. Finally, he looked up. “Why her?”

“Because I trust her,” Steve replied. “And if you can trust me, then trust this: she won’t make you regret it.”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll meet her. But I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I need,” Steve said, a hint of relief softening his voice.

---

As Steve left, the gym fell back into its familiar stillness. Bucky sat on the bench, staring at the floor. The idea of sharing his story—letting a stranger into the labyrinth of his past—felt impossible. But he owed Steve. And maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself too.

He resumed wrapping his hands, his movements slower this time. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the doubt and the fear, a small flicker of hope sparked—a fragile ember, but an ember nonetheless.

---

The gym at Avengers Tower was still, an expanse of silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. The sharp tang of leather, sweat, and faintly metallic cleaning agents lingered in the air. You arrived earlier than planned, your footsteps soft against the polished floor as you took in the emptiness of the space. It was better this way. You’d asked Steve to let you handle this alone—not out of pride, but because this conversation required something unspoken, something delicate.

This wasn’t just about Bucky Barnes. It was about trust, a foundation that could only be laid between the two of you.

The door creaked open, and a shadow spilled across the floor. Bucky stepped inside, his movements deliberate, shoulders broad and heavy with tension. His dark T-shirt and track pants clung to a frame honed by war and survival. His long hair framed his face, softening features etched by years of conflict. But it was his eyes—those stormy blue-gray eyes—that hit hardest. They swept over the room, sharp and assessing, before landing on you.

You felt the air leave your lungs. Steve had warned you about Bucky’s presence, the way he carried himself with a silence that could fill a space, heavy and unyielding. But standing there, facing him, it wasn’t just his silence—it was the weight of his past, worn like a second skin.

He lingered by the doorway for a moment, the hesitation subtle but unmistakable, before crossing the room. His steps were quiet, almost predatory, his body language cautious but not unkind. Without a word, he sank to the floor in the far corner of the gym, his back to the wall, knees bent, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over stone.

“So are you,” you replied with a soft smile, easing yourself to the floor across from him. You kept the distance respectful but not distant—close enough to bridge, far enough to let him feel in control.

The silence between you stretched, taut and uneasy. You could feel it radiating off him—the tension, the readiness to retreat or fight if the moment called for it.

“I appreciate you meeting with me,” you began gently, your tone steady but warm. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Bucky’s lips twitched—a flicker of dry humor that barely creased his face. “You’d be right.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light, unobtrusive. “Fair enough. Let’s make a deal, then—if you want me gone, just say the word, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze pinning you. “Steve said you’re stubborn.”

“He’s not wrong,” you admitted, your smile widening slightly. “But I promise I’m not here to push you into anything. This is just a conversation.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment, the weight of his stare pressing down like a physical force. Then, with a reluctant nod, he gestured for you to continue.

You introduced yourself, offering your full name. “I’m a journalist. Though, I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I’ve been writing about the Avengers for years. My first piece was about Tony, back when he announced he was Iron Man.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, faint amusement flickering across his face. “Tony Stark. Bet that was something.”

“It was,” you said, laughing softly. “He thought I was some starry-eyed rookie—and, to be fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. But over time, I guess I earned his trust. I’ve been writing about the team ever since. I don’t take sides. I just try to tell the truth.”

Bucky leaned back, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “And Steve? How’d you meet him?”

“My great-grandfather,” you said, your voice softening. “He was in the 107th. Steve saved him during the war. There’s a picture of them shaking hands—it’s been in my family for decades. When I met Steve, I told him about it. I guess that’s how it all started.”

Something flickered in Bucky’s eyes—recognition, curiosity. He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Your great-grandfather… William, right? Had the weirdest way of talking I’ve ever heard.”

You froze, your breath catching. “You… remember him?”

Bucky nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I do. He was a good man. Brave. Had this sharp sense of humor that could catch you off guard. You’ve got his eyes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the connection unexpected and profound. You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat, managing a quiet, “I didn’t think you’d remember him. That means… a lot.”

Bucky shrugged, but there was a warmth in his expression now—a subtle thawing of the guarded lines around his mouth and eyes.

Clearing your throat, you reached into your bag and pulled out a stack of printed articles, sliding them across the floor. “These are some of the pieces I’ve written. About Tony, Steve, the team. I thought it might help if you got to know me a little better.”

Bucky picked up the stack, flipping through the pages. His eyes moved over the headlines, lingering on a photograph of Steve. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, not looking up.

“Because I believe in second chances,” you said simply. “And because the world only knows one side of your story. I think it’s time they saw the whole picture.”

Bucky set the articles down, his jaw tightening. “And what if I don’t want them to?”

“Then that’s your choice,” you replied. “If you tell me no, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never hear from me again. But all I’m asking is for a chance. Let me tell your story—with your permission, on your terms. Nothing gets published without your approval.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp and probing. “You’re putting a lot of faith in someone you don’t know.”

“I am,” you admitted, holding his stare. “But sometimes, the people who don’t think they deserve faith are the ones who need it the most.”

Bucky leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, a swirl of conflict and curiosity. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Relief bloomed in your chest, but you kept it tempered. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you for hearing me out, Bucky. That means more than you know.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and offered a small smile—unguarded, honest.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. It wasn’t pity or fear—it was something he hadn’t seen in years. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something crack through the armor of his guilt.

It terrified him.

---

The morning light spilled through your apartment window, golden and soft, stretching across the room in fractured beams. It casts a gentle glow over your desk, illuminating the scattered notes, books, and the faint ring left behind by your coffee mug. You sat motionless, fingers poised above the keyboard, your laptop’s screen glowing faintly in the quiet.

The cursor blinked, mocking your hesitation. Words had always been your refuge, your weapon, but this was different. This wasn’t just about telling a story—it was about trust, about reaching into the shadows of someone else’s life and hoping they’d let you in.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. You adjusted the blanket draped over your shoulders, feeling its weight settle around you, a comforting barrier against the uncertainty creeping in. Finally, you exhaled a long, slow breath and began typing.

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

Thank you again for meeting with me the other day. I know how much it cost you to be there, to sit across from a stranger and let your guard down, even for a moment. I don’t take that lightly, and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate your time and your willingness to listen.

As I mentioned before, I want to approach this project carefully and with the respect it deserves. I’m not interested in sensationalism or rehashing the narratives that have already been written about you. The world has enough stories about the Winter Soldier. What I want to do is different—I want to tell the story of the man. The friend. The brother. The soldier who existed long before the shadows ever found you.

I’ve been thinking about how to begin, and I wanted to share a rough outline of the first article with you. This isn’t a finished piece; it’s just a concept, a foundation I hope to build with your guidance, your voice, and your trust.

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

Before the world whispered his name in fear, James Buchanan Barnes was simply a boy from Brooklyn. Born to a city that thrived on resilience, he was shaped by streets where laughter mixed with the roar of trains and kindness could be as fleeting as the breeze off the East River. He was the boy with the quick grin and sharper wit, the teenager who walked with a quiet confidence and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved.

He became a soldier, not for the glory but because it was the right thing to do. His sacrifices were not grandiose; they were quiet and deeply personal, offered not to the world but to the people who mattered to him. He stood shoulder to shoulder with heroes but never sought to be one himself. He was, in so many ways, a reflection of the best his generation had to offer.

But history can be cruel. And fate? Even crueler. Through no fault of his own, James Buchanan Barnes became a name that conjured fear, a figure cloaked in tragedy. To the world, he was the Winter Soldier—a ghost forged by the hands of those who sought to strip him of everything he was. For a time, they succeeded.

But what the world doesn’t see is the man who fought tooth and nail to reclaim his humanity. They don’t see the friend who would give everything to protect those he loves. They don’t see the man who carries the weight of choices he never made yet feels responsible for all the same.

This isn’t just a story about redemption—it’s a story about survival, about finding identity in the aftermath of unimaginable loss. It’s a story about what it means to fight your way out of the dark and into the light, scarred but standing.

The world knows the myth. The shadow. The weapon. But James Buchanan Barnes is not a ghost of the past. He’s a man, living proof that even in the aftermath of tragedy, there is hope, resilience, and the possibility of something more.

This is his story. Told not by those who fear him or those who sought to control him, but by the one person who knows it best: him.

There’s something else I wanted to share with you—a photo. It’s the one I mentioned during our meeting, the picture of my great-grandfather with Steve during the war. It’s been part of my family’s story for as long as I can remember, a quiet reminder of courage and loyalty.

But now, it means even more to me. When you said you remembered him—his voice, his humor—it reminded me how deeply our stories can ripple through time, even when we don’t realize it. That small moment of recognition meant more to me than I can express.

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

Take your time, Bucky. There’s no rush, no pressure. This isn’t about a deadline or a byline—it’s about something bigger. I’m here to listen, to answer your questions, your doubts, anything at all. All I ask is that you think about it.

Whatever you decide, thank you. For your time. For your trust, however fragile it may feel.

Best regards.

---

As you reread the email, your fingers hovered over the “Send” button. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of what you were asking settling over you. Then, with a final, steadying breath, you clicked.

The email vanished into the ether, and with it, a piece of your hope, your determination. The sun climbed higher through the window, casting the room in golden light, but you barely noticed. Instead, you sat there, still and waiting, the faint hum of your laptop the only sound in the quiet room.

---

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of his phone casting pale light across his face. He hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon, if at all. Yet there it was—your name, standing out in bold at the top of his inbox. His thumb hovered over the notification, hesitating.

Part of him wanted to ignore it, let it sit there untouched. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was—but because he wasn’t sure he was ready. The idea of someone wanting to dig into his past, to lay bare the scars and shadows he’d spent years burying, made his chest feel too tight.

But then he thought of the way you’d looked at him in the gym. Calm, patient, unafraid. And that damn smile you’d given him before you left—a smile that wasn’t forced or laced with pity, just honest. It had lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit.

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

The words hit him harder than he expected. He read the outline twice, then again, each pass leaving him with a knot in his chest he couldn’t quite untangle. This wasn’t what he’d anticipated. There was no pity in your words, no attempt to paint him as a tragic figure or a monster. Instead, there was care—an earnest effort to understand him, not as the world saw him, but as the man he was trying to be.

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

The image filled his screen, black and white but vivid all the same. Your great-grandfather, standing tall in his uniform, shaking hands with Steve. Bucky enlarged it, his fingers brushing the edges of the screen as though touching the past itself.

The memory surfaced, distant but clear. He remembered the firm handshake, the soldier’s steady gaze filled with quiet gratitude. He remembered Steve’s smile—small but unwavering, the kind that could make you believe they’d already won the war, even when the odds said otherwise.

“She’s really got his eyes,” Bucky murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, fleeting but real.

He set the phone down, leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. The photo stayed etched in his mind, a bridge between the past and the present he hadn’t expected. His gaze shifted to the articles you’d included, still neatly stacked on the table beside him. For a long moment, he just stared at them, debating.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he picked up the first one.

It was about Tony. One of your earliest pieces, written back when the world wasn’t sure what to make of Iron Man.

"Stark isn’t perfect—far from it—but he doesn’t hide behind a mask of infallibility. He owns his flaws, his mistakes, and his triumphs. That kind of honesty is rare, and it’s exactly what makes him worth believing in."

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he read, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could picture Tony in those early days, all sharp edges and bravado, as polarizing as he was brilliant. And yet, your words cut through the noise, painting him not as an enigma but as a man.

The second article was about Steve. Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly on the paper as he read.

"Captain America has always been a symbol, but symbols are rarely understood in their entirety. Steve Rogers is not just the man with the shield; he is a man who bears the weight of his choices with quiet strength. To reduce him to hero or villain is to miss the heart of who he is."

By the time he finished, Bucky sat back, the papers still in his hands. Each article told a story, not of perfect heroes but of flawed, complicated people. People who’d been trusted with the weight of the world and had carried it as best they could.

And then there was you. Your voice threaded through every word—not just as an observer, but as someone who cared, who wanted the world to see what you saw.

Bucky’s mind raced. Steve trusted you. Tony trusted you. And now, maybe—just maybe—he could, too.

He picked up his phone again, his thumb hovering over the reply button. His chest tightened at the thought of agreeing, of opening himself up to something he wasn’t sure he could handle. But then he thought of that smile again, the way it had silenced the doubts just long enough for him to believe this might be possible.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he started typing.

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

I’ve read the articles you sent. They’re good—honest.

I don’t know if I can do this, but I’m willing to try. You’re right. I need time to think, but I’ll give you a chance.

Thank you for the photo. It means more than you probably realize.

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, setting the phone down quickly, almost like it might burn him if he held onto it any longer.

The silence of the room pressed in around him, but for once, it wasn’t oppressive. It felt… lighter, somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d taken the first step toward something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for in a long time.

---

The gym felt quieter than usual as you stepped inside, the faint hum of the air conditioning blending with the soft creak of the door. Morning light filtered in through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The space felt familiar now—not in a comforting way, exactly, but in the sense of stepping into a story already half-written, waiting for its next chapter.

Bucky was easy to spot, sitting near the far wall with one leg bent, his arm draped over his knee. He seemed relaxed at first glance, but there was an edge to him, a tension in the line of his shoulders and the way his gaze flicked briefly toward you.

“Hey,” you said softly, approaching with a small smile, one you hoped might ease the weight in the room.

He nodded in return, his eyes shifting to the notebook tucked under your arm. “No laptop? No recorder?”

You chuckled as you sat down across from him, leaving a comfortable amount of space. “I figured they’d stress you out,” you admitted. “Plus, I’m old-fashioned. I like writing things by hand—it helps me think.”

That smile—the same unguarded one you’d given him before—spread across your face again. You noticed how it shifted something in Bucky, just the faintest softening of his expression. His shoulders dropped slightly, and the guarded look in his eyes dulled, if only a little.

“Old-fashioned, huh?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Very,” you replied with a laugh. “And this way, you can read everything I write. Line by line, if you want. Nothing gets recorded, and if something goes wrong…” You tapped the edge of the notebook lightly. “I burn it. Problem solved.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking further. “Burn it?”

“Yep,” you said, your tone mock-serious. “I’ve even got a metal trash can ready for dramatic effect.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement, a sound so soft it almost slipped past you. But it was there. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something in Bucky—a trace of humor, unburdened by the weight of his past.

He leaned back against the wall, his blue-gray eyes studying you. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment.

You tilted your head curiously. “What did you expect?”

“Someone nosier. Pushier. Maybe a little annoying.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, and Bucky’s lips twitched again, as if he was trying to resist smiling back.

“Well, give me time,” you teased. “I can be annoying when I need to be.”

His smirk lingered for a moment before fading into something more thoughtful. “Tell me about your childhood.”

The question caught you off guard. “My childhood?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his voice even as his gaze stayed fixed on you.

“Uh… well, it was pretty normal,” you said with a small shrug. “I grew up in a loving family. My parents are still together—they’re celebrating their 30th anniversary this year. I’m an only child, so I was spoiled rotten. My great-grandfather was one of my favorite people. I used to sit with him for hours, listening to his stories. That’s probably where I got my love of storytelling.”

You smiled at the memory, but as you looked at Bucky, you noticed a shift in his expression—a flicker of something knowing.

“You already knew that, didn’t you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Bucky didn’t deny it. “I checked,” he admitted, his tone unapologetic. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about who you are.”

You laughed again, waving it off like it didn’t bother you. “Fair enough. It’s not my first rodeo. When I met Tony, he knew more about me than I did. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told me my blood type.”

That earned another quiet laugh from Bucky, the sound low and unpolished but real. “I still don’t trust easy,” he said, his voice softer now.

“And you shouldn’t,” you replied without hesitation. “I’d be more worried if you did.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly reassured by your response. But then his expression shifted, his eyes shadowed by something heavier. “There’s one thing you got wrong,” he said quietly.

“Oh?”

“In your introduction to the articles,” he began, meeting your gaze directly. “You said I always did what was best. That’s not true. I didn’t volunteer to join the army—I was drafted. You can look it up. My number’s on record.”

His words weren’t bitter, but you could hear the weight behind them. This wasn’t about correcting a mistake—it was about how he saw himself, the guilt he carried.

You didn’t falter. You met his gaze with the same quiet sincerity you’d shown before. “I know,” you said softly. “I did my research.”

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

“Just because you were drafted doesn’t mean you weren’t a good man,” you said. “It doesn’t change the fact that you fought to protect the people you cared about. That you were brave. That you mattered.”

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t respond. The way you said it—not as flattery or pity, but as something you truly believed—hit him harder than he expected. His chest tightened, and he looked away, the words settling in his mind like a stone dropped into water.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, your smile soft but unwavering.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt purposeful, like something unspoken was shifting between you. A bridge was being built, slow and deliberate, but solid.

Finally, you flipped open your notebook, breaking the quiet with a light, playful tone. “Alright,” you said. “Now that we’ve established I’m old-fashioned and nosy, are you ready to get started?”

Bucky glanced at you, his lips twitching faintly. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Let’s get started.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt the faint stirrings of trust—fragile but real—blooming in his chest.

---

The gym had become a rhythm unto itself, a sanctuary of quiet purpose. It wasn’t just a place for physical training anymore—it was where conversations were born, where silences grew into something meaningful, and where you and Bucky began to find a fragile but growing connection.

At first, your exchanges were cautious, fleeting, like testing the waters with bare toes. A comment here, a question there. But over time, those ripples expanded, stretching across the stillness until the silences between words became less about hesitation and more about comfort.

This wasn’t just an assignment for you anymore. You’d realized quickly that if you wanted Bucky to trust you, you had to strip away the pretense of being a journalist. What he needed wasn’t someone dissecting his past with surgical precision—he needed someone who could remind him he still had a future.

---

“Do you always carry that thing?” Bucky asked one afternoon, nodding toward the leather-bound notebook in your lap as he wrapped his hands in preparation for a sparring session.

You glanced down at the familiar journal, running your fingers over its worn edges. “Always,” you said with a small smile. “I’m old-fashioned like that. Writing things by hand just feels… more real. Like the words have weight.”

Bucky tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “Don’t people say the opposite? If it’s not online, it doesn’t exist?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe. But if the world ever loses its tech, at least my notebooks will still be around.”

His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Fair point.”

---

Another time, you sat cross-legged on the floor, your notebook abandoned beside you. “Did you see they’re opening a new exhibition at the astronomy museum?” you asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Bucky paused mid-swing at the punching bag, glancing over at you. “Astronomy?”

“Yeah,” you said, your grin widening. “Space is kind of my thing. It’s infinite. Thinking about it makes me feel small, but in a good way, you know? Plus, this exhibit has a whole section on Mars rovers. I’ve always thought they were cool.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his faint smile betraying his amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the space type.”

“Oh, I’m into all sorts of nerdy stuff,” you said, waving a hand. “Space, ancient civilizations, true crime. I’m basically a walking trivia machine.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Bucky replied, his tone dry but warm.

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand. “Your turn. What’s something you’re into that I wouldn’t expect?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought about it. “I dunno,” he said after a pause. “I used to like going to the movies. Haven’t been in a while, though.”

“Really?” you said, your excitement piqued. “What kind of movies? Don’t tell me you’re secretly into rom-coms.”

That earned a snort of genuine laughter, his smile breaking through in full force. “Not exactly. I liked the old war films. Westerns, too.”

“War films and Westerns,” you repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. Fitting, I guess.”

“And you?” he asked, surprising you with the shift.

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

You pretended to think hard, tapping your chin theatrically. “Probably cheesy underdog sports movies. You know, the ones where everyone comes together, and the team wins in the end? Gets me every time.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

---

“Do you ever miss home?” Bucky asked one afternoon, his voice quiet as he adjusted the wrappings on his hands.

You tilted your head. “You mean where I grew up?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp, watching your reaction carefully.

“I don’t really think of home as a place anymore,” you admitted, the edges of your voice softening. “For me, it’s people. My parents, my friends—the ones who make me feel like I belong. I visit the house I grew up in sometimes, though. My parents still live there. It hasn’t changed much.”

“You’re close with them?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, smiling at the thought. “They’re my biggest fans—and my harshest critics. My mom proofreads all my articles. My dad jokes that it’s because she doesn’t trust me to catch my own typos.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Bucky, and the sound warmed something deep in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked carefully, your gaze steady but gentle.

Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know if I have a home anymore,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Not the way you’re talking about it.”

Your heart tightened, and you nodded slowly. “I get that. But maybe home isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you build.”

His eyes flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you could tell your words had settled somewhere deep.

---

The sound of his punches against the bag created a steady rhythm as you sat nearby, scrolling through your phone. The sudden sight of a headline made you gasp softly, your face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh my God,” you exclaimed, turning your phone toward Bucky. “Look at this!”

He paused mid-swing, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced at the screen. “What is it?”

“This lion cub!” you said, scooting closer. “It was just born at the zoo. Look at that face—tell me that isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

Bucky leaned down slightly, peering at the image. The tiny cub, all fluff and oversized paws, was curled up against its mother.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you started to wonder if you’d just embarrassed yourself. Then, to your surprise, he nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Yeah… it’s cute.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by his quiet agreement.

“Really cute,” he added, his voice softer now, as if the cub had cracked through some small part of his guarded exterior.

You laughed nervously, feeling your cheeks flush. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to trade lives with a lion cub? Just sleeping, cuddling, and being adorable all day?”

Bucky straightened, grabbing a towel but letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. “You’re kind of like that already.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He shrugged, his voice casual but his expression unreadable. “You’re always cheerful. It’s… nice.”

The compliment was so unexpected, so genuine, that it made your heart stutter. You quickly looked back at your phone, pretending to focus. “Well, someone’s gotta bring the sunshine, right?”

Bucky didn’t reply, but when you glanced up, his gaze was still on you, something unspoken passing between you.

And for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about earning his trust. Something more was blooming here—something delicate, unspoken, and undeniably real.

---

The topic of food came up one day, unexpectedly light amid the ebb and flow of your usual conversations.

“There’s this food truck on the other side of town,” you said, leaning forward, your excitement bubbling over. “It’s run by locals, and everyone says it’s amazing. They’ve been doing these community food festivals, and I’ve been dying to check it out.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his posture still relaxed from finishing his workout. “Why haven’t you gone yet?”

You shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it. Plus, it’s more fun to go with someone.”

To your surprise, Bucky didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “You’ll… go? With me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Why not?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, searching for some hint of teasing, but his face remained calm, open. Then, before you could stop yourself, a laugh bubbled out of you, sudden and bright.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asked, though his tone was tinged with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” you said between chuckles, shaking your head. “I’m just shocked, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh like that, and it struck something deep within you, a warmth that spread through your chest.

“You have a great laugh,” you said before you could think better of it. The moment the words left your lips, your cheeks flamed, and you clamped your mouth shut.

Bucky tilted his head, watching you curiously, but instead of teasing, he simply nodded. “When are we going?”

---

The evening air was thick with the scent of grilled meats, sizzling spices, and fried dough. Strings of warm lights hung overhead, casting a golden glow over the bustling food festival. Laughter and conversation rose and fell around you as locals and tourists darted between colorful trucks, balancing steaming plates of food and clinking plastic cups.

Bucky walked beside you, dressed inconspicuously in a baseball cap pulled low and a loose jacket concealing his metal arm. To anyone else, he looked like any other man enjoying the festival. But to you, the way his eyes scanned the food stalls with curiosity rather than wariness was a quiet triumph.

“Okay, what should we try first?” you asked, practically bouncing on your heels as you scanned the array of options.

Bucky nodded toward a truck boasting “authentic Italian cuisine.” “You pick. I’ll follow.”

Grinning, you made your way to the truck, and soon you were holding a plate of steaming spaghetti carbonara. You handed Bucky a fork, scooping up a bite and offering it to him.

“Here, try this,” you said, holding it out.

Bucky hesitated for only a moment before leaning in and taking the bite. His eyes widened slightly, and a low, involuntary groan escaped him.

You froze. That sound—so small, so unintentional—sent a jolt through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“That good, huh?” you said, trying to keep your voice light and steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Bucky nodded, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, it’s good.”

You smiled, taking a bite yourself. “Told you. Italians don’t mess around with food.”

---

As you wandered through the festival, stopping at a stall serving Chinese dumplings, you found yourself rambling between bites.

“You know, I used to want to be a food critic,” you said, laughing softly. “It seemed like the dream, right? Traveling, eating amazing food, writing about it. But then I realized I’d feel awful writing bad reviews. Like, what if the chef was just having a bad day?”

Bucky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You feel bad about criticizing chefs, but not politicians?”

You pouted in mock defiance, crossing your arms. “Politicians deserve it,” you said, your tone playful.

His laugh came louder this time, a deep, rich sound that made you look up at him in surprise. He was smiling—really smiling—and the sight caught you off guard.

“What?” he asked, his laughter fading into something softer.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head as a grin tugged at your lips. “It’s just nice to see you like this.”

He glanced away, but not before you caught the faintest hint of color rising in his cheeks.

---

Later, you found yourself at a shooting range game. The target? A giant teddy bear sitting proudly at the center of the stand.

You stared at the bear, your lips curling into a wistful smile.

“Why are you staring at it like that?” Bucky asked, following your gaze.

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to win one of those, like in the movies. But I’m terrible at shooting games.”

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

Without a word, he handed you the food he’d been holding and stepped up to the booth. He exchanged a few bills with the operator, picked up the air rifle, and lined up his shot.

One by one, the cans toppled with effortless precision. The entire thing took less than ten seconds. The operator handed Bucky the bear, looking vaguely impressed.

Turning to you, Bucky held out the bear, his smirk softening. “There. Happy?”

Your squeal of delight was uncontainable as you hugged the bear to your chest. “Are you kidding me? This is amazing!”

Bucky chuckled, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just shook his head, the faint smile lingering on his lips.

---

Back at the Tower, you sat on the floor of your apartment, the giant teddy bear propped up beside you like a loyal guardian. The box of desserts you’d brought home lay open between you and Bucky, who, to your surprise, had settled close—so close that his shoulder brushed against yours.

For a while, you ate in comfortable silence, but then Bucky broke it, his voice quiet.

“Why do you do all this?” he asked, not looking at you. “The food trucks, the conversations… You haven’t even written anything yet. Feels like I’m wasting your time.”

You set your fork down, startled by the vulnerability in his tone.

“You’re not wasting my time,” you said firmly. “I don’t care if it takes months to write anything. Getting to know you—this you—is the best part of all of this.”

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“This,” you continued, your voice softening. “The way you laugh, the way you care about the little things… That’s what I want people to see. That’s who you are.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes closing.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you stayed still, letting the warmth of his presence settle around you.

---

The Avengers Tower was unusually quiet as you wandered through its familiar halls. The kind of quiet that followed the steady hum of a busy day winding down, where every footstep seemed louder than it should. You had come, as always, to meet Bucky, notebook tucked snugly under your arm and a lingering thought about whether any desserts were left over from last night.

First, though, tea.

You found the kitchen easily—it wasn’t your first time navigating the compound’s labyrinthine halls. The space was sleek and modern, all polished countertops and gleaming appliances, with enough mugs in the cabinet to serve the entire team and then some. Reaching for two cups, you began preparing something warm, something simple—black tea for him, chamomile for you.

The quiet was broken by a familiar voice, low and tinged with amusement.

“Well, look who it is.”

Startled, you turned, still holding the mug, to see Natasha Romanoff leaning against the doorframe. She had that effortless poise she always carried, arms crossed and lips curled into a small, knowing smirk that seemed to see right through you.

“Natasha,” you greeted, managing a smile. You weren’t surprised to see her—she had a way of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. But something about her always left you feeling slightly off-balance, like you were playing a game without knowing the rules.

She stepped into the kitchen, her movements fluid as she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “How’s it going with Barnes?” she asked casually, though her sharp green eyes betrayed her genuine interest.

“It’s going… amazing,” you admitted, the honesty surprising even yourself. Your cheeks warmed as you added, “He’s amazing.” Then, hesitating, you glanced at her. “But I can’t really tell you more than that. I promised him I wouldn’t talk about what we’ve been working on.”

Natasha’s expression softened, the smirk fading into something closer to a real smile. “Good,” she said, her tone gentler now. “He needs that. Someone who keeps their promises.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle over you. “I just want him to feel safe.”

“Safe,” Natasha repeated, her smirk returning. She tilted her head slightly, mischief glinting in her gaze. “And how safe do you feel around him? Your cheeks get awfully red when you’re with him.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but she cut you off with a laugh, clearly enjoying herself.

“It’s cute,” she teased, her voice lilting. “The way you look at him. Like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world. And then when he says something unexpected, your face does this little thing—” She mimicked a flustered expression, her grin widening as you groaned.

“Okay, fine,” you said, waving a hand in surrender. “Yes, Bucky is charming. And handsome. And maybe I have a… silly little crush. But that’s all it is. A crush. I’m not here for that, Nat. I’m here to make people see him for who he really is.”

Natasha’s smirk faded as she studied you, her expression turning thoughtful. “And how do you see him?”

The question caught you off guard, but when you answered, your voice was steady. “I see someone who’s kind. Someone who’s trying so hard to be better, even when the world doesn’t give him the chance. Someone who’s funny, and thoughtful, and—” You stopped, shaking your head. “I just want people to see him the way I do.”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t speak. Then she nodded, her approval subtle but unmistakable.

“He’s changing,” she said softly. “Whether it’s because of you or not, I don’t know. But he’s more open. More… himself.”

Her words sent a warmth through you, though they carried a gravity you couldn’t ignore.

“But,” Natasha added, her tone firm now, “you can’t forget that he’s still struggling. Progress isn’t always a straight line. It’s not going to be easy—for him or for you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. And you did. You saw it in the way his laughter sometimes faltered, in the distant look that would creep into his eyes when something triggered an old memory. But you also saw the way he kept trying, and you were willing to try with him.

“Good,” Natasha said, stepping back toward the door. “Then keep doing what you’re doing. And maybe one day, you’ll figure out what that silly little crush of yours really means.”

Before you could respond, she was gone, her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

You stood there for a moment, her words echoing in your mind as you finished preparing the tea. Two mugs in hand, you headed toward the gym, your heart feeling strangely full.

---

When you entered the gym, Bucky was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his posture unusually relaxed. His hair fell in loose strands over his face, and when he looked up, he gave you one of his rare smiles.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

“Hey,” you replied, handing him one of the mugs as you sat down across from him.

As you sipped your tea, the silence between you was easy, comfortable. You found yourself watching him, the way his eyes softened as he stared into his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic as though grounding himself.

“What?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe your feelings for him were something more than a “silly little crush.” But as you sat there, sharing tea and silence with the man who had slowly but surely let you into his world, you realized something else:

Whether or not you could name what you felt didn’t matter.

What mattered was that you were here, together, and that for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes seemed to feel at ease.

---

It started like so many of your conversations did—in the gym. The quiet hum of the air conditioning and the faint creak of leather from the equipment filled the space, a subtle backdrop to the measured rhythm of Bucky’s words. It had become a sanctuary for him, a space where his guarded edges softened, where he could breathe without feeling the weight of a world that still didn’t quite know what to make of him.

You’d learned to let the moments flow naturally, to not push or prod. He didn’t need someone to drag his past out of him. He needed someone who would listen when he was ready.

Today, he was ready.

Bucky sat on the bench, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his vibranium hand resting lightly on his knee. You sat across from him on the floor, cross-legged with your notebook balanced on your lap but largely forgotten. This wasn’t about the notes anymore.

For a while, you talked about little things—the weather, a new bakery you’d heard about, the way the gym smelled faintly of old leather and floor polish. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice softened, and he began.

“My ma,” he said, his gaze distant, his tone almost reverent. “She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. She had this way of making you feel like… like you were the only thing that mattered when she looked at you. But she didn’t take any crap. If I stepped outta line, she’d give me this look. Just one look, and I’d straighten right up.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “She sounds incredible.”

Bucky nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She was. Strong, too. Had to be. My dad worked long hours. Too long, sometimes. But he always made time for us when he could. Used to take me and my sisters to Coney Island whenever he had a free weekend.”

“Coney Island,” you repeated, grinning. “Let me guess—hot dogs?”

Bucky’s smile widened. “Best in the city. I’d fight anyone who said otherwise.”

“You had sisters?” you asked, your tone light but curious. Of course, you knew this already—your research had told you—but you wanted to hear him talk about them. It was the biggest breakthrough yet, and you weren’t about to let it slip away.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening even more. “Two of ‘em. Rebecca was the youngest—she was a firecracker. Always getting herself into trouble and talking her way out of it. Could charm her way past anyone. And Winnie…” His smile faded slightly, turning wistful. “She was the serious one. Always felt like she had to keep the rest of us in line. We used to fight like cats and dogs, but… I miss ‘em.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you gave him a moment, letting the silence stretch gently between you. When you spoke again, your voice was soft, careful.

“And Steve?” you asked. “How’d you meet him?”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Steve… We grew up in the same neighborhood. Scrawniest kid I’d ever seen, but damn, he had guts. Always getting into fights he couldn’t win. I’d end up stepping in, dragging his sorry ass outta trouble more times than I can count. But it didn’t stop him. Stubborn little bastard.”

You laughed at that, the image of a wiry, determined young Steve Rogers standing his ground against impossible odds vivid in your mind. “Sounds like you two were troublemakers.”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky admitted, his smile widening.

“Rumor has it you were a bit of a ladies’ man back then,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shot you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Is that what they say?”

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

He didn’t answer directly, but the knowing look in his eyes was answer enough. You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it drew a softer smile from him.

“Okay,” you said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “What were dates like back then?”

Bucky leaned back slightly, his eyes growing distant as he thought. “Simpler,” he said. “We’d go to the movies—cheap seats, usually. Maybe get ice cream after. And if you really wanted to impress a girl, you’d take her dancing.”

“You danced?” you asked, your tone tinged with playful disbelief.

“I wasn’t much of a dancer,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But it worked. Most of the time.”

You smiled, imagining him in those days, his charm and easy confidence lighting up every room he stepped into. “Sounds romantic,” you said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

The conversation slowed, a quietness settling over the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like standing on the edge of something—like there were more stories waiting, more pieces of him still to be shared.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost hesitant. “I don’t think about those days much anymore.”

“Why not?” you asked gently.

“Because it feels like another life,” he said simply. “Like it happened to someone else. And I’m not sure I deserve to keep those memories.”

The weight of his confession pressed down on you, but you didn’t look away. “You do,” you said firmly. “You deserve every good memory, Bucky. Every single one. They’re yours, and no one—nothing—can take that away from you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, his expression unreadable, but you thought you saw something in his eyes shift. Not quite belief, but the beginning of it.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

For the first time in a long time, you saw a glimpse of the man he used to be—the boy from Brooklyn with a quick grin and an unshakable loyalty to those he loved. And for the first time, you thought maybe he saw a piece of that boy in himself, too.

---

The gym felt heavier than usual when you walked in, a tension hanging in the air that made your chest tighten. Bucky sat on the bench, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor. His metal hand rested on his knee, the faint hum of the vibranium audible in the otherwise silent room.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping closer but leaving a careful distance between you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his tone clipped and cold. He still didn’t look at you. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You frowned, setting your notebook down on the floor beside you as you sat across from him. “Bucky, if you don’t want to talk today, we don’t have to. I don’t want to force—”

“Everyone wants something,” he snapped, his voice cutting through your words like a blade. His eyes finally met yours, sharp and filled with a storm you hadn’t seen in weeks. “They want me to talk, to act normal, to live like none of it ever happened. But it did happen. I can’t just forget about the people I killed, the ones I hurt. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?”

His voice grew louder, more raw with every word, and you felt a pang in your chest at the anguish spilling out of him.

“Bucky—”

“You don’t get it!” he shouted, his fists clenching at his sides. “No one does. You think I can just sit here, smiling and talking about movies, like it’s all fine? Like I’m fine? I’m not!”

His voice cracked on the last word, and before you could respond, his fist slammed into the wall beside your head. The sound reverberated through the room, loud and jarring, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed perfectly still, your breath caught—not because you were afraid, but because of the tears streaming down his face.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment.

He froze, his hand still pressed against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

Without thinking, you reached for him, standing to pull him into a tight hug. He stiffened at first, his body like a coiled spring, but then he collapsed against you, his arms falling limply to his sides as his sobs wracked his body.

You slid down to the floor with him, your arms wrapped around his trembling frame. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your hand moving soothingly over his back. “It’s okay. Nothing happened. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “I’m so scared, so damn scared that I’ll hurt someone. That I’ll hurt you. And you’ll leave, and I can’t—I can’t handle that.”

Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your own eyes as you held him closer. “I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Even if you kick me out, I’m staying. You hear me? You’re stuck with me, Bucky. I don’t care how messy it gets. I’m not going anywhere. Remember? I’m nosy like that.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped him, muffled against your shoulder. Slowly, his metal arm came up, wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breathing uneven but beginning to calm.

The two of you stayed there for a long time, the weight of his pain settling around you like a storm finally breaking. You didn’t say anything more—you just held him, letting him pour out everything he’d been carrying for so long.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red and swollen, but there was something quieter in his expression. He looked at you as though searching for cracks, for some sign that you were afraid or pulling away.

You smiled softly. “We’ll figure this out,” you said. “Together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky nodded. And you knew he believed you.

---

The hum of the elevator seemed louder than usual as it carried you to the common floor of Avengers Tower. Tony had called for you—no, insisted on seeing you—and you couldn’t shake the suspicion that it had something to do with Bucky.

Stepping into the lounge, you found him leaning casually against the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze flicked to you as soon as you entered, and he didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Alright, spill,” he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

You frowned, crossing your arms. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play coy,” Tony shot back, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “Something happened with Barnes. He’s been acting… weird. And by weird, I mean less broody than usual, which is frankly unsettling.”

You sighed, the tension in your chest tightening. “Tony, if Bucky wants to talk to you about something, he will. But that’s between him and me.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting. “Between him and you?” he repeated, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “So now you’re the Winter Soldier Whisperer?”

Your jaw clenched, the words stinging more than you expected. “I’m his friend,” you said evenly.

“Are you?” Tony countered, his tone cool but pointed. “Because last time I checked, you were supposed to be writing about him, not playing therapist.”

The accusation hit harder than it should have, but you didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about writing,” you said, your voice firm. “It’s about helping him. And if you don’t trust me by now, Tony, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the two of you stared each other down, the weight of unspoken words pressing between you.

Finally, Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” he said, his tone softening. “You’ve proved yourself enough times. Just… don’t let him down. He doesn’t need any more of that.”

“I won’t,” you said quietly but with conviction.

Tony studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, his usual smirk tugged faintly at his lips. “Good. Now get out of here before I start saying something sentimental. Can’t have that getting out.”

A smile flickered across your face, and you turned to leave, your chest lighter than when you’d arrived.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, you couldn’t help but think about what Tony had said. This wasn’t just about writing anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

It was about Bucky. About being there for him, no matter what.

---

Later that evening, your apartment was bathed in the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The city’s muffled sounds filtered through the half-open window—honking cars, distant laughter, and the hum of life carrying on outside. Your notebook lay open before you, the first blank page staring back at you like a challenge.

It was time.

You twirled the pen in your fingers, hesitating for a moment. The weight of what you were about to write felt heavier than usual, as though the trust Bucky had placed in you was balancing on the tip of your pen. Taking a deep breath, you began.

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

Before he was a soldier, before he became a shadow in the history books, James Buchanan Barnes was just a boy from Brooklyn.

He grew up in a neighborhood where the buildings leaned too close together, where streets buzzed with life—vendors shouting out their wares, children’s laughter echoing in the alleys, and the distant hiss of trains passing by. Mornings smelled of fresh bread wafting from corner bakeries; evenings carried the smoky tang of burning coal.

Bucky’s family wasn’t wealthy, but they were rich in the ways that mattered. His parents filled their modest apartment with love, loyalty, and a sense of unwavering stability.

As the eldest of three siblings, Bucky took his role as protector seriously, even when it meant teasing his sisters mercilessly. Rebecca, the youngest, was a firecracker—always talking her way into and out of trouble. Winnie, the middle child, was quieter, her serious demeanor often earning her the title of “the responsible one.” But Bucky adored them both fiercely. His sisters would later say he was equal parts troublemaker and guardian, the kind of brother who could make you laugh even as he scolded you for making poor choices.

His father worked long, grueling hours, returning home with hands calloused from years of labor. But he always made time for his children. On weekends, he’d take them to Coney Island, where Bucky would wolf down hot dogs and swear they were the best in the city.

His mother was the cornerstone of their home. She was kind but firm, with a gaze sharp enough to silence even the most defiant child. She taught Bucky how to tie a tie, how to hold a door open, and how to treat people with respect. From her, he learned the quiet strength of standing tall in a world that could often feel like it was trying to knock you down.

It was in that same Brooklyn neighborhood that Bucky met Steve Rogers. Steve was scrawny, sickly, and stubborn—a kid with a lion’s heart trapped in a frame that couldn’t always keep up. The two became fast friends, a duo that seemed inseparable despite their differences.

“He was always picking fights,” Bucky had said once, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t matter that he couldn’t win. He just didn’t know how to back down.”

Where Steve was unwavering in his ideals, Bucky was the one who kept him grounded. And in turn, Steve reminded Bucky of the kind of man he wanted to be—a man who fought not for glory, but because it was right. Together, they became a team. Trouble found them often, but so did moments of quiet triumph—sneaking into a movie theater, sharing a laugh over melting ice cream cones, or walking the long way home just to enjoy the cool Brooklyn nights.

---

The words flowed easier than you’d expected. You didn’t write about the Winter Soldier or the wars he’d fought, the darkness he’d endured. That part would come later. For now, you wanted the world to meet James Buchanan Barnes—the boy who lived, laughed, and loved before the weight of history settled on his shoulders.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. Your palms were clammy as you watched him read, the sound of the paper rustling unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

He sat on the edge of the bench, his posture stiff as his eyes moved over the page. His expression gave nothing away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was searching. “It’s… good,” he said slowly. “Really good. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Weird.”

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

He set the notebook down, his metal fingers tapping lightly against the bench. “Reading about myself like that. Like I’m… normal.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward. “Well, you are normal, Bucky. Or at least as normal as anyone else.”

He chuckled at that, a low, quiet sound that felt like a victory. “Normal, huh? Don’t know if I’ve heard that one before.”

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

Before you left, you handed him a small, carefully wrapped package. He frowned slightly, his gaze flicking from the package to you.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

He unwrapped it carefully, his movements almost hesitant. When he finally revealed the contents—a set of classic movies on Blu-ray—his brow furrowed, but the softness in his expression betrayed him.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied simply, your smile shy but sincere.

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue-gray eyes flicking between you and the gift. Then, to your surprise, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you.

The hug wasn’t born of desperation or pain like the others had been. It was soft, deliberate, and unprompted.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice warm against your ear.

Your heart fluttered as you hugged him back, the solid weight of his arms around you grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he finally pulled away, your cheeks burned, but the look on his face made it worth it.

For the first time, you thought maybe Bucky wasn’t just starting to trust you—he was starting to trust himself again, too.

---

That night, the quiet of your apartment felt heavier than usual. The city’s usual soundtrack—distant sirens, muffled music, the occasional rumble of a passing train—faded into the background as you sat cross-legged on your couch. The notebook in your lap was open to a blank page, the pen in your hand poised but unmoving.

The weight of your feelings for Bucky pressed against your chest, a slow, steady ache you couldn’t quite shake. It scared you, how much you cared. How deeply you wanted to see him smile, to see the light in his eyes grow brighter each day. You’d told yourself this was about helping him, about showing the world who he truly was, but somewhere along the way, it had become so much more.

You thought of the way he had laughed at your jokes, the way his face softened when he spoke about his family. The way he’d hugged you that day—not out of desperation, but out of something real, something unspoken.

It didn’t matter if it hurt, you decided. Even if you risked your own heart, even if you never dared to tell him how you felt, it was worth it. Seeing Bucky Barnes slowly come back to life was worth everything.

---

Brooklyn was alive with its usual hum of activity when you met Steve Rogers the next afternoon. The air was crisp, the kind that turned your breath into soft clouds and made your cheeks tingle. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the old brick buildings in a golden glow, the shadows stretching long across the cracked sidewalks.

You stood on the corner, nervously gripping the strap of your bag as you waited. When Steve appeared, his presence was as steadying as you’d hoped. He walked toward you with his familiar purposeful stride, his jacket zipped against the chill, his face carrying that calm resolve that had a way of grounding you.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice warm and low. He offered a small smile as he stopped beside you. “What’s this all about?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you turned to look at the house across the street. It was small and worn, its brick facade faded with age. The shutters were hanging slightly crooked, and the front yard was overgrown with weeds. A “FOR SALE” sign stood askew in the yard, weathered and forgotten, as though it had been there far too long.

“Steve,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “I found something. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I thought I’d talk to you first.”

His gaze followed yours, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of the house. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition softening the lines of his face.

“Is that…” His words trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

For a moment, Steve said nothing. His jaw tightened, his blue eyes fixed on the house as memories seemed to flood him. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared slightly, as though bracing himself against the weight of it.

“I checked,” you continued, your words spilling out quickly to fill the silence. “His sister, Winnie, passed away about four years ago. The house has been on the market ever since, but no one’s bought it. It’s in rough shape—it needs a lot of work—but it’s still standing.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hands clenching briefly at his sides. “Why are you showing me this?”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly unsure. “I just… I thought maybe it could be something for him. A place to ground him. Something familiar, something that’s his. He doesn’t have much that feels like it belongs to him, and I thought…” You trailed off, your voice faltering.

Steve finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You really think this could help him?”

“I do,” you said earnestly. “It’s more than a house—it’s a piece of his past, something real. I know it’s falling apart, but it’s his home, Steve. It could be a step toward helping him feel like he belongs somewhere again.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on yours, thoughtful and a little heavy. He turned back to the house, his eyes scanning every worn corner, every crack in the foundation. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll talk to Tony. See if we can figure something out—a loan, or whatever it takes.”

Relief washed over you, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Steve glanced at you again, his expression shifting into something quieter, more introspective. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. “Of course I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been through so much, and he’s still here. Still trying. I just want him to be happy. To feel like he has a chance at a life.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you closely. “That’s not what I meant,” he said gently.

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced away, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured. “What matters is that he’s okay. That he’s well.”

For a moment, Steve didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but kind. “You’re good for him,” he said simply.

His words stayed with you as you walked back through the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the hum of the city blending with the thoughts swirling in your mind. You didn’t know what the future held—for Bucky, for you, for the fragile connection growing between you. But you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You’d do whatever it took to see him smile again, to see him find a piece of peace in the chaos of the world. Because he deserved it. And, selfishly, because you wanted to be there when he did.

---

That evening, the soft glow of your desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over your workspace. Outside, the city hummed with life—a soothing backdrop of distant horns, muffled conversations, and the rhythmic click of your pen against the edge of your notebook.

The second article about Bucky had been surprisingly fun to write, a departure from the heavier pieces you’d drafted before. You wanted this one to show a different side of him—a side that wasn’t defined by war or pain, but by the charm and warmth that still lingered beneath the surface.

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

If you’ve heard whispers about James Buchanan Barnes being a ladies’ man back in his day, let me tell you: they weren’t whispers—they were practically shouts. The legend of Bucky Barnes, the heartthrob of Brooklyn, is as true as it is amusing.

“I didn’t try,” Bucky tells me, a smirk playing on his lips, his tone so casual you almost miss the confidence behind it. “It just… happened.” He shrugs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And really, it probably was. A young James Barnes had it all: the looks, the charm, the grin that could disarm you faster than any weapon. But Bucky wasn’t just about turning heads—he was about making connections, about making people feel seen. He wasn’t just a flirt; he was the guy who actually cared.

“So,” I asked him, leaning forward, “what made you such a hit? Was it the hair? The smile? The whole ‘knight in shining armor’ thing you had going on?”

“Maybe the smile,” he said with a chuckle, clearly amused by my curiosity. “And the fact that I didn’t talk much about myself. Women like a good listener.”

There it is, folks. The secret to Bucky Barnes’ success: shutting up and letting the other person shine. Revolutionary, isn’t it?

But let’s talk about dates. Because when Bucky Barnes took a girl out, it wasn’t just a night—it was an experience. “What did dates look like back then?” I asked him, ready to be transported to the days of big band music and soda fountains.

“Well,” Bucky began, leaning back with a distant look in his eyes, “you’d pick her up from her place—on time, always on time. You’d take her to the movies, maybe grab ice cream after. If you really wanted to impress her, you’d go dancing. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but…” He trailed off, a small smile playing on his lips.

“But you pulled it off anyway,” I finished for him, grinning. He just shrugged, not confirming but not denying it either—a true master of mystery.

Bucky’s approach to dating wasn’t about grand gestures or flashy moves. It was about the little things: remembering her favorite flavor of ice cream, pulling her chair out for her, walking her home at the end of the night.

“So you were a gentleman,” I teased, my pen tapping against my notebook.

“Always,” he replied, his smile softening, and for a moment, I could see the man he used to be, unburdened by the weight of the years.

I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask. “Do you ever miss those days?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Things were… simpler. You didn’t have to think so much about how you were being seen. You just… were.”

But while the world may have changed, some things haven’t: Bucky Barnes still has that same charm, that same wit, and that same ability to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.

So, what’s the verdict? Is Bucky Barnes still Brooklyn’s Casanova? I’ll let you decide. All I know is that he could probably win over the entire city if he tried.

And between you and me, I’m not sure he even has to try.

---

The next day, you handed the draft to Bucky. You sat across from him, watching as he read, your nerves buzzing quietly beneath your skin.

He finished, setting the notebook down with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re making me sound like some kinda heartthrob,” he said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t?” you teased, leaning forward with a grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “It’s funny, reading about myself like this.”

“Funny good or funny bad?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Just… funny,” he said, his voice lighter than you’d heard in a while.

You couldn’t resist pushing a little further. “I’ve gotta say, I’m kinda curious what it’d be like to go on a date with you. You know, for research purposes.”

Bucky looked at you, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners as a smile spread across his face. “Maybe one day,” he said quietly, his tone sincere.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you managed to play it off with a laugh, shaking your head. “Guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Avengers’ lounge, Steve and Tony were deep in conversation about your discovery of Bucky’s childhood home. Steve’s voice was steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of hope as he laid out the details.

“The house is still there,” Steve said, his hands clasped in front of him. “The porch, the brickwork—it’s rough, but it’s intact. It hasn’t been sold yet. And I think it could mean something to him.”

Tony sipped his drink, his expression skeptical. “You sure he’d even want it? Barnes doesn’t exactly strike me as the nostalgic type.”

Steve nodded slowly. “He wouldn’t, not at first. But if it was his project—his space—it could help. He’s been looking for something, Tony. Something to anchor him.”

Tony sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, fine. I’ll make the arrangements. But it has to be his decision. If he’s not 100% on board, we pull out.”

Steve smiled faintly, his relief palpable. “Agreed. I think he’ll come around. Especially if she’s the one to tell him.”

Tony’s smirk returned, his tone light but teasing. “Ah, our Winter Soldier Whisperer. Why am I not surprised?”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. And deep down, he knew Tony was right. If anyone could make Bucky see the value in reclaiming a piece of his past, it was you.

---

You sat in your car outside the gym, the world around you fading into a blur of streetlights and distant sounds. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached, but it was the only thing grounding you in the moment.

“Bucky, I found something…” You tried the words aloud, your voice trembling slightly. No, that was too abrupt. “Bucky, there’s something I want to show you…” Still wrong—too vague.

With a frustrated sigh, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against the wheel. You had spent weeks planning this moment, rehearsing it in your head over and over again. But even now, with everything in place, doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. What if he thought you’d overstepped? What if this wasn’t what he needed? What if you were about to ruin everything?

Taking a shaky breath, you reached for the apple pie on the passenger seat—a small gesture, something to soften the conversation ahead. You stepped out of the car, the cool evening air biting at your skin as you walked toward the gym, clutching the pie like a lifeline.

---

The gym was quiet, dimly lit, the faint scent of leather and cleaning solution hanging in the air. Bucky was sitting on the bench, his head tilted slightly as he watched you approach. His expression softened when he saw the pie, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

“This feels like a bribe,” he said, his tone lighter than you’d expected.

“Maybe it is,” you teased, setting the pie on the bench between you. “But I’m hoping it’ll earn me some goodwill for the questions I have.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly. “Alright. Fire away.”

You tucked your notebook beside you, deciding this moment was better left unwritten. “Tell me about the house you grew up in,” you began, your voice gentle. “What did it look like?”

For a moment, Bucky’s expression shifted, his gaze growing distant as memories surfaced. “It was small,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Brick on the outside, narrow hallways on the inside. The kind of place where you could hear everything—Ma cooking in the kitchen, my sisters giggling through the walls, no matter how hard they tried to be quiet.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The porch swing creaked every time you sat on it. Dad always said he’d fix it, but he never did. Ma loved it that way, though.”

“What about your room?” you prompted gently, leaning forward.

He huffed a soft laugh. “Not much to it. A bed, a dresser, a desk in the corner. Rebecca used to sneak in during thunderstorms. She’d bring her blanket and curl up by the foot of the bed. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but…” He shrugged. “It felt safe.”

“And the holidays?” you asked, your tone warm.

His smile grew, brighter now. “Ma went all out for Christmas. She’d bake for days—cookies, pies, the works. The house always smelled like cinnamon and sugar. Rebecca and Winnie would string popcorn for the tree. It was messy, but we loved it.”

As he spoke, you watched the tension ease from his shoulders, the weight he always carried seeming a little lighter. His voice held a softness, a warmth you hadn’t heard before, and it made your heart ache in the best way.

When he finished, you hesitated, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. “Bucky,” you began carefully, “can I show you something?”

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“First, promise you won’t get mad,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

“That bad, huh?” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

You shook your head. “It’s not bad. I just… I don’t want you to think I overstepped.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

---

The drive to Brooklyn was quiet, the tension in the car thick but not suffocating. You glanced at Bucky occasionally, but his gaze remained fixed on the passing streets, his expression unreadable.

When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted in knots. You parked the car, your hands trembling slightly as you turned to him.

“Why are we here?” he asked, his voice cautious.

You gestured toward the house—the faded brick, the crooked shutters, the porch swing that still hung from rusted chains. The “FOR SALE” sign that had once stood in the yard was gone, replaced with a crisp new one that read “JUST SOLD.”

“That’s your house,” you said softly. “Your childhood home.”

Bucky’s entire body seemed to go still. His eyes were locked on the house, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight.

“I found it,” you continued, your words spilling out in a rush. “I was looking for your family, but… there wasn’t anyone left. And then I found this. It hadn’t been sold yet, so Steve and Tony bought it. It’s yours now, Bucky. You can do whatever you want with it—fix it up, sell it, anything. It’s your home.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. His hands rested on his knees, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric of his jeans.

“Bucky?” you said hesitantly, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry if—”

Before you could finish, he turned to you, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a strength that made it hard to breathe—but you didn’t care.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Tears blurred your vision as you held him tightly, your own emotions spilling over. The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the weight of the moment, in the enormity of what it meant.

When he finally pulled back, he brushed a hand through his hair, his gaze returning to the house. “I never thought I’d see it again,” he said quietly. “I figured it was long gone.”

You smiled through your tears, your voice soft but steady. “It’s not perfect, but… it’s still standing. Just like you.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he shook his head, glancing at you. “There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Well,” you said with a grin, “I’ve got vacation days to burn, and I’ve been looking for a good project. So if you need a hand…”

He smiled then—a real, genuine smile that made your heart skip. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Taking your hand, he led you toward the house. The front steps creaked under your weight, the familiar sound drawing another soft laugh from Bucky. He didn’t say much as you walked through the door together, but his eyes said everything.

It wasn’t just a house. It was a piece of his past, a foundation for his future.

And for the first time, it felt like he was ready to build on it.

---

When you told your boss you were taking a month off, her reaction was as dramatic as you’d expected.

“A month?” she repeated, lowering her mug of coffee and staring at you like you’d just announced plans to join the circus.

“Yes, a month,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. You’d rehearsed this conversation in your head a dozen times.

She blinked, setting the mug down on her desk with a soft thud. “Are you… okay? You’ve never taken more than a long weekend. What’s this about?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your bag, but you held her gaze. “It’s personal,” you said finally. “But it’s important. Really important.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing you with the kind of look that could unearth secrets. “Alright,” she said slowly. “But if you come back and tell me you’re quitting, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

You laughed, though the thought had crossed your mind more than once. “Noted.”

---

When you told Bucky about your month-long leave, his reaction was priceless.

“A month?” he repeated, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes, a month,” you said, echoing your earlier conversation with a grin.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging. “Besides, I figured you could use the help. Just don’t expect miracles—I’m not exactly Bob Vila.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and soft. “Just having you here is enough.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

---

Part 2

35 notes · View notes

brunchable · 2 months ago

Text

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 [ 2 ]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Friends to Lovers. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky just not getting enough of you, fingering, cunnilingus, Oral [M&F], unprotected piv, creampie. Just PURE making love, no kinks. Summary: It's only been a few hours since you've become official and Bucky want to show you just how much you mean to him. A/N: 2 of 2. And I must say. . . JAYSUS. BON APETITIDDIES.

Part One

You were stiff. You were sore. Your arm was asleep. And you felt fucking fantastic.

Maybe in the movies people woke up entwined in each other's arms after a night of spirited lovemaking, but for you, reality was much more awkward. Your head had somehow become wedged behind Bucky’s shoulder, and both his legs were about to slide off the couch altogether. You untangled yourself as best you could, looking down at him as you moved his limbs out of the way.

Bucky was sleeping peacefully, his dark lashes lying flat against the skin beneath his eyes. They fluttered slightly as you pulled free of him, and he stirred.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, and turned over so he was facing the back of the couch, still caught in mid-slide towards the floor.

You tried not to laugh. God, he was adorable.

You sat up, arching your back to stretch out the sore muscles. Then your breath caught. What time was it? Holy hell, I’m going to be late.

You stood up quickly, and was seized by an ache between your legs so unfamiliar that you nearly sat back down again. Holy crap. It had been way too long. You almost felt like a virgin again. You rose again shakily, noticing that your whole groin felt sore, and so did your hips—probably from throwing your legs up around his waist. God, what a wanton hussy you were, you thought happily.

You went quietly towards the bathroom, checking the clock on the stove as you walked by. It was nearly eight-thirty. Crap. You were supposed to be at work by nine, or nine-thirty at the latest. you'd have to make the shower a quick one.

You stood under the hot water, letting it pour over your sore muscles. You washed out your hair, lathered up your body and massaged your sore hips as random images from last night invaded your thoughts. Even now you weren't entirely convinced it hadn't all been a dream. Has it really happened? The soreness was real enough. And so were the images flashing through your mind.

Bucky’s body on yours, looming over you, holding your wrists, kissing you with abandon. Taking each breast in his mouth, teasing you with his fingers. Sliding into you, tilting your back and thrusting deeper, faster, harder.

Suddenly a blurry figure appeared on the other side of the glass door. The door slid open and he stood there, looking disheveled from sleep but adorably sexy. And naked, too.

"Hi," he said, a seductive smile curving his lips. His eyes traveled down your naked body, pausing at your breasts and then sliding down to the between your legs where rivulets of water coursed and ran together.

You flushed at the frank inspection but willed yourself not to try to hide from him. You shifted your weight, jutting your hip out provocatively and smiled.

His eyes returned to yours, desire glinting in them. "May I join you?"

You pushed the door back and invited him in. Bucky stepped in and crowded you, not unpleasantly, until your back was up against the tiles. He braced his hands on the wall behind you, and let the water flow over him as he leaned down and kissed you.

You opened to him and kissed him back, winding your hands around his waist and sliding them down his ass, squeezing appreciatively. He smiled into the kiss, enjoying your wandering hands, then pushed forward so your bodies were pressed together, the water slick and warm between you.

"So," he murmured in your ear, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the water. "So much for that idea."

"What idea was that?" you whispered back, kissing his ear.

"The idea that we could ever be just friends," he said, catching your jaw with his lips as you turned your head. He covered your neck with slow, lingering kisses, trailing his mouth down your and cupping your breast with his hand.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's a great idea so far," you said coquettishly. "Besides," you joked. "I do this with all my male friends."

He mocked a scowl at you, and gave you that smile that had always melted you. "Well, that's going to have to stop. You're mine now."

He kissed you slowly, his tongue tangling with yours as he teased and tasted, enjoying your mouth.

You kissed him back, licking and tasting and enjoying him until you felt rather than heard a hum of desire, of pure carnal lust, vibrating through him. He was growing hard against your belly, his cock pressing against you urgently.

He lowered his head further and took your nipple into his mouth, licking the soft nub until it grew hard beneath his tongue. Pleasure shot through you, and he turned to lavish the same attention on your other breast. You writhed against the cold tiles at your back, arching into him and sinking your fingers into his hair to hold him to you. He smiled as you moaned with pleasure, and laughed softly when he took your nipple between his teeth and made you suck in a sharp breath.

His cock was as hard as it had been a few hours ago, and it surged in your hand as he took your breasts. You gathered some suds into your palm and grasped him again, feeling the iron-hardness of him beneath the silky skin. You began to stroke, gliding fast and smooth, and he groaned from the pleasure of it, collapsing against you and kissing you between his soft, low sounds of pleasure and need.

You kept stroking and teasing, gliding over him in a steady rhythm, and felt yourself growing warm and slick at how hard he was beneath your fingers. You loved that you were doing that to him, making him want you so much. He groaned, his breath jagged and shallow. He tried to kiss you through his mounting pleasure but he had to break off to breathe, to lose himself in the sensation.

"God, baby," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "So good."

You tried not to focus on him calling you baby, knowing it was only his arousal talking. You focused instead on the intense pleasure that was making him say it. You continued stroking him, changing your hand position so that you pulled up with each stroke, teasingly pulling his skin up over the head each time and sinking down to the base, pleasuring every inch of him. Your other hand cupped his balls and caressed him, gently rolling him around in your fingers as he tensed and surged and seemed to fight against you, against the unbearable pleasure you were causing him.

After a few torturous moments he stopped your hand, his breathing so fast and ragged that he could hardly speak.

“You—don't want—this to end too soon, do you?” he warned, kissing you in between breaths. “Because, my God, you could make me come in seconds if you wanted to.”

“That might be fun,” you said, kissing the edges of his mouth, licking at his lips and his tongue when he opened his mouth to you again.

“For me, yes,” he breathed, breaking away from you. “But I'm not nearly finished with you yet.”

He slipped his hand into your hair and held your head, kissing you with such raw passion, such naked need that you felt a surge of warmth flood between your legs in spite of the cooling effects of the water. He had wrung a soul-shattering orgasm out of you just a few hours ago and yet here you were again, eager for him again. Wanton hussy indeed.

"Do you remember that night, two years ago?" he asked, his voice low and deep. "At the party, when I played that song on the guitar for you, and you asked whether it hurt my fingers to play the steel strings?"

He was watching his own fingers trail over your breasts, over your tightened nipple, down past your navel, as the water trickled over you both.

"Mmm hmmm," you murmured, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation of the water coursing down your body and his hand moving over you.

“And you touched my fingertips…”

Of course you remembered; you'd run your fingers over the roughened pads of his fingertips, and had watched in delight as he'd twitched a little, and then trembled, just a little, at your touch. You'd kept your touch feather-light and soft, drifting over his fingertips and down his fingers a little, feeling the shiver of heightened awareness in your own hands.

Maybe you'd been a little too suggestive, a little too lingering, whispering-touching those parts of him that were supposedly hardened against such sensations—but you'd been unable to stop yourself. His hands had been warm and strong and eminently male, and when he'd stiffened and held his breath, as if willing himself not to react to your seductive touch, you'd felt that shiver of awareness deepen into an intense desire.

Such a seemingly innocent touch, just a friend examining the time-worn calluses of a guitar player's fingertips. . .and yet in that moment, even amongst their friends, even with the music playing loud and the laughter soaring above it, you'd felt like it had been just the two of you in that room, touching each other intentionally for the very first time, your hand tentatively reaching out for his, and his reaching to meet your half way.

“You drove me wild.” he said, leaning to kiss your neck. “I got so hard, I was afraid to move. And after that, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you with these fingers.” He slipped his hand between your legs and caressed your folds, parting them gently and sliding inside you. “Like this, for instance.”

You moaned and leaned your head against his shoulder, letting him touch you wherever he wanted. His fingers explored you, caressed you, possessed you, expertly as though they, too, knew you were his.

“I just had to touch you,” you breathed against him. “And believe me, this is what I was thinking about too.”

“You stopped me last night,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your neck. “I wanted to feel you come for me. To finish what you started that night.”

You groaned at the sound of his voice, so low and sexual, so heated with his own desire.

“Let me feel you come for me, baby,” he whispered into your ear, licking your earlobe. “Please.”

He gripped your hip and lifted you up against the wall slightly, positioning you so he could slide his fingers deep inside you. He held you firmly around the waist, bracing you against the wall, and thrust into you gently, with first one finger, then two, sliding deeper and deeper each time, stretching you, mimicking the size and power of his cock. His thumb played over your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you as he pressed his forehead to yours and gazed down into your eyes. You gasped and cried out from the overwhelming pleasure of it even as you squirmed beneath his fingers and ached for more.

He braced you against his thigh and pressed against you while his arm steadied you from behind, holding you completely in his grasp. Bucky had such a way of holding you, letting you know that you were going nowhere, making sure you had no desire to be anywhere but in his arms. You felt safe, and secure, and above all, worshiped.

Bucky bent down and kissed you, sliding his fingers into your with a wild, sensuous rhythm that matched the increasing speed of his thumb as it stroked and rubbed and swirled around your aching clit. His hand was so strong, his fingers curving inside you to caress you, to find that super-sensitive inner spot even as he plunged and drove and took. With his thumb circling your clit in a relentless rhythm and his fingers deep inside you, stretching you, claiming you, you felt completely owned by him, by the hand that possessed every inch of you.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, matching the rhythm of his fingers, swirling, tasting, mutely revealing that he had had another fantasy, too. The thought of his mouth on you, his tongue tasting you, torturing you, swirling over your clit as you writhed beneath it made you go weak in the knees.

Bucky broke away from the kiss and began trailing kisses down your neck, your breasts, lowering himself to his knees in front of you while bracing your hips against the tiles with his strong hands.

"Did I mention what it did to me the first time your tongue touched mine?" he whispered devilishly.

He looked up at you so intently, his beautiful blue eyes blazing as the water streamed over his shoulder and down the contours of his chest. You gazed down at him, and for the second time this morning questioned whether all this could actually be happening. This gorgeous, virile man gripping you, kneeling before you, gazing at you like you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It couldn't be real, could it?

Then he lowered his lips to your and you knew it was.

Sensation tore through your touch, so delicately gentle at first, and you arched against the wall with a startled cry. You reached down and gripped his shoulder, steadying yourself on one foot as he brought you to your leg up slowly, gently and eased it over his shoulder. The sight of it alone nearly made you come. He moved so languidly, so sensuously, positioning you better so he could enjoy your all the more.

He closed his mouth over your clit and kissed it luxuriously, his lips moving as though he were kissing your mouth. His tongue swirled over you in large, sensuous circles and he groaned against you, tightening his grip on your hip as you moaned against the sudden overwhelming pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue darted out to flick against your rapidly as he looked up at you again, watching your pleasure, his eyes smiling at you as if he knew precisely how good he was making you feel. Then he fell on you again, his tongue roaming over you, tasting you, luxuriating in your folds and dipping to lap at your entrance.

“Oh my, g-god. Bucky—”

You bucked against him and cried out as his tongue slipped into your and pulsed there, gently, savouring you. Your hand sank into his wet hair and as you gripped his head, you were rewarded with a muted chuckle and a more intense forward surge of his tongue inside you. He liked the moans he wrought from you. He liked being able to make your cry out and seize him, your head thrown back in agonizing pleasure.

And fuck did you like it, too.

"Oh God," you breathed, your heart thundering in your chest. "My God, that feels so good..."

He withdrew from your and slid his tongue up to torture your aching clit, and just when you began to miss the feel of him inside your he gently pushed his fingers into your again and began to thrust.

Pleasure soared through you and you cried out even louder, and the leg draped over his shoulder began to tremble. His tongue circled your clit again, deliciously slowly, as his fingers slid into you over and over again, a sensual, primitive rhythm that made you want to grind your hips against the pleasure.

“I'm coming,” you whispered urgently. “You're going to make me come…”

His fingers thrust deeper and faster and he began to lick you so quickly, with such a throaty groan of pleasure that you felt your orgasm rise, terrifyingly fast and sharp, making you cry out in increasing, panting breaths until you shattered, coming violently around his fingers and that sensuous, irresistible tongue. You shuddered with an aching cry and trembled from the spasms he sent rippling through you. Your body curled forward as you gripped him tighter, your fingers pulling on his hair from the pressure.

He removed your leg from his shoulder gently as you continued to shudder, feeling aftershocks of pleasure shiver through you. He got to his feet and helped you stand, pressing himself against your and nuzzling your neck.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, your voice shaking. your whole body shaking. “That was incredible.”

“That...was just the prelude,” he whispered, kissing you. “I haven't even started pleasuring you yet.”

God, he was going to kill you. Death by orgasm, you thought happily. What a way to go.

He leaned to turn off the water, but he stilled his hand. He looked back at you with a questioning expression, and then understood. You pulled him back towards yourself and he went willingly, stepping back under the stream of water, kissing you deeply, his hands roaming greedily over your body.

You weren't done with him. He had made you feel like a goddess, worshiped, cherished, adored.

You broke off the kiss and began trailing your lips down his neck, his collarbone and chest, enjoying the warmth of the water trickling past your mouth. His chest muscles tensed as you kissed them, and as you moved your lips slowly down his abdomen you felt his whole body go rigid with anticipation. You sank to your knees in the tub and brushed kisses along his navel, his hip bones, and he put his hands on your shoulders to steady himself. Water coursed over both of you, and you delighted in it, closing your eyes against the spray.

“Baby,” Bucky said softly, barely audible above the water.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him. He was about to say something but you smiled and glanced away, focusing instead on the head of his cock, hard and urgent in front of you. He was thick and beautiful, and still as hard, maybe even harder, than he had been when you'd teased him with your hands.

“I want to taste you,” you said playfully. “All of you.”

You leaned forward and gently licked the swollen tip of his cock. He inhaled sharply, his whole body tensing, and you smiled up at him, letting him know this was for your pleasure as much as for his. You swirl your tongue around the head, taking it into your mouth and suckling gently, teasing it. The skin was soft and smooth, stretched deliciously tight from the hardness of his erection.

You let your tongue play over it, dipping into the opening, making him moan. You drifted your tongue along the ridge, and down to the sensitive skin just beneath the head, licking and tasting, nipping and kissing.

You looked up at him, and his dark eyes were wild with desire. You smiled, and ran your tongue up and down the length of him, ending at the head and flicking at it delicately, teasingly. He moaned softly, his breathing starting to grow rapid. You rose up slightly to take the whole length of him into your mouth and sucked him, long and hard.

He let out a gasp and braced himself against the wall with one hand, his other hand gripping your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—Baby...”

You slid your mouth over his shaft, deeper, deeper, and slid back up the length of him. Your hands came around and gripped his ass, pulling him towards you. He staggered forward slightly as you took him into your mouth again, luxuriously taking in his entire length, sucking, licking, tasting as you went. The sensation of him in your mouth was almost as overwhelming as his first entrance into your body had been, so unfamiliar but so right at the same time.

You caressed his balls with one hand as you played your tongue over his cock. He groaned, his breathing jagged now, his cock harder than ever. His hand moved from your shoulder to sink into your wet hair, and he gripped your head with barely restrained urgency. Gently he guided your head closer to him as you sucked. You lowered yourself onto him and slowly sucked your way back up, your mouth gripping him, your cheeks hollowing, as your tongue slid over him with each pass.

His hips began to move as he started to match your rhythm, thrusting into you, meeting your mouth. Bucky gripped your head more firmly and held your head still, driving into you gently.

You let your hand fall and you sat back on your haunches, enjoying the feeling of him sliding in and out of your mouth, controlling his own pleasure, taking what he wanted, and what you were so willing to give. Yet you could tell he was holding back, wanting to thrust harder and faster but restraining himself and settling for a smoother, slower pace.

For you. Bucky was holding back for your sake. This passionate, soulful, virile man was holding back his own pleasure because he wanted to be gentle with you.

The very thought of it excited you, and you increased your own rhythm, encouraging him, moaning with pleasure as he drove into you. You sucked harder, faster, turning your gaze up to him with an urgent plea in your eyes. Faster. Deeper. Now, my love.

And he understood.

Bucky groaned, and stepped forward. His hand clenched in your hair and he began to move, faster and harder, plunging deeper, holding your head as he thrust into your mouth with urgent, rhythmic strokes. He slid in and out of your mouth as if through warm honey, and you felt and heard his pleasure mounting with every ratcheted breath and every desperate moan that escaped his lips.

His eyes watched your with rapt adoration and abject lust, and you could tell that the sight of your taking him fully into your mouth, of your sucking him with pure, greedy abandon and complete acceptance, was pushing him closer to the edge as much as the intense pleasure of your tongue on his cock was. Or more.

He tensed as his rhythm grew faster, his breathing harder, until you felt him tighten and strain so much that you felt certain he was going to spill himself into your mouth. But at the last moment he cried out and pulled back, his cock slipping out of your mouth quickly. He stood still, breathless, his eyes closed as if willing his orgasm to retreat. Water sliced down his neck and chest, and finally he let out a slow, jagged moan of a breath and opened his eyes. He looked down at you wildly, and reached for you,helping you to your feet.

“Jesus,” he said breathlessly, staring at you as he tried to catch his breath. “I can't...I can't believe how goddamn good that felt. You brought me so close, so fast, I almost couldn't stop it.”

“Why did you?” you asked, running your finger along his jaw. “I wanted to feel you come for me.”

He groaned against you, his hands roaming over your body. “I told you, I'm not nearly done with you yet.”

He kissed you hungrily, his cock surging against your violently as your bodies met. you could feel him moving against you, his cock rubbing against you,and you knew how badly he wanted to be inside you again.

As badly as you wanted him inside you again.

He stepped back, his breath still ragged, and pressed his forehead to yours as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“You're not done yet, huh?” you teased gently, letting your fingers sink into his wet hair as you kissed his neck.

“Not nearly.”

“But I have to go to work. Maybe if I'm lucky you'll be here when I get home?”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He reached to turn off the water and stepped out of the shower, turning to help your step over the wall of the tub. You threw your robe on and cinched the belt as he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. You caught him grinning at you, and it was so clear what he was thinking that it made your laugh.

“What?” you demanded, squeezing the excess water out of your hair with a hand towel. “What are you smiling at?”

Bucky wetted his lips with his tongue, “Fuck it. You're just going to have to be late for work. Come here…”

“Hey!” your eyes widened playfully, jumping away from him. “Are you trying to kill me? Stop!”

Bucky untied your robe and you yelped, trying to slap his hands away. He just kept advancing on you, grinning devilishly. You turned and scampered away from him with a squeal of delight.

He followed behind, still grasping for the robe. You shrieked and laughed and ran towards the bedroom, and he followed, catching up to you and pushing you onto the bed with a resounding crack of the bed frame.

You laughed as he tumbled on top of you, but he silenced you with his mouth, kissing you hungrily as he impatiently pushed your robe aside. His breath was ragged as he nudged your legs apart with his knee, his need too great for the slow, sensual lovemaking of last night. He held his cock against your entrance and smoothly thrusts into you and moaned against your mouth, and you wrapped your legs around him to draw him deeper.

He plunged into you, covering your body and your mouth with the same hungry possession. You were still so warm and wet, so exquisitely ready for him that he filled you easily, driving you relentlessly as he tasted your tongue, your lips, your neck, and groaned from the pleasure your body was giving him.

You tensed around him and he moaned breathlessly, a throaty, male sound of pure ecstasy. He pounded into you, falling into a steady rhythm born of raw, primitive need. Your body tightened around him with every thrust, and waves of pleasure rippled through you, building in intensity up to an almost unbearable pressure, a delicious heat that made you moan into his mouth as he kissed you.

He rose up, his arms braced beside you, to look down as he stroked and withdrew and breathed out his pleasure while his eyes glowed pure heat. He grabbed your rear, tilting one hip up towards him, entering you on such an angle that a new kaleidoscope of pleasure bloomed throughout you. He gripped you possessively, driving you deeper and faster and harder. His eyes burned, glowing like obsidian, hot and wild and almost frenzied with desire.

“Baby,” he groaned, his eyes pinning you, claiming you, as though he were branding you with your heat.

You're mine...

Your first time together had only been hours ago, but it was as if you had been lovers for years...every fluid flexing of his hips against you hit just the right spot, every deep, powerful thrust of his cock stretched your pussy with a familiar, almost expected surge of pleasure.

“Yes—oh god yes, Bucky—fuck me,” you breathed.

Two simple words and suddenly he was on the edge...buried so deep inside you, thrusting, plunging, your breasts pressed against his chest, the pleasure roaring through his body.

Suddenly he wanted to take you, hard. He wanted to fuck you with abandon, the eyes-closed, head-back, moaning-out-loud kind of sexual abandon that he had so rarely experienced in his life, but which was crashing through his body and mind right now.

He wanted this woman...he wanted to own you, to take you, to claim your body as his....he wanted to fuck you until he'd emptied his balls into you, feeling your pussy clenching and spasming in orgasm around his cock as he came, as you came, as you came together.

He withdrew from you quickly, barely able to catch his breath, and, as if you could read his thoughts, you turned onto your stomach just as his trembling hands guided your hips over. Your hair spilled over your bare back and your ass curved out so seductively it was all he could do not to cum right there, all over your smooth skin. But his cock knew what it wanted, and he pulled you forward to slide into the heaven of your pussy, so wet and tight and swollen for him.

He cried out when he took your again, his cock parting your folds and filling you so completely. The feel of him stretching you, the crest of his head pressing against your from this new angle...you felt a tremor of pleasure ripple through you and knew you were close, as close as he was. When he leaned over you and began to kiss your shoulders you shuddered, and when he began to thrust you buried your face in the pillow and moaned.

Your moans of pleasure filled the room and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to last, begging his aching cock not to explode just yet. . .this pace, these quick short strokes as his hips slapped against your ass, your body moving with his every thrust. . .It was almost too much to bear. Bucky buried his faced in your sweet-smelling hair and let his cock plunge as it would, faster and faster, making him shake, making him breathless, making him feel like nothing but a desperate cock as he fucked you.

And fucked you. And fucked you, as you had begged him to...

You could only whimper now, lost to the pleasure of his man taking you like this, fucking you so wildly, almost savagely. The pleasure he was taking from your body, his moans and groans and the growls of pleasure you could feel against your back and in the warm breath at your ear. . . it was pure, primal lust.

You felt worshiped beneath him, as if every thrust of his hungry cock was a tribute to you, every growl and sharp breath an oath. He was fucking you, mindlessly, and yet every part of him was attuned to you, touching you, adoring you.

As his pace grew even faster, his thrusts shallower, you could sense he was about to come, and you felt your muscles tighten around him to heighten his pleasure and hers. His thrusts were so powerful that you felt the orgasm rising in you and you closed your eyes, lifting your head back so he could slide his hand into your hair, gently holding your neck and kissing your jaw with breathy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Oh, God Bucky...I'm coming,” you moaned. “I'm coming.”

“Yes...cum for me baby....cum on my cock.”

“Cum with me....please....I want you to cum inside me, please....please....”

And he could withstand it no more.

Pleasure detonated through him as his orgasm spasmed throughout his body, wracking him with wave after wave of euphoric release. He cried out your name as he thrust and bucked against your flesh, driving his cock deeper and deeper as he came and came and came. It felt like he would never stop cumming, and when he felt your orgasm tear through your pussy and clench his cock in waves, he thought he might black out from the sheer ecstasy of it.

You slammed back against him as the first spurts of cum began to fill you, and felt your ravaged pussy begin to spasm again and again, milking his cock, pulling his cum deeper into you, flooding you with ripples of pleasure. You moaned and writhed, riding the crest of one orgasm only to feel a second one begin to climb and then crash over you. Breathless, almost sobbing from the pleasure, you let him hold you as he continued to pound into you, draining his balls into you at his will, lost in the utter bliss of a man taking a woman in the most primal way.

When he could bear it no longer, when his exquisitely sensitive cock throbbed within you and the pleasure bordered on pain, he stilled, finally, and shuddered. Sharp spasms of pleasure shot through him as his cock surged one last time within you, his aching balls emptying every last ounce of come. Bucky was almost lightheaded, his chest heaving, sweat glazing his skin as he withdrew his hand from your hair and ran it down the center of your back, needing to touch you, needing to feel your heated skin. You were breathless too, your back moving beneath his hand as you lay your head down and tried to catch your breath.

You felt him withdraw from you, and your pussy rebelled, clenching to keep him there, as if pleading with him not to go. Bucky groaned softly against your ear as he pulled out and fell on the bed beside you, his arms surrounding you and pulling your back against him. You fit perfectly together, and every muscle in your body relaxed as you snuggled into him and breathed out a contented sigh. You felt his lips on the shell of your ear, kissing softly, felt his slowing breath against your skin as his soft sounds of contentment and pleasure hummed in his throat.

This is heaven, you thought. Pure heaven. your pussy twitched and tingled as you felt his warm come beginning to slip down your inner thighs. His strong arms surrounded you, his soft lips murmured and whispered and kissed, his spent cock nestled against the curve of your ass.

“There was something I wanted to tell you, remember?” he murmurs, his words brushing warmly against your skin as he kisses a path down to your shoulder. “Last night… something I wanted to say to you. Something I wanted you to know.”

You shift slightly, turning to look at him, your heart pounding as you search his eyes, barely able to breathe.

“Tell me,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea.

His gaze softens, an unmistakable warmth filling his expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek.

“I love you.”

The words settle between you, simple but perfect, like they were always meant to be there. Your heart feels like it’s soaring, every nerve in your body alive with the thrill of it, of finally hearing what you’d been aching to hear.

You break into a smile, biting your lip, feeling giddy and light, and without a second thought, you lean forward, kissing him softly, your hand finding his as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

And as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that feels like home, you realize that, for the first time, everything feels right.

tags: @cereal6666 @thatesqcrush @cl7ire @bighappypiels @mostlymarvelgirl

@winchestert101 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mcira @elvenrin

@xunquish-blog @meetmeattheapt

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buck-star · 6 months ago

Text

Distance isn’t the solution | Bucky Barnes

// Pairing // College!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x College!Virgin!Omega!Fem!Reader

// Summary // Your heat isn’t only causing pain in your stomach, it also causes pain in your chest when you can be so close to your mate but at the same time so far away when he is the fuckboy he always is.

// Wordcount // 9.383 Words

// Warnings // Explicit Content // 18+, Minors DNI, A/B/O Dynamics, Bucky being a dick, true mates, losing virginity, choking, kind of dirty talk, praises, nipple play, fingering (fem!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), protected p in v, angst, fluff

// Authors Note // Thank you to @bucks-babe for encouraging me as well as for proofreading. This was in my drafts since April because I wasn’t motivated to write the smut but now here we are.

// Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist //

When he walked into the room like the biggest idiot you were already annoyed because of him. James Buchanan Barnes, everyone immediately loved him and all the omegas were trying to jump in his arms so he could mark them.

But you? A confident but also shy Omega — you were the one in class who didn’t pay attention to his beautiful scent, to his ocean blue eyes and his rough laugh which caused goosebumps when you first heard it. But as much as the omega in you tried to get you closer to the handsome Alpha, you stayed away from him — not wanting to end up like another omega fucked and pushed away from him.

James looks like he is waiting for the omegas to get into their heat to fuck them. It wasn’t just for his pleasure since he helped them to handle the pain of their heat but on the other hand you don’t even know if he just fucked until he comes or until they do too. However, none of the Omegas ever mentioned that James claimed one of them, so he is only looking for a great round of fun to go to the next girl and have a new hole for his dick.

“Hi, pretty girl!” A rough voice says next to you and you roll your eyes. Since you’re using blockers — so you won’t have your heat and your scent isn’t there then as well — no Alpha is talking to you like that, except James.

“What do you want? I’m not in need to have something filling my hole,” you groan and his eyes widen before he smirks even wider. Wouldn’t you smell him, you would believe that he is smirking but his scent slightly changes when he is annoyed or angry — like right now. Before you can say something else he clenches his jaw and forms his hands into fists, slams them next to you on the table and leans down.

“Fucking hate ya attitude. Gonna need to show ya where ya belong to, ‘mega?” He asks, his voice low, chasing your throat to feel suddenly like a desert — dry and even dryer. He lets himself fall down next to you on the chair, your body tenses and you try to move as far as possible away from him. His hand which is still placed on the table is sliding closer to your hand. You’re pulling away, looking with widened eyes at the boy in front of you who can’t stop but laughs. “Ya know you can’t fucking resist me forever. Gonna fuck you at some point.”

“I’m not a toy for you, James,” you hiss, ready to slap him across his face but he leans back in the seat and shakes his head.

He has never had an Omega disobey or tried to resist him. And it annoys him that you do — you! He isn’t dump, he knows you’re mates but he isn’t ready for a relationship like that just yet. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting you, wanting to pound into you and make your eyes roll back while you come all over his cock. James knows that you use blockers so you won’t have your heat, but even through them he can slightly smell you and it makes him go crazy.

“Every girl wants to fuck me, so why don’t ya — ma mate — why do ya say no to me and my best friend?” James asks, looking down to his dick and you groan frustrated.

“Your best friend? Your cock is your best friend? Does he have a name? Maybe Bucky? Can you and your cock leave me alone, I don’t wanna fuck you!” You tell him, turning to face the whiteboard in front of the class.

“If ya wanna know, he doesn’t have a name. But he is pretty. I can show ya if ya want?” James asks, smirking when another frustrated groan leaves your lips.

He isn’t ugly, to be honest he is beautiful, handsome and muscular. With his soft brown hair, his steel blue eyes, the low voice and the perfect smile he is definitely the type of guy you like — but he is a fuckboy. James had probably sex with every girl in your age, probably also with almost everyone at the college.

“I don’t want to see your tiny dick, can you please fuck off and annoy another girl?” You mumble, feeling the Alpha next to you tensing even more. His hand snaps out, grasping your chin and he turns your head around so you have to face him.

“You shouldn’t talk like that with an Alpha! Especially not with your Alpha,” James says, his hand squeezing your jaw and you try to back away but his hold is too strong. You shut your eyes close, slight pain running through your jaw. A soft whimper leaves your lips, causing James to chuckle.

“You’re not my alpha,” you say through gritted teeth, making the boy in front of you even angrier with your behavior. He hates the way you talk back but at the same time he is so fucking turned on. (the cock is distracting)

“You know — just as I do — that we are mates. So shut the fuck up or I will help you after the class to do so!” He says, raising his eyebrows when you scrunch your nose. “Don’t look like that.”

“Can you please fuck off?” Your voice is calm but he can still hear a slight change in it. But it’s nothing he thought he would hear, it’s more like a slight hint of pain in your voice. Your hands find their way to your lower stomach and you press down, trying to get rid of the feeling that builds down there.

James tilts his head slightly, inhaling deeply when the reason you act like that hits him. Your heat is coming and your blocker doesn't work anymore — but you don’t act like you know it. He lets go of your chin, inhaling once more. Your scent causes his dick to grow and with every breath he smells you more and more — already addicted to you scent.

“Fuck—“ you mumble, trying to curl yourself more into a little ball. A low groan from behind you makes you turn toward James and a quiet whimper leaves your lips. Before James can say something, you take your things, getting up to storm out of the room. He looks at you, hearing you excuse yourself before you run out of the class.

The smell of you is surrounding James, causing him to groan before he leans back and inhales deeply. The bulge in his pants grows when he thinks about you, moaning underneath him, squirming and whining while he pounds his dick into your tight cunt.

You run along the floor, your hands holding your stuff tightly pressed against you. Your lower stomach sends waves of pain through you. Tears fall down your cheeks, the pain gets worse and you realize you just went into your heat — you see that especially when the Alphas around you inhale deeply and groan, their eyes are on you while you make your way to your dorm.

When you reach your dorm you throw your stuff to the side, letting yourself fall down on your bed to curl yourself together. The pain in your stomach grows and you whimper slightly, pressing your hands on your stomach to get rid of the pain but it just doesn’t want to work.

You haven’t had your heat in a long time since you used those blockers but now they don’t want to help anymore and you’re thrown in your heat. You know that sex with an Alpha would help — sex with your mate to make the pain in your belly less worse. But asking another Alpha or James to have sex with you? You don’t want to be a toy for them and you’re way too shy to just ask someone to help you with such an intimate thing.

James shifts in his seat, a feeling he never felt before appears in his body — something like pain and guilt. The teacher is just explaining something when he just gets up from the chair, causing it to crash against the table behind him. Every pair of eyes is suddenly on him but he doesn’t mind, he takes his things and walks toward the teacher. Just before he reaches him he turns to the side and walks to the door, leaving the room. With fast and heavy steps he makes his way through the floor.

You’re still curled on your bed when you hear a loud knocking. You only whimper, tears falling down your cheeks and soaking your sheets. When you manage to say a quiet ‘yes?’ the door swings open and you can hear heavy footsteps, then the closing of the door. You inhale deeply, body tensing when you recognise the smell.

“Don't you have classes or can you ask another girl to suck off your cock?” You mumble quietly. James chuckles, slightly annoyed about your attitude but he pushes it away and walks further to you.

“Think ya need some help, ‘mega,” he says, sitting down next to you on the bed. His hand reaching out to stroke over your side, your body still tensed and you tremble slightly when his warm, soft skin touches yours. “Can feel it, so let your Alpha help ya with the heat.”

You shake your head, curling further into the ball you already are. His touch is so soft and warm and you just want to give in. But James is a fuckboy and you’re a virgin and even though he is your mate you don’t want to be just another girl he fucked for him.

His hand slips under the fabric of your shirt, caressing the soft skin of your lower belly and his hands feel so good, that you move a bit closer to the Alpha, his thigh pressing against your ass, while he rubs your lower stomach softly.

“Feelin’ good, doll?” He asks, his voice soft and you nod. Pressing yourself more against him.

Your pussy is throbbing and you crave more of his touches. His scent surrounding you and his warmth against you makes your mind go fuzzy and he knows it. James feels the same way, but he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable to he let you decide if you want him to fuck you or not, even if he would make love to you.

You’re looking so pretty and he wants to see more of you, James wants to hear those whimpers which are leaving your lips because his cock is stroking your walls, hearing your sweet moans while he thrusts into you. “Can I touch you a bit lower?”

Another shake of your head causes him to sigh softly. You turn your head, looking at him with heated cheeks and red eyes. “‘M a virgin. And I’m not beautiful, you will laugh about me,” you say, looking through your lashes.

A low chuckle leaves James lips, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you up until you sit in his lap, your back pressed against his chest. You can feel his growing bulge against your ass, squirming softly in his lap. His hands grabbing your waist tighter, holding you in place while he leans closer and kisses your neck softly.

“You’re beautiful, doll! Let me take care of ya,” he groans, nibbling at your skin. You throw your head slightly back, the feeling of his lips and teeth scratching over your neck makes you cunt leaking even more.

You nod your head, giving in to the pleasurable feelings he is causing. James' hand slides further down to your thighs. He moves his big hands up and down your inner thigh, his lips still touching your neck. When one of his hands reaches your covered pussy you squirm, shifting on his leg and your body tenses once again.

“Still, omega! You can relax, I’m not gonna hurt you, just help you to get through your heat,” he says, fingers circling your clit through the fabric of your pants. You squirm a bit on his lap, feeling his bulge growing in his pants. A soft moan slips past your lips, his fingers still rubbing your clit slowly.

“James, please,” you mumble, throwing your head against his shoulder. He groans, his hands grabbing your waist and he pushes you further down on his covered cock.

“That's not what you're supposed to call me,” he says, kissing your jawline and down to your neck. His lips feel way better than you expected and you lean more against James. “Come on, say it and I will make you feel good. You will never want another dick in your tight pussy.”

His hands make their way to the hem of your shirt, he grasps it, pulling at it until you move a bit away from him and let him take off your shirt. He throws it to the side, his hands find their way back to your sides, snaking over your belly and caressing your skin softly.

James lips are on your neck, he nibbles on your sensitive skin, leaving marks on your neck. You moan softly, his hands sliding up to capture your breasts with his huge hands. “Say it properly, doll.”

“A—Alpha, please,” you whine, rocking your hips slowly against him. His cock pressing painfully against his pants. James unclasps your bra, letting it fall down before his hands make their way back to your breast. His fingers pinching your nipples softly, he twirls them while he listens to your soft moans.

James grins, his lips sliding along your neck. He groans when he inhales deeply, inhaling your beautiful and intoxicating scent. “Good girl.”

You place your hands on top of his, bringing them to your belly but you wait a moment before you place them at the hem of your pants. James gently bites nto your soft skin, causing you to yelp in surprise. He slides one of his hands underneath your pants, still having the thin fabric of your panties between your pussy and his fingers.

James circles your clit through your panties, you buck your hips forward, causing more pressure on your clit. A low moan slips past your lips. He chuckles, loving the way you move against his fingers to ask for more friction. “Wanna feel my fingers in your sweet little pussy, omega?”

You nod lightly. James pulls his hand out of your pants, opening them before he places you properly on the bed and helps you out of them, throwing them somewhere in the room before he gets back in between your legs. Now there is only the thin fabric of your panties that's between your pussy and his fingers.

He crawls between your spread legs, smirking down at you. The Alpha brings his fingers back to your clit, pressing softly against your sensitive button before he pushes the fabric to the side so he can finally slide his fingers through your wet folds until he reaches your entrance. A soft whimper leaves your lips when James pushes a finger against your tight entrance. He then pushes his finger slowly into your tight pussy. Your walls are squeezing his finger already and he makes his cock even harder in anticipation.

“Fuck, look at your, doll. Taking my finger like the good omega you are, huh? So fucking tight, can't wait to fuck you probably, ‘mega,” Bucky growls, his voice lower as usually and his eyes look like the are only dark shades instead of the ocean blue you're used to see when you look at him.

“B-James, please,” you whine, arching your back to push yourself more against him. His expression changes lightly when he notices the name that almost slipped past your lips. What would he give for it — he wants, he needs to hear you calling him by his nickname, maybe not while he fucks you but in every other situation where you’re not calling him Alpha.

With a chuckle he curls his finger inside of you, your arousal making it easy for him to move inside of you. His finger massaging your sweet spot, bringing you faster to the edge than you ever thought would be possible. James feels the change of your soft moans and the way your pussy is sucking him deeper while you squeeze him violently. He pulls his finger out of you, leaving you needy and whining for more.

“Quiet, Omega. You get what you need but don't want you to come just now, doll,” he mumbles, leaning closer to kiss along your collarbone. His one hand is caressing the soft skin of your thigh, while he uses his other hand to keep him steady above you. “I'm gonna take off your panties now, and I want you to let your legs spread apart. You're beautiful and there is nothing to be ashamed of, got it, Omega?”

With a soft nod, you let your head fall backwards into the pillows but James just towers over you without doing anything. Not even your soft whimper or the bucking of your hips causes him to do nothing else but looking at you with raised eyebrows. “Alpha, please. I got it, but please, need you.”

He grins softly, pressing his lips against yours before he sits up and removes his other hand from your thigh. You want to complain when James is already grasping the hem of his shirt to take it off. He reveals his high defined chest muscles and his Pratt abs, smirking even wider when he sees the way your eyes roam over every little inch of his body.

“Y-You look pretty, James,” you mumble, causing him to laugh softly. You have never heard him laugh that sweet, and just the little moment causes you to fall slowly for the Alpha. It’s the moment he wears a mask in front of everyone because that sweet laugh right now was real — not the way he chuckles when he is around his friends or someone else. And maybe it’s something he only reserves for you.

“Not as pretty as you, doll,” he smirks, bringing his hands back to your thighs and moves them to your covered pussy. He then grips the thin fabric of them, ripping them apart. You gasp, your eyes widen and you want to complain but he shakes his head softly. “No complaining, omega. I will buy you new panties.”

You know better than to argue with your Alpha, so you let your head just fall backwards into the pillows again, sighing softly when you feel his soft touch moving slowly to your pussy. James immediately pushes one of his digits into your tight entrance, followed by another. Your walls are tightening around him, making it almost impossible for him to move his fingers inside of you.

“Alpha, you won’t fit,” you whine, already struggling to take his fingers. But luckily your Alpha knows better and when it doesn't fit he will make it fit. He pushes his fingers deeper into you, curling them before he pulls them slowly out of you. James always hits your sweet spot with his digits, earning soft moans and whimpers from you.

“We will make it fit, look how well you take my fingers. Doing so well for me, doll. Taking them like the good, pretty omega you are for your Alpha,” he says, leaning down to press his lips against your clit, then sucking softly.

Your eyes widen, the pleasure immense and you aren't sure if you ever felt something like that before. But you’re almost sure you never felt so good before, his fingers hitting all the right spots inside of you, while he sucks at your clit, turning you into nothing but a whining and moaning mess underneath him.

Pussy clenching and throbbing, while he brings you closer to the edge. You feel the knot in your stomach growing, and before you can say anything to warn James he speeds his fingers inside of you up, his lips never leaving your clit while he enjoys your soft moans, the way your pussy squeezes him and especially the way you press your legs together but get stopped by his broad shoulders.

With a loud moan you come over his fingers, moaning loudly while he never stops moving his fingers, thrusting them in a steady yet fast pace into your tight pussy. James fucks you through your oragsm, his mouth dropping to your entrance, his tongue working into you next to his fingers.

"Alpha, too sensitive,” you whine but still pushing your hips forward to meet his tongue and movements of his fingers. He chuckles against your skin, continuing to eat you out for a moment longer before he licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit. Then he sits up, his beard slightly glistening because of your arousal, and it makes him only hotter, especially when his tongue darts out to take everything of your cum that's still covering his pink, plump lips.

“Mhm, you taste delicious, could stay between your legs all day so I could have your sweet taste all day, and you moan, you sound so good when you moan for me like that.” With one movement your Alpha gets off the bed, he opens his belt and pushes his pants down, followed by his boxer briefs.

James rock hard cock springs free, his red time leaking with pre-cum and James isn't just long, he is also thick. A vein running along the underside of his thick shaft and you have the urge to slide a finger or your tongue along it. You want to taste him too, want to have all of his cum down your throat but even more you need him deep in your pussy.

“Like what you see, ‘mega?” He asks, walking closer to the bed again, in his hand he has a condom you didn't even realize he had in his pocket. James gets in between your legs again, sitting on his knees, his dick resting against his stomach. Your eyes on his length, while he opens the package of the condom and pulls it out, rolling it down his cock.

James looks at you with an intense stare, smirking when you wiggle lightly underneath him. He spreads your legs further apart, placing himself perfectly in between them before he grasps the base of his length and moves it over your clit and through your folds to your entrance.

You’re moaning loudly, arching your back to get more of him but he slides his cock up to your clit again. He loves the soft, desperate whines you make when he teases you. When you’re all needy and almost cock drunk but he doesn’t give you his dick just yet.

“A—Alpha, please,” you whine, your hands looking for something to ground yourself which ends up being his arm and the bed sheets. You’re so in need of his cock, of him. You don’t mind that you sound like a desperate slut because right now, you only want him to fuck you already, make you feel so good.

“Love when you beg, sounding so sweet and so fucking desperate. Go on, beg for my cock, omega,” James growls, his chest rising and falling and his eyes widened, filled with lust while he looks at you. He wants you to beg for his cock, he needs it — even though it’s hard to resist you he wants to hear your soft whines and whimpers.

“Alpha, please. Please, need you so bad, need to feel you. Your cock, please,” you cry out when he slaps the tip of his cock against your sensitive clit.

With a chuckle he brings his cock to your entrance once again. The leaking tip pressing against your entrance and you suck in a deep breath when he pushes into you. You moan, your pussy is being stretched in a way it never was and you feel some tears falling down your cheeks when he pushes further into you.

Your Alpha looks the whole time into your eyes, his one hand reaching up to wipe the tears away. His lips trailing along your jaw before he reaches your lips and kisses you desperately but still soft. “Shh, it’s fine. I will make you feel so good once I’m inside of you completely.”

He pushes his cock slowly into you, he doesn’t want to hurt you. He would love to take away all the pain but the only thing he can do is fucking you slow and soft so he won’t hurt you more. You nod your head, fingers digging into his soft skin.

“Doin’ so well. Yeah, almost inside, ‘mega. You feel so good, such a good girl,” James praises, earning a soft smile between moans and whines. He eventually pushes completely into you, his balls resting against your ass.

The stretch hurts slightly but his hands stroking your sides and his cock twitching inside of you causing the pain to fade away and turn into pleasure. He kisses down your neck, waiting for you to adjust to his cock and giving him permission to move.

“I—I think you can move, Alpha,” you say quietly, blushing softly. He grins at you and moves his hips back, his thick length sliding almost out of you. When it’s only his tip that’s still inside your pussy he thrust forward once again.

James’ thick, veiny cock is moving in and out of you, causing a feeling in your stomach you never had before — at not as intense as it is now. The alpha groans against your neck, he tries his best to not just grasp your hips and fuck into your like a wild animal.

Your pussy is squeezing him so much, he feels like he is going to come in just a few seconds when your walls grip him as tightly as they do. Your alpha is already addicted to the feeling, loving your sweet sounds and the feelings of your fingers digging into his skin to ground yourself.

“Good girl, take my cock like the good omega you are,” he says, throwing his head back the moment your walls clench around his cock, sucking him deeper into you. “Look at you, being all greedy and desperate for my cock, huh?”

The smirk on his lips is adorable and wouldn’t you feel so embarrassed about the fact that you want him to rail you until the bed breaks you would have smiled back. But your thoughts of him slamming into you, running you wander through your mind and you can’t help but moan when you look at him.

“Please, move. Need you, need it so bad, please, Alpha,” you whine, eyes rolling back when he pulls out of you once again.

You don’t have to ask him twice. James pushes forward with more force this time, earning another moan. The tip of his cock kissing your cervix and your eyes widen. The Alpha feels better than a toy or your fingers could make you feel.

His thrusts speed up, he fucks you with such force that even the bed is starting to move and hits the wall with every movement forward. James’ fingers are interlaced with yours, pressing your hands down next to your head. While your fingers dig into the back of his hand, he digs his fingers into the bedsheets.

Your pussy is literally grappling his cock and holding him inside of you. The base of his cock swells with every thrust, every moan and every whimper. The moment he feels his knot growing more he pounds into you harder.

“Fuck, doing so good. Giving you all my cum, omega. Fuck, fuck—“ he groans, looking deep into your eyes. He doesn’t want to come before you do or at least with you, but he is so close and he can’t hold back anymore.

With a smooth movement he brings his hand down your front, reaching your clit and pressing against it before he smirks and rubs it. It’s all too much for you, his cock hitting your sweet spot every time he pushes into you and his talented fingers rubbing your clit bringing you over the edge.

“Please, come with me. Please, need you to come inside of me, need your cum. Please, Alpha,” you beg, coming all over his cock with a loud moan. Your pussy is squeezing James dick harder than before, holding him in place while he comes into you, his knot holding his cock buried deep inside of you while he still moves his dick as much as possible inside of you.

With a low groan he comes inside of you, his seeds shooting out and into the condom. He pants but smirks at you, admiring your sweaty skin, glistening but still looking so soft.

“Good girl, you were so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your neck. You just lie there, your fingers running through his soft hair while he kisses your soft skin. When you both come down from your highs he slowly removes his cock to throw the condom away.

Back next to you he lies on the bed and pulls you on top of him, smirking when you squeak in surprise. He chuckles softly and earns a soft giggle from you too.

James' arms are wrapped around you, your head placed on his chest, while you listen to his heartbeat. His fingers draw small circles on your back while you both still calm down from your orgasm and the intense but good sex.

“Feelin’ better, ‘mega?” He asks, looking at you with his perfect steel-blue eyes. The wide smirk on his face and the slight blush on his cheeks causes a tingling in your stomach.

You nod, kissing his chest. Your eyes meet his and you get lost for a moment. James leans closer, his lips capturing yours and you sigh softly into the kiss. And he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, groaning about your taste.

He smirks, leaning back and pulling you closer. Your scent is intoxicating and he just can’t get enough of it. But the feelings and thoughts he has when he is around you scare him — he never wanted to be closer with someone, and even though you’re his mate he is still unsure how to feel about that.

“Have you ever thought about being with an Alpha, being his?” He asks, turning to face you. Your chin is placed on his chest when you look at him, narrowing your eyebrows while you think about it.

Have you ever thought about being close to someone? Being marked, claimed by an omega which would mean you belong with him forever. You nod your head slightly and Bucky's eyes widen. “I’ve thought about being claimed by someone who isn’t my true mate.”

“Do you want it? To me claimed by another Alpha who isn’t your mate?” He asks, his eyes glistening with curiosity when those words slip over his lips.

“I would because you can be a dick. And you don’t want to be with someone more than a night. So I kind of regret that I lost my virginity to you — but you helped me with the pain of my heat so I’m grateful, though,” you say, earning a low growl from the Alpha.

No Omega has ever talked to him like that, calling him a dick. He has one — a huge, pretty cock — but being a dick? He just doesn’t want to be with an Omega just yet, right? This with you was also only because he wouldn’t like you to suffer with your heat but it was one time, wasn’t it?

“Have you ever thought about it? Claiming an Omega?” You ask, curious about his answer. But he only shrugs, smirking at you. You turn your head, getting some rest from the exhausting sex the two of you just had.

Bucky sighs softly, his fingers still sliding over your skin while he thinks about your question. He has never really thought about it, too young to think about claiming an omega. He wants to have fun with whoever he wants to have. But seeing you so peacefully sleeping in his chest, the way you moaned and looked when he fucked you and when you came — when you screamed his name — seeing you every time after school when he goes to his dorm, being cuddled up with his Omega?

The next day Bucky goes back to the way he was before the two of you had sex. A dick and flirting with every Omega he likes. He isn’t even looking at you, only avoiding you.

For a moment you thought he had changed, that the two of you could be more than just classmates but now he shows you again that he is just an Alpha who doesn’t manage to leave his dick in his pants.

You walk into the classroom, Bucky's standing next to the door with an Omega who almost drops on her knees to suck his cock in front of the whole class. “Like being called a slut, huh?”

The girl nods, and looks up at Bucky, earning a low chuckle when he turns around and makes his way to his seat. You’re lowering your head when he passes you, not wanting to see those beautiful blue eyes or those soft, plump and kissable lips of his.

The girl is giggling when she takes a seat next to her friend, talking to her while they both look every now and then at Bucky. You feel a harsh pain flowing through your body and this time it's not your heat. This time it’s to see your Alpha flirting with someone else and acting like he doesn’t even know you, like the two of you haven’t had sex.

“Good! Then we talked about the difference yesterday,” your teacher interrupts your thoughts. You don’t know what they talked about yesterday and your heart is aching so bad that you don’t even want to listen to it now.

You turn your face to the window, looking out, while you try to ignore every noise around you. Actually you would listen to the teacher, would write down some notes but with the heavy feeling in your chest you just want to go into your bed and cry. Cry about Bucky and being nothing but a toy for him. You should have known but he was so cute that there was the tiny thought he could be more than just a dick. Why does your mate has to be such a dick, he could be like other ones and be nicer but he has to fuck every omega he can reach and who is filling to let him fuck them.

“Y/N? You look really distracted today? Are you feeling oke or do you want to go out for a bit?” Your teacher asks but you only shake your head. You suddenly feel every pair of eyes on you and you just want to make yourself as small as possible to escape all those gazes while your cheeks heat up.

A low groan behind you causes everyone to look immediately away from you and back to the teacher who nods with a smile on his lips.

Bucky groans frustrated, not used to feelings like he has right now. Everyone looking at you like you could be their prey makes him go crazy. No one is allowed to look at you like that, right? But why is it bothering him? He doesn’t even feel something for you, he helped you out with your pain caused by your heat and now he can fuck whoever he wants. But there is that part in him — the Alpha — that tries to stop him from hurting you more, the pain in your chest mixed in your scent and he can smell it.

He can smell the changed scent, he feels guilty for hurting you like that. For causing so much pain in your chest but Bucky just can’t be with someone just yet. He wants to go to parties and hook up with whoever crosses his way during the party, he wants that, doesn’t he?

The whole lesson you’re quiet, not even looking at the paper in front of you. Blue eyes piercing in your back and Bucky’s jaw is clenched when he sees a classmate moving closer toward you. His hand rests next to yours and when he talks to you you look at him, smiling softly. Another low groan leaves his lips, how can he dare to get close to you — to Bucky’s omega..

“Want a drink after school?” The Alpha next to you asks and smirks at you. You shake your head, maybe you should just move on with another Alpha or just pay attention to get good marks but since the sex with Bucky you can’t push the feelings away. “Who hurt you, pretty girl?”

“No one, just not in a mood to get a drink,” you grumble, placing your hand on his arm. He nods, placing his hand on yours and you shiver slightly when his soft skin touches yours.

The loud sound of a chair crashing against a table and a fist punching hard on the surface of a table causes you all to turn around. Your eyes widen when you see Bucky standing there, fixing the Alpha who has his hand on yours, narrowing while he inhales deeply.

“Take your hands off of my Omega!” He growls, surrounding his table to get closer to the other Alpha who’s hand is still on yours.

“I’m not your Omega, Barnes,” you hiss, freeing your hand anyway and get up from the chair. Every pair of eyes is on the two of you. Not even the teacher interrupts you, while you step closer to Bucky and lift your hand to poke a finger against his broad chest. “Don't call me that! You haven’t claimed me and you have shown me damn well that you just want one fuck.”

He groans, grasping your hand and pulling you against his chest. You smell his beautiful scent and you just want to lean more into him, but he was hurting you and now he acts like you’re his omega, and no other Alpha could be with you.

“Don’t talk to me like that, ‘mega!” He demands, his grip tightens and you hiss. You try to wiggle out of his grasp but he only tightens it and pulls you even closer.

“You’re a dick, Barnes,” you growl, lifting your other hand to slap him across his face. His eyes widen and he suddenly lets go of you. You immediately turn around and take your stuff, pushing him to the side and walking out of the room.

Everyone is looking at Bucky, his cheek red and he is sure your handprint is visible. He looks at you while you walk out of the room he then gets back to his seat and lets himself fall down. The teacher clears his throat, getting the attention of the students and continues the lesson.

You’re rushing through the hallway, not sure where to go. The feelings inside of you boil, almost ready to burst out. You can still feel Bucky’s hand around your arm, his scent in your nose while you groan quietly.

When you finally find a little corner where no one is immediately seeing you you sit down, pulling your legs closer and wrap your arms around them. Then you place your head on your knees, looking through the floor — at least the part of it you can see.

Tears building in the corner of your eyes, slowly falling down your cheeks and you sob quietly. Why is your mate such a dick? Fucking you, being all sweet and then being such a dick. You can’t even talk to other Alphas because he is jealous but he is flirting with Omegas like he would fuck them immediately.

The rest of the lesson the brown-haired Alpha is staring at the other Alpha. Still annoyed that he dared to touch Bucky’s omega. He really doesn't know what happens with his feelings and his thoughts but he knows that the Alpha in him has to take care of his Omega. And the thought of some other Alpha seeing you whimpering and moaning while they push their dicks into your tight cunt makes him go crazy.

When the lesson ends he immediately pushes his stuff into his bag, throwing it over his shoulder and walks out of the room. He doesn’t walk much before a fist hits his face and his head is thrown to the side while someone is pressing him against the wall behind him. His back aches as well as his cheek and nose when he grasps the shirt of the person in front of him.

“You fucking idiot. Gonna punch you so hard that you can’t even remember your own name,” the Alpha in front of Bucky says. “Think you can play with her, huh? Gonna cut off your cock!”

Bucky’s hands are still fisting the shirt of Brock Rumlow while he tries to turn them both around so the other Alpha is pressed against the wall. “You don’t fucking know anything. She is my Omega so take your hands off of her!”

“And you treat your Omega like that? You’re a pathetic Alpha, Barnes,” Rumlow growls, freeing himself and walking away from Bucky.

The brown haired boy is panting, his eyes slightly widened when reality hits him once again. Rumlow wasn’t wrong, Bucky acts like an idiot but he just can’t handle the feelings he has for you — scared of being a shit Alpha for you, scared of being with someone.

He inhales deeply even though there are so many different smells but he can still smell you — intense and he can say you’re not feeling too good. Since he doesn’t want someone to listen to the two of you, he waits until the next lesson starts before he makes his way to you, knowing that you’re sitting in the corner, hiding yourself.

When you smell him your body tenses and your sobs stop for a moment. Hoping that he just walks past you but when his heavy footsteps stop just around the corner you shift further into the corner. Bucky bends down looking at you with his pretty ocean blue eyes and you whimper when he reaches his hand out to touch you.

“Come out there, ‘mega.” He says, softly but still demanding. You shake your head, ready to bite him when he comes further toward you but he doesn’t. He only groans frustrated, then he stands straight again and walks a few steps forward. “Come out there. NOW! Don’t like to repeat myself, Omega!”

The sudden change in his voice makes you whimper. Bucky sounds not as soft and patient anymore, his tone is rough and demanding. But you really don’t feel like you want to follow his orders, he isn’t you’re Alpha and he hurt you, so why should you be a good Omega for him now — especially when you’re not even his omega.

“Leave me alone, idiot!” You hiss. Your body tenses even more when a lower groan as you have ever heard before is leaving his lips. But you still don’t want to get out of the corner. You want to be alone or— “I would prefer any other Alpha instead of letting you touch me once again!”

“Shut the fuck up and come here! I’m your Alpha and you’re going to listen to me,” he says, trying to calm himself down. He actually just wants to talk nicely to you but your attitude and the knowing he hurt you causes impatient in him. He just wants me to be there for you, take care of you like an Alpha should do that for their Omega.

“Fuck off, Alpha. You’re an fucking idiot and I don’t wanna talk to you!” You almost shout. It’s not true, you want to talk to him, you want him to hold you, to kiss you, to love you — to make you his Omega.

“Doll, please. I’m sorry, can you please come out there. I just wanna talk with you,” he tries again, this time his voice so soft and caring that more tears fall down your cheeks. Why can’t Bucky always be like that? Sweet and lovingly.

“But stay away and we’re not going to talk in the hallway,” you say, grasping your bag and getting out of the corner. Bucky looks at you and a soft smile forms on his lips when he sees you but it immediately fades away when he sees your red eyes and the wet trails down your cheeks.

He just wants to hold you tight, wiping your tears away but he knows when he walks further to you without you allowing him you won’t talk to him. His heart is aching but he tries to push it to the side, waiting for you to walk into the direction you want to go to talk.

You turn around, walking toward the dorms and Bucky follows you like a lost puppy. When you stand in front of the door of your dorm you turn around. “Or do you want to talk in your dorm?”

Bucky shakes his head, he doesn’t mind where you’re going to talk as long as you let him explain why he acted so shitty. With a nod you open the door to your dorm and let him walk into it as well.

“What do you want?” You ask, voice cold and Bucky’s eyes widen slightly. A cold shiver running along his spine when you talk to him like that. You’re letting yourself fall down on your bed, moving to the headboard while he takes a seat on the other side of the bed.

“I love you, and I can’t stand the way those other Alphas look or touch you. That smile, the joy I saw in your eyes yesterday,” he mumbles, looking at his hands while he sighs deeply.

“Shut up and leave those words for one of your other bitches! You used me like a fucking toy,” you say, narrowing your eyebrows. “You can fuck any omega you want to fuck but don’t play with me!”

“I’m not playing with you—“ he tries to say but interrupts himself when you raise your eyebrow and turn your hand into fists, jaw clenching. “Omega! Calm down!”

Even though you don’t want it, the Omega in you immediately reacts to his order and a soft whimper leaves your lips. He hums when you pull your legs up and wrap your arms around them, placing your chin on your knees and looking at Bucky, but avoiding his eyes.

“I would never play with you. But my feelings— I never had those feelings before and it scares me,” he admits, running his fingers through his soft hair. His eyes are looking for yours but you just don’t want to look into his eyes — don’t want to get lost in those beautiful ocean blue eyes.

“James, please. Can you keep all those words for someone you really mean it? I won’t stop you from fucking whoever you want. I will get my shit together and try to find someone who takes care of me during the heat,” you mumble. Tears suddenly build up in the corner of your eyes before they fall down your cheeks. Fuck! Why do you have to cry just yet? When he is there and tries to get closer to you — to play with you again?

Bucky sighs, he moves closer, ignoring that you told him to stay away from you. His hand captures your chin and he moves your head until you have to face him. He is so close, his breath hitting your lips and you want to lean into his touch, you want to feel those pink lips on yours. You want to feel the warmth of him, his sweet touches but you don’t want him to use you as a toy.

“I know you think I played with you but I didn’t. I just never thought I could feel the way I feel for you now. The only thing I did was fucking but then there was you. You had your heat and the Alpha in me — the one that belongs to you — wanted nothing more to comfort you, so I did. I took care of you but then there were suddenly so many feelings, so much I actually always pushed to the side,” he says, inhaling deeply. He didn’t know he could say that much about his feelings and still hasn’t said nothing at all.

“It was nice that you—“ you start to say but he interrupts you with a low groan. One that causes your pussy to clench and your feelings to go even crazier. Bucky smirks, smelling your arousal but as fast as his smirk appears it disappears, it’s not the right moment to just smirk at the person he loves but hurt so much.

“I wasn’t finished yet, ‘mega.” His voice is rough and kind of demanding that you stay quiet until he finishes talking. But at the same time it sounds so soft like he doesn’t want to scare you. “College was for me a good place to still my needs but I love you. I really do and for the first time since college I don’t want to fuck someone. And yes, the omega I talked to earlier wanted me, but even though I can be good in dirty talk with anyone, I wouldn't have fucked her. I just wanted to forget those feelings but I just want to comfort you — comfort my Omega. You belong to me, even though I never showed you before. But please let me do it now.”

Bucky didn’t expect you to shake your head but when you do his eyes suddenly darken and he growls. He tightens his grip around your chin, causing you to whimper quietly. He is so dominant that you just want to give into him but what he doesn’t know you haven’t shook your head because you meant no, you just wanted him to let go of your chin so you could talk properly — without muffled sounds or squeezed cheeks.

When you shove Bucky by his broad chest away you almost moan. His scent is intoxicating and his broad chest, high defined muscles underneath the fabric of his shirts lets the Omega in you show more of itself than you actually want it right now. He looks at you with a confused gaze but lets go of your chin.

“Let me talk before you growl at me, boy!” You say, earning a warning look from him which causes you to swallow harshly. “Sorry, Alpha. If you wanna prove that you can be different show me but that doesn’t mean I will be doing what you tell me! I’m not one of these omegas you fucked and then thanked you.”

“You will thank me for it too,” he says, darkly with a smirk on his face. When you just raise your eyebrow he immediately nods and moves closer toward you. “Sorry, ‘mega.”

Your eyes widen and you blink, unsure if you heard him right. Did he just apologize? James Bucky Barnes apologized by an Omega? His hands slide to your back and he caresses your skin softly but your muscles tensing and Bucky sighs. His blue eyes are piercing in yours and you feel a shiver along your spine when his hand doesn’t stop moving up and down your sides and back.

“Want it to make up to you, show you that you mean more to me than all those other girls,” he says, his hands letting go of you but find their place a moment later on your cheeks. He pulls you closer and just before your lips meet he waits for you to break the distance. His tongue slips across his lips, causing them to glisten slightly. “So shy, ‘mega, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s teasing makes you giggle softly. You didn't want to give in to him just yet but his scent, his touches and the way he looks at you are just too adorable to push him away. “Not shy, James!”

He groans about the name, wanting you to address him properly or at least with his nickname. “Doll,” he warns, raising an eyebrow and causing you to giggle even more. “Don’t tease me just yet.”

“You said you wanna make it up to me, so it’s part of it, James,” you say, lifting one of your hands to poke two of your fingers into his broad chest. He groans frustrated, nodding his head and lowering it just a moment later for you to kiss him. You chuckle, fingers sliding to his neck and you scratch softly over his soft skin, causing him to shiver underneath your touch.

“Can I kiss you now, ‘mega?” He asks, tilting his head slightly to the side. Bucky captures your cheeks with his hands, smiling softly. You suddenly smirk mischievous, a thought just plopped up in your mind and a way he could make things a bit up to you, when he does that.

“Choke me, Alpha,” you mumble, exactly knowing what kind of effect your words have on him. A low growl leaves his lips and he raises an eyebrow at you, then he smirks.

“You think you can demand things, omega?” His voice is low and sounds rougher as usual, causing you to shiver lightly. You nod your head though, the smirk never leaving your lips while your Alpha shakes his head in amusement. One of his hands sliding to your neck, his fingers slowly curling around it and digging softly into your sensitive skin.

“Harder, or are you just a little sub?” You tease, causing him to groan once more. His grip tightens and he pushes you back until you hit the headboard of the bed, swallowing harshly.

“That's what you like? Choking with my hand around your throat, why not choking by my cock in your pretty mouth?” He asks, chuckling softly when you whimper and press your tight together. “Yeah, that's what you like, having your Alphas cock deep down your throat.”

“B—But as much as I love it, I want you to make things up to me first. And we could start with a date,” you say, trying to push the thoughts you have away. Deep down you hope that the two of you end up in bed, he is on top of you, very soon because his cock feels just too good.

“Oke, how about we make a movie night, I bring all the snacks? And maybe I will claim you,” your Alpha says, smirking at you, still only inches away while he waits until you allow him to kiss you. He never lets an Omega decide that much but he has a crush on you for so long and the night with you, the Alpha in him — Bucky needs you, he loves you and he doesn't want to mess things up once again.

You nod, leaning even closer. Bucky's tongue pokes out, wetting his lips before he tilts his head further to the side. His eyes light up and the smile across his lips widens when you nod your head softly. Bucky breaks the distance between your lips, pressing his soft, plump once against yours. His one hand is still tightly wrapped around your throat, while the other slides down to your waist. You run your fingers through his soft hair, making him sigh softly about your soft touches.

He is addicted to you, and he will prove that he can be the one you deserve, who loves you more than everything. He wants you to show you that he loves you, showing you that his words, his feelings are real — that he really means when he confessed his feelings, knowing that you feel the exact same way he does.

// Taglist // @kandis-mom @sergeantbarnessdoll @identity2212 @km-ffluv @lunaalovesyouu @armystay89 @suz7days @etherealdisneyvillainness @pono-pura-vida @somnorvos @meowmeowyoongles @randomawesomeperson102 @rogersbarber @sebastianstanisahotmf @loki-laufeyson68 @winterschildren8 @bxtchboy69 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @bucky-barnes-lover @felicitylemon @cjand10 @bookishtheaterlover7 @casa-boiardi @futurequeen2018-blog @flstrawberry @capsbestgirl77 @nervouseden @jiyascepter @princesscore-angel @mrs-katelyn-barnes @sasha-writing @blackhawkfanatic @fanfictionreaderfan @multiversefanfics @angelbabyyy99 @looking1016 @aphrodite-xoxo

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embbarnes · 2 months ago

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Beefy Bucky & Creampies uhhh 18+ MDNI

It has to specifically be Beefy Bucky um because I said so.

Bucky would eat your well fucked pussy after he came inside you I know it.

Dude loves a good creampie.

His fat cock drilling into you and so sweetly kissing your cervix with each intense thrust, hot precum weeping out of his cockhead and soothing the swollen flesh and coating your inner walls until he fucking just cums and fills you up with his seed.

There's literally so much of it, it oozes out of you as he slowly drags himself back, watching the white cream just...coat your cunt. His mouth waters, seeing your pretty petals so slick and glistening with your own cum and his. He just can't help himself.

Bucky grabbing your legs and holding them open while his tongue continues to lap and twirl between your folds as he listens to that pretty little symphony coming out of your lips.

And his mouth wraps around that pretty pearl of yours and he just nurses on it while you feel the hot, tingling erupt through your body. You feel it in your toes, they curl as you fist the sheets and beg him for more.

Tug his hair and feel his arms, look at those pretty eyes as he glances up at you. Oh my god. Watch him rut himself into the fucking bed because he's ready for round two. Three. Four.

He laps and licks, his fucking face is buried in you. The scruff gently tickling your inner thighs and scratching your folds. He doesn't want to let up, drinking your essence and inhaling your scent, memorizing it. He's so drunk off your pussy, he doesn't want to let you go, ever.

Your taste and his own together was like a drug.

The groans this man makes is enough to make you cum again, or at least send those shivers through your delicate bud, begging to be sucked again.

Bucky doesn't give a shit if he tastes himself on you, he sucks himself out of you just to push it all back in and listen to you mewl at the sensation, or he pulls back and slams his lips against yours, sharing himself on your tongue.

Um yeah. I guess this is kinda cum play too?

Just a thought lol byeee <3

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cosmos-coma · 8 months ago

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Sleep Deprived

A/N: still alive!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 1005

Warnings: Unedited, Toot-Rotting fluff :)

Summary: You are far too nice and cannot seem to say no when the team keeps asking you for favors. Now you're ridiculously sleep-deprived and Bucky is determined for you to finally get some rest. (Grumpy Bucky X Sunshine Reader)

Bucky Masterlist

Buy me a Coffee?

_____

Kindness had always been something you prided yourself on; your willingness to help and be patient with others had almost always done you well, but sometimes you were just too nice

First, it was helping Nat go through her old paperwork late one night; she had been in an absolute rush trying to find this old file before the deadline and you didn’t even think of refusing. Then it was Tony, who all but forced you to fill in for one of his lab techs in an overnight experiment. Then Steve wanted help with some confounded modern technology that Sam swore he didn’t have the time to teach him.

On top of it all you had hardly been sleeping the last few nights anyway.

Where you once felt vibrant and bright was now filled with far-distant gazes and tired smiles. Not that you really noticed, right now you were only focused on opening your eyes again after each agonizingly heavy blink.

“Y/N are you sure you want to come?” Steve asked, “You look like you could use a 90-year sleep…” he commented with a quiet huff of laughter.

You barely even registered the joke, instead just smiling sleepy on instinct to his small laugh, “I’m sure, I really do want to go. I promise I’ll be okay once we get going” you assured. The team had been planning this outing for weeks now and you swore you wouldn’t miss it. Not only that but you really didn’t want to miss out on a chance to spend a little more time with Bucky outside of work.

He had snared you at the very first moment and he didn’t even know it. His bright blue eyes had turned away from their conversation, a small frown on his lips from whatever had just been said, and turned to you instead- jolting you with a force you couldn’t have foreseen. Ever since then your heart had been hooked, its strings unwillingly tangled by the smallest interactions.

Not you’d ever admit that to anybody.

“Doll, I really think you should consider staying home and getting some rest…” your heart thrummed as Bucky spoke, his arms crossed over his chest as he gave you a look.

But you only held up your hands, smiling your assurances as you spoke, “I can last a few more hours..! I’ll take a nap as soon as we get back, but I’m sure I’ll last.”

The other members of the team only looked at each other, sharing doubtful glances but nodding nonetheless- if you really wanted to go they weren’t going to try and stop you.

“Alright then,” Nat said with a shrug and stood up, “let’s all head out then.”

Everyone stood up at once and you followed suit, your vision swimming as you stood up far too fast. “Whoa.. um, I mean… Whoo! Yeah, let’s do this…!” You took a staggering step forward. You refused to look like you couldn’t keep up and so you pushed through, giving yourself no time for recovery.

Thankfully there was still one person watching you. Bucky stood up to follow, lingering by your side as the others moved on ahead. He’d tell himself it was purely to watch over you, but he couldn’t deny the lingering urge to be near you. Ever since your first day at the tower when you flashed your annoyingly bright smile at him… he knew he’d never be able to think of anything else.

You stumbled but quickly caught yourself, your breathing ragged and worn as your body begged for rest. “Doll, please-“ but he didn’t have a chance to finish as you stumbled towards the ground yet again.

Strong hands shot out to catch you, your body almost completely limp in his firm grasp. “Oh I…” you started, struggling to keep your consciousness and your breath, “Sorry… I’m okay….”

But Bucky only frowned and shook his head, his hands scooping you up bridal style and he turned to the rest of the team who had stopped to turn back, “You guys go ahead. We’re gonna stay here and get some rest.” He said as he walked back toward the couch, acting as if holding you against his chest was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to do that, Bucky…” you mumbled against his chest, your body more than happy to sink into him.

“Shh, yes I do…” he spoke quietly, the whole room settling into a calm quiet as the rest of the team headed out the door, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Doll… I know you want to be nice, but you’re only gonna wind up hurt.” He chided as he took a seat on the couch and laid back against the armrest.

Thanks to your lack of sleep you had no shame in rolling on top of him, your cheek squishing against his chest as you let out a tired huff. “I’m not.. good at saying no…” you murmured with eyes closed, sleep coming on fast in your comfortable state.

The grumpy ex-soldier grinned despite himself, your sweet smooshed face stirring something in his old heart. He pulled a blanket off the top of the couch, draping it over the two of you as you seemed to be in the last thralls of consciousness.

“Bucky…?”

“Yes, Doll?”

“Will you be here when I wake up…? Please..?” Your soft voice asked, your fingers curling around his shirt in an effort to make him stay- but he didn’t need any swaying.

A grin, as bright as your own, broke through his expression, and he nodded quietly, “I’ll be right here, Doll. I promise you….”

---

And he kept his promise.

Hours later the rest of the team had finally returned, initially boisterous and full of laughter, they were quickly quieted down by the sight before them.

There on the couch you and Bucky continued to lay, his strong arms wrapped firmly around your frame with his sleeping face tucked into the top of your head.

_____________________________

General Bucky Taglist:

@writingmysanity @simpxinnie @goldylions

If I missed or accidentally tagged you lmk! Wanna be added General Bucky taglist? Please ask/DM me!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic #bucky imagine #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x y/n #james bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes x reader #james barnes x y/n #james barnes x you #james barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #James Bucky Barnes imagine #mcu imagine

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totallynotashieldagent · 3 months ago

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bucky would be the WORST case of down bad in the history of down bads.

you could be dating him, married to him, be his and he'd still be such a puppy for you.

at your beck and call always. even if you just were going to the kitchen for a glass of water, he'd jump out before you with a let me get it and

he'd swoon every time you actually asked him for something. goddamn it, his account's been collecting interest for years and he's gotta spend it somewhere, right? why NOT you???

you're his girl, afterall. he'd spend his days off just watching you read because he can.

oh he'd be so wrapped around your finger - cooking meals, learning you favourites, helping out, sometimes physically making you sit out chores so he can do it for you

all with the whole i'm a super soldier, doll, i can do more than you and you'd have no argument against it.

you could belong to him in every which way possible and he'd still be working his ass off to make sure he deserved it.

#bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader #back on my bucky bullshit #down bad #bucky you shelter dog #james barnes x reader #james barnes

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elixirfromthestars · 1 month ago

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Crossroads

Pairing: Ex!Bucky Barnes x Neurosurgeon!Reader

Summary: On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warning(s): ANGST / heartbreak / failed relationship / very tiny mention of a surgical procedure, not in great detail / I know I mentioned angst already, but this is all angst with maybe like a tiny sprinkle of fluff / medical career mentions (I did my research, but just in case I got anything wrong) / mentions of Bucky's trauma and hardships from his past

Prompt/Theme: chai latte (caught in the cold rain) + melancholy (write a tragic tale)

a/n: This is my submission for @the-slumberparty ‘s Winds of Autumn Challenge. Did I choose melancholy because of my name? Perhaps 🫢 In all honesty, it has been too long since I wrote a pure angst piece, so I knew I had to write something to get the heartbreak going. As a piece of advice, not everything is as it seems, so wait till the end for the whole story to come together. I would say happy reading, but instead, I'll wait here with tissues and a hug for those who need it after reading this. ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`) Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ // main masterlist ♡

Lightning crackles across the sky as you scurry across the puddle-ridden streets of New York desperately searching for a cab. The wind had rendered your umbrella useless, so the rain fell in harsh sheets against your body—soaking you from head to toe.

You had been performing an emergency surgery on one of your patients in a different hospital from the one you resided in. Your patient had suffered from an aneurysm brought on by a complication from a previous surgery. She couldn’t be transported across the city as immediate medical attention was needed, so you were transported to said hospital via the hospital helicopter.

Which you obviously couldn’t use to fly back home.

The surgery took longer than anticipated—eight hours to be exact. When you were close to being done there was unexpected bleeding coming from the surgical sight and you had to go back in and reexamine everything to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, there were no more complications after that and you could focus on stabilizing your patient so she could go and recover in the intensive care unit.

The downpour had started towards the end of your surgery. You were far from home and the already unfamiliar streets had blurred together amongst the harsh streaks of water obscuring your vision. It was still the early hours of the night and you were exhausted—longing to collapse against your bedsheets and wrap yourself in their warmth. Tiredness had seeped its way into your bones faster than the rain had seeped into your coat.

As you cross another street you spot a bus shelter nearby and make a run for it. Knowing it might be a while before you can catch a cab and at least those glass walls would be enough to protect you from the icy wind that threatened to freeze you. Once inside you try your best to warm up your hands, observing the way your breath materializes in the air. You consider ordering a rideshare, but you know the numbness in your fingertips has to go away before you can take your phone out and order it.

Fate, however, had other plans for you.

“Y/n?”

Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air.

This can’t be happening—not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him.

He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don’t want to face him, but there’s that small part of you—the part that will forever be his—that begs you to look. That needs to know if it's him.

Your head turns slowly, holding your breath as you keep your emotions in check as best as you can. Hoping the universe was playing a cruel joke on you and presenting you with someone who sounded exactly like him.

But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?

Deep down you knew there was no mistaking it. It was him. It was Bucky. You would know the sound of his voice even in the loudest of crowds—like a language only your heart spoke. Even now when it was on the cusp of becoming a forgotten one.

Your eyes meet his as a flash of lightning illuminates you both. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the way his eyes seem stormier than the sky. Filled with as many conflicting emotions as you know are reflected in yours.

“Bucky. Hi…”

When you find your voice it sounds foreign to you—quiet and tight. The years of rebuilding every part of yourself are on the edge of crumbling down in a simple greeting. Bucky gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks between you and the bus shelter. He frowns for a moment as if having a silent debate with himself.

“Is it okay if I um…?” He nods towards the inside of the bus shelter as he trails off. This is when you finally notice the way the rain whips against his skin, soaking him where he stands, and it dawns on you what he’s asking.

He wants to know if it’s okay for him to seek shelter from the rain with you. The man who used to insist on holding your hand wherever you went because he loved the feeling of your hand in his, the man who would hug you from behind and hide in the crook of your neck as he showered it with kisses when he missed you on the days you came home late, the man who cuddled you close every night and whispered how much he loved you between kisses that seemed to want to reach your very soul—that man was now asking for your permission to be in the same space as you.

Oh, how cruel fate could be…

“Yes, of course. It's fine,” your response is polite—too polite, and your movements are virtually robotic as you take a few steps to your right to keep a stranger’s distance between you. He mumbles a small thanks before he steps inside, his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Keeping to his personal space as much as possible.

Silence stretches between you—heavy with unspoken sentiments—interrupted only by the booming of thunder and the drumming of rain as it hits whatever is in its way. You try to distract yourself by counting the seconds between the stoplight changing from green to yellow to red and then green again, but it's no use when he’s but a few steps away from you. The man who you used to know like the back of your hand is now a stranger and it's causing you more distress than you’d like to admit. The inside of your cheek feels the brunt of that torment as you bite it incessantly. You have to do something about this silence before it consumes you.

“How have you—”

“How’s it been—”

You both speak up at the same time, holding each other’s gaze for a fraction of a second before falling into an awkward laugh. He clears his throat before encouraging you to speak first. You look away, the civility of his tone crawling under your skin and unstitching mended wounds—some of which still had not fully healed yet.

“Okay, well how have you been, Bucky?”

“Good. I’ve been good. You?”

“Oh. I’ve been good too.”

The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again—the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here—really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be.

Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up.

Your current self still doesn’t entirely understand.

Bucky shifts on his feet, lips in a tight line as he speaks up, “I read about your recent award. Congratulations, you deserved it,” the sincerity in his voice causes your head to snap in his direction. When you see his genuine smile, one that makes the corner of his eyes slightly crinkle, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way that threatens to pull you back to him.

You won that award for your research achievements in neuroscience a few months ago. Which could only mean that at least until a few months ago, Bucky had been keeping up with you. A piece of information that left you speechless and with a million thoughts running through your mind.

Had he always kept up with you?

Or did he only just recently revisit a part of his past?

Were you on his mind all this time like he had been in yours?

There was so much you wanted to ask—to say—but instead, your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water until you were able to mutter a soft, “Thank you.” The sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain. Bucky caught it, however, his body less rigid hearing the familiar cadence. He smiles a little wider, the kind of smile that chips away at the walls you built up these last two years and insists you spill a string of secrets you have locked away in the deepest depths of your heart.

All secrets that revolve around him.

How you also kept up with him, never scrolling past a social media or news post highlighting anything that had to do with the Avengers in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. Visiting the coffee shop where you two met on occasions telling yourself it's because no other coffee tastes better, but really it's because of the memories of you two that lie in every corner of that building. The loss of him follows you even when you order takeout because you would rather deal with the lie of ordering for two rather than with the truth of ordering for one.

However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that’s tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you.

A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you.

Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn’t find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it.

You were weak—and quite frankly you didn’t give a damn.

The one thing holding you back from pouring your heart out to Bucky was how things had ended. The vagueness, the fight, the resentment and confusion. All of it took hold of you and screamed at you to be more cautious—to keep your guard up.

Thunder snaps you out of your thoughts, grounding you in the present once more. You need answers, but you know you have to be careful about how you retrieve them.

You cross your arms, pressing your coat tighter against your body in an attempt to comfort yourself—turning to face him only to have your heart skip a beat when you realize he is already looking at you. His gaze softens with a vulnerability that makes the words get stuck in your throat.

You let out a shaky exhale, “I uh—I saw Sam became the new Captain America. I also saw you on the news fighting alongside him. Are you two friends now?” The question comes out innocent enough, making Bucky’s demeanor brighten as he takes it as a sign that you’re open to talking to him. Your hidden intention behind that question is a need for confirmation of something that eats away at you anytime you think about his reason for breaking up with you.

Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, “Yeah, sort of—it's a long story. We went on a mission together and I realized he wasn’t that annoying, so we became mission partners and I guess you could consider us friends now,” he explains to you with a fond expression, one that leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Through the occasional flashes of lightning you’re able to get a better look at him and the sinking feeling is on the verge of drowning you.

Bucky no longer had harsh dark circles under his eyes, his scruff was nicely shaven, and his posture was lighter as if the world was no longer falling heavily on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than when you last saw him, he had lost a bit of weight, and he had found a friend in Sam. Something you had encouraged him to do while you two were still together, but he refused on account of saying he only needed you. All of this verified to you the one thing you feared the most.

Bucky had been right all along. He had been right in breaking up with you.

Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn’t ready for a relationship. That was it—that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life.

Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you.

How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?

The air between you shifts, it’s thick and acrid, and your heart races in your chest with fury as loud as the thunder that rumbles in the clouds. Leaving you wondering if Bucky can differentiate which one is more turbulent. He can sense the change in you and it causes the heaviness in his shoulders to return and his body to go rigid—his own heart threatening to leap out of his chest.

Your phone rings and you use it as an excuse to turn away from Bucky. You pull it out of your bag and check the caller ID—it's Nate. Your neighbor from down the hall of your apartment complex who moved in a couple of months ago, and was now a casual hookup of yours. You weren’t one for hookups, but after years of no connection you longed to feel something—anything with anyone.

You were only human after all.

You answer the call, needing to put your attention elsewhere before you say anything to Bucky you might regret later. You keep your responses short, knowing Nate could only be calling you at this hour for one reason and one reason only. Bucky didn’t need to know that reason, so you decide to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He’s tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through—like the fact that you’re talking to a man—and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.

You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on.

As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop them.

“Was that your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can’t help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze—ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else.

Screw not saying something you’ll regret later.

“Yeah. That was him,” you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins.

Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside.

There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.

Bucky would never be able to recover from that.

“I’m…happy for you. I’m happy you were able to move on,” Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue.

“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him.

“Y/n I—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you weren’t ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don’t tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together—you don’t talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you’re not ready for something long-term. Not unless…not unless it was all a lie from the start,” your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you.

The thunder roars so loudly it shakes the glass walls around you and for a second you think they might break—but ultimately they don’t. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, taking a sharp intake of a breath before blowing out the air in what sounds like a choked sob. Every fiber of his being longs to break the distance, wrap you in his arms, and never let you go. Cradling you close to his chest like he used to whenever you were upset.

He had lost that privilege—he’s well aware of that, and yet his wishes remain the same.

Bucky knows there’s more he can say. Things that might not restore what was broken, but that will definitely give you answers or closure. Although, at the risk of hurting you even more he keeps them to himself and instead whispers a strained, “I’m sorry.” Letting the weight of his apology hang in the air.

Your tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away not wanting to cry in front of him. Maybe you shouldn’t be bitter and resentful—after all the man you loved with your whole heart ended up better off without you. If you truly loved him you should be happy for him. Despite that, there is no ounce of happiness that you can conjure up for him right now. At this moment, you are swimming in an ocean of negative emotions that are close to pulling you under into a very dark place.

You can be the bigger person tomorrow—tonight you won’t be.

Bucky can hear it before it comes into view, a cab is finally making its way down the road. He steps out into the road to wave it down, the rain ricocheting off of his shoulders. Without speaking another word, he heads over to the cab and opens the door to the backseat, gesturing for you to go in. For a second, you hesitate to take the cab. You know once you do this is it—it's over.

A beat passes until you make a decision. With a heavy heart, you force one foot in front of the other, stepping into the rain and then into the backseat. Accepting this small gesture from Bucky as a heartfelt goodbye. If you stuck around any longer that bit of animosity brewing in the pit of your stomach would’ve boiled over.

You don’t look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating—Bucky is crying. He’s hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he’s crying.

You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.

Bucky steps back into the shelter of the glass walls and watches the cab drive off with you in it—taking his heart and his hope with you.

Bucky tries to force the tears to stop, but he knows it's no use. Just like you, he had held back a sea of truths he wanted to confess. Truths he wasn’t sure you even wanted to hear or he even deserved to tell.

Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn’t his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he’ll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color.

His existence feels soulless without you.

Sam is trying to get him to talk about it, but you’re the one thing Sam is not allowed to bring up. Not when Bucky is ashamed of the full story—of the truth.

The full story—the full truth—was the one thing most of all that he wanted to get off of his chest and confess to you. Bucky didn’t break up with you because he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. That was the biggest lie he had ever told and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was ready. He was so damn ready he even bought the ring to ask you to marry him—to make forever official. That was until he noticed how his problems began to bleed into your life. So much so, that your career as a surgeon began to suffer from it. The one thing you were most passionate about—your dream—the one thing you worked blood, sweat, and tears for was in jeopardy because Bucky was still suffering from the baggage of his past as the Winter Solider.

Bucky felt like a burden. You would never call him that and he knew if you ever heard him call himself that, you would do and say everything you could to assure him he was wrong. You loved him so deeply and so selflessly that your career became an afterthought. When his nightmares plagued him, when his PTSD was triggered, when the world felt like it was closing in on him—there you were. By his side no matter the time of day to hold him close and reassure him he wasn’t alone, that he was safe, and that he was loved. Bucky had become so dependent on you he didn’t realize how it had affected you until he stumbled across the warning letters your job sent, the voicemails, and the overheard calls. The articles that came out questioning your morality for dating the Winter Solider—a cold-blooded killer.

Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.

That’s when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn’t be honest with you over the real reasons—you would never accept them. So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him.

Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he’d be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he’d ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.

Bucky couldn’t give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream—and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him.

He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love—the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky angst #bucky fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes x you #james barnes x y/n #james barnes imagine

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l0standn0tf0und · 2 months ago

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40s!Bucky Barnes ☆ fic recs

part 1.

part 2.

part 3.

♡ = smut, 18+ only

peace

drafted

set me free

empty words

it ends with us

new house and a cat

dating 40s! bucky hcs

waking up to sargent barnes...

♡can't help the crush he has on the sweet nurse...

♡40s bucky + virginity

♡homecoming

♡gift wrapped

♡damn bear

All credits and support to the original authors: @buckgasms @srgntjamesbuckybarnes @tom-holland-parker @jobean12-blog @sergeantbarnessdoll @lanabuckybarnes @buckyalpine @danikaawrites @intrepidacious

masterlist

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lanabuckybarnes · 6 months ago

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| Secrets That Bite Back |

18+ MINORS DNI

For the longest time America’s star spangled Captain, or as you know him as Steve, has kept a little secret. A secret he thinks he guards well yet the rest of the Avengers seem to know already. Biting the bullet he decides to share this information with you but you have a secret of your own who isn’t too pleased about it.

✧Pairing✧ Bucky Barnes x Agent!Reader

✧Warnings✧ Feelings, Oblivious Reader, Mention of Wet Dreams, Mention of Oral (M), Mentions of PinV, Attempted Confessions, Jealousy, Like real bad, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism (to be safe), Multiple Hard Orgasms, Fingering, Oral (F), Degredation?, [Names: Babydoll, Baby, Bunny], Marking, Unprotected PinV, Dirty Talk, Possesive Behaviour/Words, Creampie, A lil Aftercare (Very brief), Poor Stevie, I feel so bad — If there is any more you find not listed here please be sure to let me know so i can add it.

✧Word Count✧ 1.5K

✧Author Note✧ This entire thing was sprouted from a little drabble I made a few months back that I was going to post but thought I could make something better out of it. Well its been a bit since then but here we are. I’m happy about how this has turned out considering i’ve been hating everything I make as of recently. I very much bully Steve in this fic, I felt so bad writing it. Anyways I hope you enjoy this please let me know what you think of it.

It was no secret that the face of America had a little crush on you. He wasn’t exactly accustomed to hiding his feelings, often wearing his heart on his sleeve, so at the first twinges of love brewing in the Cap’s gut everyone in the compound already knew. Except for you.

You assumed the kind eyes and lady-killing smile were something he did to everyone; he had a reputation to uphold and that meant being nice to everyone, not just his Avengers colleagues.

“Hey Cap” You smiled gently at the sight of his broad frame entering the briefing room, the first one there beside yourself. You couldn’t see it, the way his stiff shoulders visibly drooped at your honey-tinged voice, the creases in his forehead relaxing until there was no evidence of their existence at all. What was there though was a deep rosy blush as memories of the previous night’s dream filled his brain like a disease, coiling around any basic human function he once had full control over malfunctioning.

He remembers the way those perfect lips kissed his own, down over the thick column of his neck and further, until he lost his mind thanks to your expert mouth sucking gently on the head of his cock. How your eyes rolled into the back of your head when he sunk home above you, uncontrollable sounds escaping you as he took you the way he needed; primal, hard but oh so loving. Steve was down bad for you and it was affecting his professional life with you. He’d either have to get rid of you or confess and in no uncertain terms was he getting rid of such a great agent.

The crushing continued; the Cap had fallen short of his word to confess his feelings and the cycle repeating itself. The dreams, the sight of you walking around the compound in the same uniform everyone else wore yet it somehow looked even better on you, then he was making silly little mistakes.

He had made up his mind, psyching himself up in front of his bathroom mirror. This Friday was Avengers movie night, he knew you were there every week and most of his other friends were out drinking or on their own mission, leaving only you, Steve and Bucky — Bucky wouldn’t show up to the movie night so it was perfect — the pair of you cuddled up on the couch, his lips on yours instead of paying any kind of attention to the three-star rated movie that played.

There you were, sitting so cutely curled up under a thick blanket, your hand already fisting large amounts of popcorn into your mouth, your hair unruly and not a trace of makeup in sight. Steve always thought you looked the prettiest like that. He waited until the movie was well and truly underway, gunfire and explosions booming from the speakers before he made his move.

“Uhm”

You turned to him instantly, wide eyes framed with thick lashes staring up at him, “hm?”

God, you were too cute. You were making this hard on the blonde super soldier. Steve moved cautiously, taking both of your hands in his much larger ones, rough thumbs soothing over your knuckles — trying to calm himself down more than anything else. You watched the bulky man in front of you fight internal emotions threatening to bubble forth, his chest heaving with deep breaths before his eyes pinned on you, blue colour thick with determination.

“I-I don't really know how to start this…” Oh no. “I-uh I think you are amazing, an amazing agent, an amazing friend. You are gorgeous, you have such a beautiful soul that shone over me, from my first day off the ice, the rays from your smile have always made me feel alive. What I’m trying to say and failing is that I—“

Your body stiffened as a hand clapped down on your shoulder, cold and hard, glimmering against the harsh lighting of the screen to your right.

Unfortunately for Steve, you had a secret of your own. That secret watched with possessive eyes as Steve melted like hot butter in your presence, watched as the Captain’s eyes raked down your body when your back was turned — he also watched now as Steve sat a little too close to something that was not his stuttering over his confession. He’d had enough and decided that maybe Steve had to learn his place, even if it meant your little secret got out.

“Bucky” Steve breathed at the sight of his brooding friend, staring up into blue eyes that were stained green at the sight of you two canoodling right in front of him. He wasn’t sure if you were ignorant or completely oblivious to Steve’s feelings.

“Steve” Bucky returned, the coldness like the thin edge of a blade running down the length of your spine. “Do you mind?”

Steve’s hands slipped from your own, disappointment radiating from him. From the feeling of Bucky behind you, rough jeans tenting against your shoulder, you had a feeling Steve was about to feel a lot more than disappointment.

Wordlessly Bucky pulled you up, dragging you through the threshold of the sitting room to the kitchen and into the laundry cupboard. He wouldn’t be able to make it back to his room and he wanted Steve to hear everything.

“S-shit Bucky” you wailed as your second orgasm hits you like a freight train; your juices spilling all over the tinted vibrainum and his stubbled chin, he sucked hard on your puffy clit in response. Your legs shook so violently you were sure they would collapse underneath you if it weren’t for the bruising grip Bucky’s free hand had on your hip, no doubt leaving finger-shaped bruises on your skin.

The thought to keep quiet had long since run from you, even before your first orgasm. The threat of Bucky not stopping until you couldn’t leave his room, his bed, and he’d have his way with you while you were helpless had long since clouded your mind of any decency. Filthy moans spewed out your bitten lips, a mixture of pleas and Bucky’s name filling the tiny closet.

“Mm, what is it babydoll? Can’t handle it huh? Maybe you shouldn’t have been such an oblivious little bunny, letting poor Steve confess his feelings to you when you got me. This is what you get and you’re going to take it aren’t you?” Bucky growled, dirty words spilling down the sweaty skin of your neck, over the dark love bites he’d placed there earlier.

The super soldier stood, flipping you easily and capturing your lips in his own before you could even catch a breath, his tongue delving into your mouth a second later allowing you to taste your essence on him. His fingers made quick work of his belt and jeans, pushing them to the floor along with his briefs, a harsh sign vibrating against your mouth at the cold air against his raging red tip.

Your body jerked when his thick length slapped over your oversensitive clit, your gasp clipped into a softer moan when he circled only to slap it again before pushing deeper through your sopping folds.

“Who’s got you like this hm?” He whispered teasingly, his free hand finding its home around your throat, giving you a little squeeze. He didn't wait for a response before canting his hips, a dark smile gracing his lust-contorted face when he caught onto the dip of your whole. His groan complimented your shrill cry as he sunk home, giving you no time to adjust before taking you roughly. His thrusts felt so familair yet so foreign at the same time, hard unorgiving thrusts so unlike Bucky’s nature yet your body leered, loving the treatment because it knew the man responsible.

“Answer me, baby, tell the world, tell your precious little Stevie who’s fucking you. So. Fucking. Good.”

“You Bucky” the last of your dignity thrown out of a window as you sobbed out his name like a prayer, a mantra for all to hear. “Only you.”

Your third orgasm took you by surprise, no warning, no buildup. Like a star in supernova, it exploded, your vision going white and your body stiff — you couldn’t even make a sound.

“Fuck Bucky!!”

“That’s fucking right, only me, I’m the only one for you baby. You’re mines - fuck so good” he moaned loudly; pushing through your impossibly tight walls until his fat tip kissed your cervix oh so sweetly, hot spend spilling out over the end of your cunt and filling up your walls until there was no more room for it to go — the excess spilt out down the brunette’s twitching balls.

You didn't react as he bundled you up into his arms, stripping you of your shirt and throwing the clothes into the wash. You didn't feel when he moved both of your naked bodies from the tiny room out into the open, down the hall to his room. You were asleep as he cleaned you thoroughly, whispering how much he loved you against your temple.

Steve sat where you had left him, a haunted look on his face as he replayed teach and every sound you made over and over in his head. The moans he only dreamed of hearing while he made you feel so good but the name on your tongue wasn’t his and it never would be — Bucky had gotten to you first and bent you to his will, you were his. His cock twitched humiliatingly in his sweatpants.

Sigh, should I give poor Stevie his own Reader?

I DO NOT give permission to have my work copied, translated or reposted. If you see my work anywhere else except this page I have not given consent for it to be used.

Comments, Reblogs, Likes and Asks are always appreciated, however if you like this fix please consider reblogging to help it reach a wider audience. They let me know that you are enjoying what I read and give me motivation to write more.

Thank you for reading~

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navybrat817 · 8 months ago

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Jawbreaker

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky put a mouthy rookie in his place. Word Count: Over 800 Warnings: Established relationship, mention of injury, misogyny, punching, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes defending you (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: I'm dedicating this to @whisperlullaby , who got to read this in advance, because she deserves this man (along with the rest of you). ❤️Written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

A small part of Bucky felt bad as he idly wiped his hand with a towel. A very small part.

He didn’t want people to fear him because of his past and he refused to let it define him. That meant that he tried his best to avoid violent tactics unless absolutely necessary.

But today, well, fuck that. The fucker had it coming.

Steve stood in front of him, his blue eyes narrowed as he waited for his best friend to acknowledge him.

Oh, Bucky expected some sort of reprimand, but he was sure Steve would change his tune in a minute or so.

“You gonna ask me what happened, punk, or glare at me until I talk?” He asked, tossing the towel away.

The blonde huffed out a laugh, but he didn’t look amused. “Why did you break that rookie’s jaw?”

Bucky tilted his head. “What’s the phrase? He fucked around and found out.”

You would’ve been proud of him for that reference.

Steve shook his head when Sam burst out laughing a few feet away. “Sam, please,” he begged, though his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “What did the guy do?”

A bitter taste flooded Bucky’s mouth as anger coursed through his veins again. He inhaled as he thought of your sweet smile and soft touch before he exhaled, the storm inside of him calming.

“Buck, you gotta tell us something,” Steve urged, needing some sort of information to try and do some damage control.

The brunette straightened up to look his friend in the eyes, wanting him to see the fury beneath the cold mask. “He told my girl to throw an apron on and get back in the kitchen when she went to spar.”

You, one of the most capable agents Bucky had ever known.

You, who had shown nothing but kindness to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it.

The person Bucky was lucky enough to call his other half. His better half.

And some asshole rookie had the gall to treat you as if you didn’t belong there with the rest of them.

Sam was no longer laughing. Steve’s jaw clenched in understanding.

Bucky swallowed, that fury threatening to surface again as he remembered the hurt that filled your eyes at the comment. “You know I’d support anything she wants to do, whether that’s working or staying at home. It doesn’t give some prick the right to make her feel bad for her decision.”

“You know I don’t like bullies, but breaking his jaw?” Steve questioned. The guy deserved it, but did the punishment actually fit the crime?

“When she walked away, he said to come back when she was ready to see what a real man could do for her,” he said, the words coming out like a snarl.

The way you tensed up, fear and disgust flickering on your face, he didn’t think. A switch inside of him went off and he swung.

The fucker was lucky that all he got was a broken jaw. He could’ve done so much worse.

And it wasn’t that you couldn’t defend yourself because you could, but you shouldn’t have to put up with garbage like that.

A cracking sound echoed in the room before he realized he crushed the armrest of his seat. “Fuck. I’ll pay for that,” he mumbled, kicking a bit of the broken piece with his boot. “Can you just tell me how much trouble I’m in so I can get back to my girl?”

He didn’t care if he they suspended or even fired him as long as he got back to you.

The room stayed silent before Sam mused, “Technically, what the rookie did counts as harassment.”

Steve nodded. “And I’m sure Nat can persuade him not to sue for the injury he received,” he added, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll take care of it, Buck. Just. No more breaking jaws, okay?”

“When it comes to my girl, I make no promises,” Bucky smiled, his heart racing at the thought of you. “And maybe he’ll think twice before he opens his mouth again.”

“The damage you did, I don’t think he can open his mouth at all,” Sam mumbled.

Bucky’s phone went off before he could comment, his heart swelling as he read your text. He had to bite back a groan, too.

“Thank you again, Jawbreaker. I love you and I’ll be on my knees waiting for you.”

You wanted to thank him not just with words, but with your body and heart. It all belonged to him, like he belonged to you.

And he didn’t need to tell Steve and Sam what the message said since it was just for the two of you. “Love you, too, baby. Nothing to thank me for, but I’m on my way. Be ready.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Maybe we'll see how you "thank" Bucky down the road. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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lolitastories · 15 hours ago

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Go To Bed

Bucky Barnes

“Ready to head to bed?” I look over to an already sleeping Bucky. His head drooped back. One arm lazily resting behind me on the couch. His body slumped, what seemed uncomfortably beside me. I reach for the remote and turn off the rom-com I had put on. I remove the blanket from on top of me and begin turning the lights. When I got back from turning off the kitchen light, I heard a grunt and turned to see Bucky steering awake. I smile as I hurry to turn off the living room lights.

“What time is it?” Although the blinds were closed, and the lights were turned off I could see his figure. I walk over to stand in front of him and grab on to his hands.

“Time for bed” I pulled on his hands, but he didn’t budge. “Come on Bucky” I groaned as I tried to keep pulling but of course he didn’t even move an inch.

“You need to go to bed” He emphasized the word bed. I know what he meant but it was fun to mess around with him.

“Where do you think I am going? to the toilet?” I let out a quick chuckle but quickly shut up when I was stumbling back. He grabbed onto my waist to stabilize me when he got up. “Don’t do that” I hit him playfully on his chest before trying to push him away.

“You know what I mean when I say, you need to go to bed,” I roll my eyes as he says that in a stern voice. I grab his face and pull him closer.

“And you know I won’t unless you are sleeping right beside me on that bed” I raise my brow waiting for his response. The light from outside casted a bit on his face so I was able to notice his lips falling into a line. “I don’t mind waiting more months, years even.” I peck his lips. “You know I had my fair share of sleeping on the floor.”

“Yes, I also know how much your back hates it.” He teases but soon his face turns into a frown. I kept on staring at him knowing something was troubling his mind, he was trying to settle something in himself.

“Buck?” My thumb moves slightly across his cheek, trying to encourage him to tell me what's going on in his mind. My body is suddenly lifted from the ground. He starts moving towards the direction of our room, not even turning on the light. “Buck, I told you I was-”

“Shut it” And I do. He throws me on the bed, and I shut up. His leaning body comes and crawls over me slowly. I raise my hands and run it up his chest once he stops and he is hovering over me, eye to eye. “I can’t let the floor keep messing up your back when that is my job” My eyes widened at his words. He doesn’t give me time to react when he starts attacking my neck. You can rest assured we got nice and comfortable in bed.

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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 3 days ago

Text

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader (NSFW) - part2

Summary: New house, new life, new feelings

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

Warnings for the whole story: English isn't my first language, so apologies for any mistakes. Reader has some descriptions. Angst, fluff, SMUT So please do not interract if you're under 18, idiots in love. Not proof-read yet, so apologies...

A/N: There's the second part :) Apologies for the mix up - we have SMUT here so, yeah ;)

Words for the chapter: 25 035 (even bigger oopsies)

Part 1

On your first morning at the house, you arrived armed with food—breakfast sandwiches, packed lunches, and a box of pastries. You remembered Bucky mentioning in passing that neither he nor Steve had much talent in the kitchen, and you figured feeding them was the least you could do.

When you walked through the door, the smell of coffee and eggs wafting in with you, both men lit up like kids on Christmas morning.

“This smells amazing,” Steve said, his eyes wide as he peeked into the bags.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Bucky said, though the grateful smile on his face said otherwise.

“Consider it fuel for the day,” you said with a laugh. “And if you’re nice, I might even teach you how to make some of this stuff yourselves.”

Steve grinned, already unwrapping a sandwich. “You’d be doing humanity a favor. Bucky burns toast.”

“I do not,” Bucky protested, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

After breakfast, Steve clapped Bucky on the back and gave you a small wave. “Alright, I’m leaving you two to it. This is your project, Buck. Don’t mess it up.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

As Steve left, munching on a chocolate chip cookie you’d packed, Bucky turned to you, his expression somewhere between excitement and uncertainty.

“Alright,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let me show you around.”

You took his hand without hesitation, the gesture feeling as natural as breathing.

---

Bucky’s plans for the house were detailed and thoughtful, and as he walked you through each room, his enthusiasm was infectious.

“I want to keep the brick,” he said, running his hand along the living room wall. “It’s part of what makes this place feel like home. But the floors… those need replacing.”

“That makes sense,” you said, nodding. “What about your room?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face. “I’m thinking I’ll keep it mostly the same. Just a new coat of paint, maybe some better lighting.”

As he spoke, his voice grew steadier, more confident. It was clear he’d been thinking about this for a while, and the fact that he trusted you enough to share it all made your chest ache with warmth.

“And the kitchen,” he continued, pulling you into the next room. “It needs a lot of work, but I think I can—”

“Hold on,” you interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You’re doing this all yourself?”

Bucky shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Steve offered to help, but… I want to do as much of it as I can. This place is mine. It’s my responsibility.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Well, I’m here now. So if you need an extra set of hands—two left ones, mind you—I’m your girl.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, and it was the happiest you’d ever seen him.

---

Later that afternoon, the two of you sat on the living room floor, eating sandwiches from the bag you’d brought. The sun poured through the dusty windows, painting the room in golden light.

Bucky pulled out a small stack of old photos from a box he’d found in the corner.

“These survived the move?” you asked, surprised as you sifted through the images.

“Not all of them,” he said softly. “But a few. Steve kept some, too. He said they were part of my past, and he couldn’t let them go.”

One photo in particular caught your eye—a sketch of a young Bucky, done in soft, careful lines.

“Steve did this?” you asked, your voice filled with awe.

Bucky nodded, chuckling. “Yeah, back when he thought he was gonna be an artist. I was more of the fixer, though—wiring, mechanics, stuff like that. His drawings were always better than mine.”

“You’re kidding, right?” you said, holding up a different sketch Bucky had done of a car. “My dad would’ve loved this. He used to tinker with cars all the time.”

Bucky laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He sounds like a good guy.”

“He is,” you said, smiling fondly.

---

By the time the day wound down, the two of you stood in the front yard, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting the house in soft, amber hues.

“Thank you for today,” Bucky said, his voice low and steady. His hand rested lightly on your elbow, grounding you in the moment.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, smiling up at him. “I’m just happy to see you like this. Happy.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on yours. Then, with a soft, deliberate motion, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice warm.

As you drove home, your hand brushed the spot where his lips had been, and you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. You felt like the luckiest person in the world.

---

The days that followed were filled with laughter, lighthearted teasing, and steady progress. You might not have been the most skilled handyman, but you’d never felt more content.

And every time Bucky smiled at you—those soft, unguarded smiles that made your heart stutter—you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were helping rebuild more than just a house.

---

The week had been a whirlwind of rebuilding, sanding, painting, and—if you were honest with yourself—Bucky trying very hard to keep you from hurting yourself.

“You weren’t kidding about those two left hands,” he teased one morning, watching as you struggled to keep a nail steady with the hammer. “Are you trying to hit your thumb?”

You huffed, glaring at him as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, that mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “I’m just getting the hang of it,” you grumbled.

Bucky chuckled, stepping forward and gently taking the hammer from your hand. “No offense, doll, but I think we’ll keep you away from sharp tools and anything with too much weight. I’d like to get through this project without a trip to the ER.”

You pouted for the rest of the morning, folding your arms dramatically every time he looked your way. But your resolve didn’t last long.

Later that day, as you were reorganizing paint samples on the table, he approached you, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “Hey, uh… I was wondering. Would you want to plan the kitchen?”

You blinked, turning to him in surprise. “Me? Really?”

He nodded, his gaze shy but steady. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with it, and… I trust you. You’ve got good taste, and I think you’d make it feel like home.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and before you knew it, tears were welling up in your eyes.

“Whoa, hey,” Bucky said, his brows knitting together in concern. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing softly as you wiped at your cheeks. “It’s just… you trust me. That means more to me than I can put into words.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek. “Of course I trust you,” he murmured. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

You’d noticed it more and more lately—how it was always him who reached for your hand, him who initiated those little touches. It was as if he was finally letting himself believe he deserved that closeness, that warmth. And you were more than happy to give it to him.

---

The week had been smooth, almost idyllic. Days of working on the house blurred into a rhythm of shared laughs, small victories, and the comforting sound of progress. It felt like you and Bucky had carved out a world of your own—a pocket of peace that existed solely within the walls of that house.

But peace is fragile, and the world outside has a way of creeping in.

The errand was supposed to be simple—a quick trip to the hardware store to pick up extra nails and browse paint colors for the kitchen. Bucky had seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, even leaving his cap behind. His bare head caught the sunlight as you walked side by side, his shoulders loose and his posture easy.

“I think we should go with something light for the walls,” you said as you pulled open the door to the hardware store. “Maybe a soft blue or cream? Something bright to—”

The words froze in your throat the moment you stepped inside.

The shop owner, a man in his sixties with a stern expression and deep lines etched into his face, had been wiping down the counter. His gaze lifted as the bell above the door chimed, and his eyes locked onto Bucky.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then the man’s face twisted into something ugly.

“You,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like the crack of a whip. “Get out.”

Bucky froze beside you, his body going rigid. The relaxed man who had walked in just moments ago was gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, controlled, but there was an edge to it that sent a chill down your spine.

“I said, get out,” the man repeated, louder this time. His voice carried across the store, drawing the attention of a few customers browsing nearby. “I’m not selling anything to a murderer.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, cold and cutting. For a second, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what had just been said.

But then you looked at Bucky—at the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, at the way he dropped his gaze to the floor—and something inside you snapped.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, putting yourself between Bucky and the shop owner.

“You listen to me,” you said sharply, your voice trembling with rage. “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

The man’s scowl deepened, but you pressed on, your words gaining momentum like a freight train.

“This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, your voice rising with each word. “He’s a national hero. A victim of war. A man who was tortured, brainwashed, and used as a weapon against his will. He has spent every day since then trying to atone for things he wasn’t even responsible for. So don’t you dare stand there and call him a murderer.”

The man blinked, but you weren’t done.

“What the hell do you know about war?” you demanded, your words trembling with fury. “About what it’s like to have your choices ripped away from you? To lose yourself and still have the strength to fight your way back?”

“Ma’am, I—”

“No,” you snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get to justify this. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know the first damn thing about the kind of person he is. He’s a survivor. He’s a good man. A better man than you’ll ever be.”

The shop had gone eerily quiet. Customers had stopped what they were doing to watch, their curious and wary gazes bouncing between you and the shop owner.

“You’re just a bitter, ignorant old man,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “And honestly? I feel sorry for you. Because you’ll never know what it’s like to stand beside someone like him—someone who’s been through hell and still finds a way to be kind. Someone who’s—”

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice was soft, his hand light on your arm, but it was enough to stop you mid-sentence.

You turned to him, your breath coming in uneven gasps, your eyes still blazing with anger. “What?”

“Let’s go,” he said gently. His voice was calm, but his eyes—the deep blue-gray of a stormy sea—held a quiet resolve that cut through your rage.

“But he—”

“Please,” Bucky murmured. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet weariness that made your heart ache.

The fight drained out of you in an instant. Your shoulders slumped as you let out a shaky breath, and with one last glare at the shop owner, you turned and followed Bucky out of the store

---

The walk back to the house was heavy with silence. The usual rhythm of your steps, once comfortable and in sync, felt disjointed. Bucky’s shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he stared down at the sidewalk. His jaw was set, but the tension around his eyes betrayed him.

You wanted to say something—anything—to break the quiet, to ease the weight that had fallen between you since leaving the hardware store. But every time you opened your mouth, the memory of the shop owner’s words slammed into you like a wall.

By the time you reached the house, your anger was boiling over again.

“Unbelievable,” you snapped as you stormed through the door. “The nerve of that guy. To say something like that to you! Who does he think he is?”

Bucky followed you inside, his steps deliberate but unhurried, and leaned against the wall. He watched quietly as you paced back and forth, gesturing animatedly as you vented.

“He doesn’t even know you,” you continued, your voice rising as the anger clawed its way out of your chest. “And he thinks he can just… just—ugh! What an absolute—”

Bucky called your name softly, but you were too worked up to notice.

“And another thing,” you went on, throwing your hands up in frustration. “If I ever see him again—”

Two long strides, and Bucky was in front of you. His hands came up, cupping your face with a gentleness that caught you off guard, and before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on yours.

The world tilted.

Your anger dissolved in an instant, melting into the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth moving against yours. Time seemed to stretch, the pounding of your heart filling the silence as his thumbs brushed lightly against your skin.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile that made your chest ache.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet gratitude.

“For what?” you managed to ask, still breathless.

“For standing up for me,” he said. “For… being you.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of emotion crashing over you. “Always,” you whispered, reaching up to rest your hands over his.

He kissed you again, slower this time, as though savoring the moment. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, grounding. It felt like an anchor, steadying both of you.

---

The kiss didn’t happen again. Not the next day, or the one after that.

You hadn’t realized how much you would miss it—the warmth of his lips, the quiet intensity of the moment—but you told yourself it was fine.

Because nothing had changed between you.

Bucky was still Bucky, still teasing you about your clumsiness one moment and thanking you softly the next. He still held your hand when you walked through the house together, still kissed your forehead like it was second nature.

And as much as you wanted more, as much as you missed the feel of his lips on yours, you decided you could survive. As long as he was happy, so were you.

---

Two days after he’d asked you to plan the kitchen, you approached him nervously with a set of technical drawings. They weren’t perfect—lines overlapped in places, smudges from an eraser dotted the corners—but you’d poured your heart into them.

“Hey,” you began, holding out the papers as you stepped into the living room where Bucky was sanding down an old chair. “I, uh, have something for you.”

He looked up, brushing sawdust from his hands before taking the drawings. “What’s this?”

“Kitchen plans,” you said, your voice a little too high-pitched. “I, um, asked my dad for help. He’s the one who actually drew them—I just told him what I had in mind. I didn’t tell him who it was for, though,” you added quickly, biting your lip. “I just wanted to make sure it looked good.”

Bucky studied the papers in silence, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the details. You watched him anxiously, your heart pounding in your chest.

When he finally looked up, his expression softened. A small, warm smile tugged at his lips.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal even though your cheeks burned under his gaze. “I didn’t want to mess it up. So… yeah.”

Bucky shook his head fondly, stepping closer. He set the drawings aside and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Warmth flooded through you, the gesture as tender as it was unexpected. You smiled shyly, looking down at your feet to hide the blush spreading across your face.

“You’re amazing,” he added, his voice soft.

You glanced up at him, your breath catching at the sincerity in his eyes. “So are you,” you whispered.

The moment lingered, charged with an unspoken connection that neither of you seemed ready to break.

---

Later that evening, as you sat on the porch with Bucky, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The day’s work had left your hands sore and your muscles aching, but you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a rare look of contentment on his face as he gazed out at the street.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He turned to you, his expression curious.

“I just wanted to say…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’ve been through so much, and I know it’s not easy. But I’m proud of you. For everything. For trying. For rebuilding. For… letting me be part of it.”

His gaze softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

“You’re part of it because you matter,” he said simply.

The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and grounding.

And as the night wrapped around you, you realized that whatever came next—whatever challenges or triumphs lay ahead—you wouldn’t trade this for anything. Because here, in this moment, with him by your side, you felt like you’d found something you hadn’t known you were searching for.

Home.

---

You spent the next hour going over the plans together, seated side by side at the dining table with the house’s blueprints spread out in front of you. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting golden light across the room and bathing Bucky’s face in warmth.

“I think this setup should have everything you need for cooking,” you said, tapping your pen against the placement of the appliances. “The oven and stovetop here, fridge there—it keeps everything within reach. And since Tony’s footing the bill, you should absolutely go for top-of-the-line equipment.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You’re really trying to turn me into a chef, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you teased, grinning at him. “I promised, didn’t I? And trust me, once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it. Cooking can be… therapeutic.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but amused. “Therapeutic, huh? We’ll see about that. But alright, doll, I’m holding you to it.”

You laughed, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Good. We’ll start simple—no soufflés or flambéed anything until you’ve mastered scrambled eggs.”

As the conversation went on, Bucky’s posture shifted, his body leaning closer as he grew more engaged. His eyes softened as he listened to your ideas, and every so often, he’d chime in with a small adjustment or suggestion. You could feel the weight of his attention, the quiet steadiness of him beside you, and it sent a warmth blooming in your chest.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Bucky stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He held out a hand toward you, his expression thoughtful.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and steady.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer right away, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “Just trust me.”

Without hesitation, you slid your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip was firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he led you upstairs.

He stopped outside a room you hadn’t paid much attention to before—a smaller space tucked toward the back of the house. He pushed the door open, revealing a cozy room with soft light spilling in through a single window that overlooked the backyard. The walls were bare, the wooden floor scuffed in places, and a faint scent of dust lingered in the air.

Bucky stepped inside, his movements slower now, as though he were treading carefully through the weight of his thoughts. He turned to face you, his hand still holding yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when you finish your articles,” he began, his voice quiet but steady, his gaze unwavering. “But for me… you’ve become someone so important. So precious.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs as his words settled into the quiet of the room.

“And I was thinking,” he continued, glancing around the room before meeting your gaze again, “if you’re okay with it… I’d like you to have this room. A place that’s yours. A place in my house.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your lips parting in surprise.

“It’s not much,” he added quickly, a hint of nervousness creeping into his tone. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture you’d come to recognize as one he made when he wasn’t sure of himself. “But… I want you to feel like this is your home, too. If you want it to be.”

The tears came before you could stop them, welling up and spilling down your cheeks as you clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, his brows knitting together in concern as he stepped closer. His hand came up, his thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tears. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing shakily as you lowered your hand. “No, it’s just… you have this habit of making me cry happy tears, you know that?”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You nodded, blinking back more tears. Your voice trembled as you said, “It’s perfect, Bucky. I’d love to make this my room.”

He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted. “Good,” he said simply, the word carrying more emotion than you thought possible.

Before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet certainty that made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of him, your own arms circling his waist.

As he held you, the room seemed to shift. It wasn’t just an empty space anymore. It wasn’t just walls and floors waiting to be filled. It was a promise.

And as you closed your eyes, you realized that this wasn’t just his house or his project. It wasn’t just a place to rebuild his past.

It was home. For both of you.

---

Two weeks in, the house had begun its metamorphosis. Once a husk of memories and neglect, it now breathed new life with every passing day. Fresh paint imbued the walls with a crisp brightness, floors gleamed after hours of sanding and polishing, and furniture, though sparse, stood proud in its newfound home. The air smelled of sawdust and paint, a strange mix of effort and hope.

The to-do list was still long, but you were ahead of schedule—thanks mostly to Bucky’s tireless determination. He had a knack for wrangling stubborn beams into place, coaxing even the most unwilling pieces of wood and stone to bend to his will. You admired that about him. Of course, admiration came with its own challenges.

Working with Bucky wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It wasn’t his teasing, though he was infuriatingly good at it. Nor was it his occasional bossiness, which, if you were being honest, was often justified. No, the real problem was simpler. It was him. Just... him.

Bucky Barnes was handsome—ridiculously so. You’d always known that. But knowing and enduring it on a daily basis were two very different things. Spending every waking moment with him, watching the way his muscles flexed under strain, the easy confidence in his movements—it was maddening. And then there was his arm.

You hadn’t been prepared for how mesmerizing that sleek vibranium arm would be, how the sunlight glinted off it like molten silver. It moved with such precision, every motion fluid and deliberate, as if it were an extension of his will. Your mind betrayed you far too often, conjuring scenarios you had no business entertaining: the feel of that arm pinning you to a wall, the chill of the metal against your skin, the impossible strength that could pull you closer with a single motion.

You scolded yourself endlessly. But no amount of internal reprimands could keep your traitorous gaze from wandering. Especially not today.

The weather had turned. The suffocating heat clung to the air, thick and relentless. Naturally, Bucky decided this was the perfect day to forego his usual work shirt in favor of a gray tank top. It clung to him in ways that felt unfair, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the way his biceps flexed with every movement. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, tracing lines down his neck and arms, and it was impossible to look away.

You tried to focus. You really did. But the more you sanded, painted, or hammered, the more your gaze drifted, stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You were wrong.

---

It started innocently enough—or so you told yourself. You were sanding the edges of a wooden shelf, the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of your hands lulling you into a daze. Bucky was across the room, lifting a heavy plank of wood onto his shoulder. The play of muscle beneath his skin was mesmerizing, a symphony of strength and precision that left you momentarily breathless.

You didn’t realize you were staring until you caught the smirk tugging at his lips.

“See something you like?” His voice was low, rich with amusement, and it jolted you back to reality.

Your cheeks burned as you scrambled for a response. “What? No! I—I wasn’t—”

“Sure, doll,” he drawled, the smirk widening into a grin. “Whatever you say.”

You ducked your head, returning your focus to the shelf as if it held the answers to the universe. Maybe if you worked hard enough, he’d let it go.

He didn’t.

---

The teasing only escalated.

The next day, you were handing him tools while he worked on the kitchen counter. It should’ve been a simple task, but every time he flexed his biceps or leaned forward, your brain short-circuited. You could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of sawdust and sweat, and it was all too distracting.

“You okay over there?” he asked, his tone casual, though the hint of a grin betrayed him.

“Fine,” you replied, too quickly, snapping your gaze away.

“You sure?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, his grin maddeningly smug. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Not distracted by anything, are you?”

Your scowl was immediate. You shoved a wrench into his hand with a bit more force than necessary. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, chuckling softly as he turned back to his work. “If you say so.”

---

And then there was the moment that nearly broke you.

He’d been crouched near the floor, adjusting something beneath the kitchen cabinets. You weren’t even sure what he was doing; all you could focus on was the way his jeans hugged his hips, the way his muscles shifted as he moved. Your gaze lingered just a second too long.

“You know,” he said without turning, his tone casual but tinged with mischief, “if you want a better look, you could just ask.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

Bucky stood slowly, brushing off his hands as he turned to face you. His grin was wicked, the kind that spelled trouble. “Caught you staring again, doll.”

“I wasn’t staring!” you protested, the heat rising to your face faster than you could contain it.

“Oh, you definitely were.” He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “First my arms, now my ass. What’s next?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his laughter warm and infuriating. Gently, he pulled your hands away from your face, his touch firm but careful. His gaze softened, a playful tilt to his head as he studied you. “Admit it—you like what you see.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

His smirk returned, though it was lighter now, almost teasingly affectionate. “Alright, fine. I’ll leave you alone—for now. But if you keep looking at me like that, doll, I might start to think you’ve got a crush.”

You sputtered, torn between laughing and crying, as he stepped back and returned to his work, his chuckle echoing through the room.

“You’re insufferable,” you called after him, though your voice lacked the bite you intended.

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he shot back, his grin audible in his voice.

You hated how much you liked it.

---

For the rest of the day, Bucky cranked up his 1940s charm to a level that was equal parts infuriating and intoxicating. He leaned into his words with a slow, deliberate drawl, his confidence radiating in a way that made your stomach flip—and your patience fray.

"Careful with that hammer, sweetheart," he teased as you struggled with a stubborn nail. The board beneath your hands refused to cooperate, and every tap of the hammer only worsened your frustration. Bucky’s voice, rich with amusement, drifted over your shoulder. "Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Not that I’d mind takin’ care of you."

Your hands stilled, the hammer dangling precariously from your grip as you whipped your head around to glare at him. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his smile smug and infuriatingly attractive.

“You’re lucky I like you, Barnes,” you snapped, though your voice held none of the heat you intended.

His grin widened. "Like me, huh?" He straightened, taking a step closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that why you’ve been staring at me all week?"

You fumbled for a retort, your face heating under his gaze. “I hate you,” you muttered instead, but the treacherous smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you.

"Sure you do," he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he returned to his work.

---

By the time the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the room in hues of amber and gold, you were a flustered mess. Every teasing comment, every smug grin, every subtle brush of his hand had worn you down. And Bucky? He looked like he was having the time of his life, his laughter ringing out every time he managed to get a rise out of you.

As you packed up your tools, your mind was racing. You shoved nails and screws into a box with unnecessary force, pointedly avoiding the tall, broad figure moving toward you. But he wasn’t one to be ignored.

“Good work today,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of the table, his tone so smug it made your teeth clench.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, not bothering to look up.

Bucky chuckled, and the sound was warm, a little too soft, and far too dangerous. Before you could move away, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your temple as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” His voice was lower now, quieter, and the change made your pulse quicken.

You froze, your breath catching as your eyes darted up to meet his. His gaze was steady, warm, and just a little too intense. And then, before you could say or do anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“See you tomorrow, doll,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he pulled away.

You stood there, your heart pounding and your cheeks burning, watching as he walked away with a confident swagger that made you want to scream.

And yet, despite the smugness and the teasing and the way he drove you absolutely insane, you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face.

Because, damn it, you did like him.

---

James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Son and Brother

There’s something that shifts in James Buchanan Barnes when he talks about his family.

The stoicism he wears like armor—the careful wall that keeps the world at arm’s length—melts away. His sharp features soften, his eyes taking on a warmth that reminds you of a fire burning low on a winter’s night. It’s as though, for a moment, the weight of his past slips away, and he becomes someone else entirely: a boy from Brooklyn, proud and full of love.

When he talks about his mother, his tone is reverent, tender in a way that’s rare for him. “She was the heart of everything,” he says, his voice tinged with quiet nostalgia. His lips curve into a faint smile, as though recalling a memory so vivid he can almost touch it. “She ran the house like clockwork. Always knew exactly what we needed—even when we didn’t.”

His eyes light up as he talks about her cooking. “Best roast chicken in Brooklyn, no contest. And her pies? God, she made this apple pie that’d make you weep.” He chuckles, his voice thick with affection. “She’d always sneak me an extra slice when she thought no one was lookin’. Said I needed it to keep up my strength.”

When the conversation shifts to his father, there’s a quiet respect in his tone, steady and unshakable. “My dad wasn’t a man of many words,” he says, his gaze growing distant. “But when he spoke, you listened. He worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Always made sure we had enough, even if it meant he went without.”

His smile grows softer as he talks about his sisters, the faintest edge of brotherly exasperation coloring his words. “Winnie was the quiet one—always had her nose buried in a book. But she was sharp. Smarter than I’ll ever be.” He pauses, shaking his head fondly. “And Rebecca? She was a menace. She’d steal my hat just to see me chase her around the house. She drove me crazy, but I loved her to pieces. Still do.”

When he talks about holidays at the Barnes house, his voice takes on a wistful note. “Ma went all out for Christmas,” he says, his expression softening further. “The whole house smelled like cinnamon and pine. Winnie and Rebecca would string popcorn for the tree, and I’d help Dad chop firewood for the stove. It wasn’t much, but it was home. And it was perfect.”

In these moments, you see the man behind the soldier—the boy who once laughed and loved and dreamed in a small house in Brooklyn. You see the brother, the son, the protector.

James Barnes isn’t just the Winter Soldier. He isn’t just a man haunted by shadows and ghosts.

He’s James Buchanan Barnes, and he’s extraordinary.

---

When you handed the article to Bucky, his reaction was immediate. His lips quirked into a soft smile as he read the first few lines, his blue eyes scanning the page with quiet intensity. You watched him carefully, your heart thudding in your chest. There was something about seeing him so focused, the way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his thumb brushed absently against the edge of the paper, that made it impossible to look away.

By the time he finished, his expression had shifted into something deeper, more contemplative. He set the pages down gently, almost reverently, as if they were something precious.

“This is… really good,” he said finally, his voice low and sincere.

Relief flooded through you, and you leaned back against the table, your shoulders relaxing. “I’m glad you think so. I was a little nervous about this one.”

His brows knit together slightly as he tilted his head. “Why?”

You shrugged, feeling the weight of your own words before you spoke them. “It’s personal. I wanted to do it justice.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze meeting yours, steady and unwavering. “You did,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made your chest tighten.

There was a pause, a moment that stretched between you like a taut thread. Then his expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “But you’ve been working on these articles nonstop,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Helping me with the house all day, then staying up late to write… You’re going to burn yourself out.”

You waved him off with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m fine, Bucky. Really. I write when I feel like it—it’s not as bad as you think.”

He didn’t look convinced. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than they should have. But he let it go. For now.

---

That evening, you lost track of time.

The house had gone quiet, the sounds of hammering and sanding replaced by the hum of cicadas outside the window. The soft golden glow of the desk lamp illuminated the pages scattered in front of you, and you worked in a steady rhythm, the scratching of your pen the only sound in the room.

When you finally glanced at the clock, the numbers seemed to blur in front of your tired eyes. You groaned, leaning back in your chair and rubbing the back of your neck. The ache in your shoulders reminded you of how long you’d been sitting there, hunched over your work.

“I guess I should head home,” you murmured, more to yourself than to anyone else, as you began to gather your things. But when your gaze flicked to the window and you saw just how dark it was outside, you hesitated. The shadows were deep, the kind that made the quiet countryside feel a little too still, a little too lonely.

“Actually…” you said, trailing off as you glanced over at Bucky. He was across the room, carefully organizing the tools you’d both been using earlier, his broad shoulders silhouetted by the faint glow of the kitchen light. “It’s kind of late. Maybe I’ll just stay here tonight.”

He froze, his movements halting for just a fraction of a second before he straightened and turned to look at you. “You, uh… you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, your tone casual even as your heart began to pick up speed. “It’s not like I haven’t crashed here before.”

“Right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting to the floor. “It’s just… there’s only one bed right now. The other beds and couches don’t come until the end of the week. We threw the old ones out, remember?”

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a freight train. “Oh.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offered quickly, his words tumbling out like they’d been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“No way,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “This is your house. If anyone’s sleeping on the floor, it’s me.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he said, his voice taking on that low, commanding tone that always made your breath catch.

“Well, neither are you,” you shot back, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

The two of you stood there, locked in a silent standoff. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing his next move. Finally, you sighed, rolling your eyes. “We’re both adults, right? We can share the bed. It’s not a big deal.”

Bucky looked like he was about to argue, his mouth opening slightly before he shut it again. He hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the door to the bedroom. Then, to your utter disbelief, the corner of his mouth quirked up into a crooked grin.

“You sure you’ll be able to keep your hands off me, doll?” he teased, though there was a faint edge of uncertainty in his voice that made your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes, determined not to let him see the heat rising to your cheeks. “Get over yourself, Barnes. Let’s go.”

---

The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the thin curtains and casting silver shadows across the walls. The bed—just a simple mattress on a sturdy frame—sat in the center of the room, looking both impossibly large and far too small at the same time.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders tense. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the faint light.

“You take the left side,” you said, breaking the silence as you dropped your bag onto the floor. “I’m a right-side sleeper anyway.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he settled on his side, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of breaking something. You slid in on the other side, keeping a respectful distance between you, though the proximity still felt electric.

The room fell silent, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound: the rustle of the sheets, the soft inhale and exhale of breath, the faint creak of the floorboards as the house settled around you.

“You comfortable?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and rough, the sound of it cutting through the stillness like a blade.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your heart was racing in your chest.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You stared up at the ceiling, the faint outline of the beams above blending into the shadows, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quite pin down.

And then, just as your eyes began to grow heavy, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for… y’know. Everything. The article, the house… putting up with me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the outline of his profile in the moonlight. There was something vulnerable about the way he lay there, his face turned toward the ceiling, his expression open in a way you rarely saw.

“You don’t have to thank me, Bucky,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then he turned his head, his gaze meeting yours, and the weight of it made your breath catch.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

And as you lay there, the warmth of him just a few inches away, you couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind losing a little sleep tonight.

---

You fell asleep quickly, the exhaustion of the long day pulling you under like a heavy tide. The bed was warm, and Bucky’s steady breathing beside you was oddly comforting, a quiet rhythm that soothed the tension in your muscles. But sometime in the night, a faint sound stirred you from sleep.

It started as a murmur, low and unintelligible, growing into fragmented whispers and uneven breaths. You blinked into the darkness, the moonlight casting faint silver shadows across the room. Turning your head, you saw him.

Bucky was restless, his brow furrowed, his lips moving soundlessly. His fists clenched the sheets, the vibranium arm flexing with a metallic whir as his body jerked suddenly, a soft, strangled sound escaping his throat.

“Bucky,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively to shake his shoulder. “Bucky, wake up.”

Before you could process what was happening, his body moved on instinct. His hand shot out, pinning you to the bed with a grip that was firm but not painful. The weight of him hovered over you, his metal hand curling around your throat—not tight, but enough to send a shiver of fear and adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“Bucky,” you said again, louder this time, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused, his chest heaving as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. For a moment, he didn’t seem to see you, his grip faltering as panic overtook him. Then recognition dawned, and he scrambled away from you, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Oh God,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed himself against the far wall. His hands trembled, one flesh, one metal, both visibly shaking as he looked at you in horror. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I would never—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted softly, sitting up and rubbing your neck where his hand had rested. There was no pain, only the lingering ghost of his touch. You moved toward him cautiously, like approaching a frightened animal. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“It’s not okay,” he said, his voice sharp and raw. His shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for a blow, and his eyes were glassy with shame. “I could’ve hurt you. I—”

“You didn’t,” you said firmly, cutting him off before he could spiral further. Crawling across the bed, you reached for him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

His head shook, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. “You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “I could’ve killed you. In my sleep. Like it was nothing. I—”

“Stop,” you said, your voice soft but commanding. Carefully, you slid your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffened at first, but you didn’t let go, pressing your cheek against his shoulder and squeezing just a little tighter. “You didn’t. You won’t. Do you know why?”

He didn’t respond, his body still rigid beneath your touch.

“Because you’re a good man, Bucky Barnes,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his shoulder. “Even in your worst nightmares, you didn’t hurt me. That’s who you are.”

For a moment, he was silent, his breathing slowing just enough to let you know he was listening. Then, without thinking, you pressed a kiss to the cool vibranium of his arm, tracing the etched lines with your fingers. The metal was cold against your skin, but somehow, it felt warm beneath your touch.

“Honestly,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could stop them, “it was kind of hot.”

His head jerked up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. And then, to your utter shock, he laughed—a soft, breathless sound that was almost foreign coming from him. It was rough, unpracticed, like he hadn’t done it in years, but it was real.

“You’re something else,” he said finally, shaking his head as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, and then, in one smooth motion, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft, tender, full of unspoken apologies and quiet gratitude. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and for the first time that night, you saw something like peace in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Instead, you pulled him back to bed, wrapping your arms around him as he rested his head on your shoulder. His body was still tense, but as the minutes passed, he began to relax, his breathing evening out until it matched yours.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky slept through the night.

---

When morning came, something was different.

Bucky wasn’t distant, exactly, but the teasing remarks, the soft smiles, the casual touches—all of it was gone. He worked in silence, his shoulders hunched as though carrying an invisible weight. His eyes, usually so sharp and alert, were distant, staring past you to something only he could see.

You tried everything to bring him back. You cracked jokes, deliberately messed up measurements just to hear him scold you in that exasperated tone, and even ordered pizza from that questionable hole-in-the-wall place he loved. The grease-stained box sat untouched on the table, and the half-hearted smile he gave you didn’t reach his eyes.

By evening, your patience had worn thin.

When Steve stopped by to check on the house, you pulled him aside, your voice low and urgent. “Steve, what do you do when Bucky gets like this?”

Steve’s expression softened, a familiar sadness flashing across his face. “I leave him alone,” he said quietly. “Sometimes he just needs space to work through it.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “That’s it? You just let him sit there and brood until he feels better?”

“It’s not about letting him brood,” Steve said gently. “It’s about giving him time. He’s been through more than anyone should ever have to endure. Sometimes space is the best thing you can give him.”

You nodded reluctantly, though the answer didn’t sit right with you. Giving him space might work for Steve, but it wasn’t going to work for you. You cared too much to sit idly by.

---

That evening, an idea struck you. It was impulsive, maybe even a little absurd, but you didn’t care. Pulling out your phone, you made a quick call, cashing in a favor with a contact from your journalism days.

A private cinema room. Short notice. But it was perfect.

By the time you had everything set—junk food packed into a bag, drinks shoved into a cooler—you found Bucky sitting on the porch, his arms resting on his knees as he stared at the horizon. The fading light painted his face in soft oranges and golds, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story.

“Come with me,” you said, holding out your hand.

He looked up at you, his brow furrowing. “Where?”

You smiled, refusing to let him shut himself off again. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a soft sigh, he stood, slipping his hands into his pockets as he followed you to the car.

---

Bucky didn’t say much during the drive. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed out the window as the twilight deepened into night, the city lights painting faint streaks of gold and white across his face. Every so often, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to piece together where you were taking him, but he didn’t ask.

Still, you could feel his curiosity growing the closer you got to your destination. When you finally pulled up outside the private cinema, his head tilted slightly, his lips parting in faint confusion.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing the bag of snacks from the backseat and gesturing for him to follow.

The small building was unassuming from the outside, but as you led him through the door, the cozy warmth of the space unfolded. Soft, ambient lighting illuminated the intimate room, which held just a handful of plush seats and a screen that stretched across the far wall. The faint smell of popcorn lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of countless movie nights past.

A staff member greeted you quietly, handing over a sleek remote for the projector before slipping away, leaving the two of you alone in the private space.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room. His confusion melted into something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“You did this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” you said, setting the bag of snacks on the small table near the seats. “You’ve been a little… off today, and I thought this might cheer you up.”

He blinked, his expression unreadable at first. But then, slowly, the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips—the first real one you’d seen all day. “What movie?”

“One from your list,” you replied, grinning as you sank into one of the seats and patted the spot beside you. “It wasn’t easy to track down, but thankfully, they had it.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the back of the nearest chair as he stared at you. Finally, he sat down beside you, his posture stiff at first but gradually relaxing as the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life.

When the opening credits began to roll, something shifted. He leaned back into his seat, his shoulders losing some of their tension as his gaze fixed on the screen.

---

Halfway through the movie, the quiet settled comfortably around you, broken only by the occasional sound of a chip crunching or a faint laugh from the film. It was nice, easy in a way you hadn’t felt all day.

But then Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low and raw.

“Last night scared me.”

The words were soft, almost hesitant, but they struck like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the calm. You turned to him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability etched into his face.

“I was so close to hurting you,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the screen but unfocused, as if he were looking straight through it. “So close to losing you. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop… going over it in my head.”

“Bucky,” you said gently, reaching out to touch his arm. His vibranium fingers twitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” he said, his voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You shouldn’t have to wake up wondering if I’m going to—”

“Hey,” you interrupted firmly, squeezing his arm to draw his attention. His head turned toward you, and the anguish in his eyes made your heart ache. “You didn’t hurt me. Even in the middle of a nightmare, you didn’t hurt me. Do you know what that says about you?”

He shook his head, his jaw tight as if he were trying to hold something back. His fists clenched on his lap, the metal hand gleaming faintly in the light from the screen.

“It says you’re an incredible man,” you continued, your voice steady and sure. “A man who’s been through hell and still manages to be kind and thoughtful and good. You’re allowed to have nightmares, Bucky. Everyone does. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, heavy and full of unspoken words. Then, slowly, his hands relaxed, his fingers uncurling as his breathing evened out.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you left,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost fragile. “You make everything feel… normal. Easy. And I don’t deserve that.”

The pain in his voice made your throat tighten, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you.

“You deserve all of it, Bucky,” you said firmly. “And more.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours for something you weren’t sure he even knew he was looking for. Then, as if a dam had broken, he leaned in, his hand lifting to cradle the back of your head.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t soft or tentative like before. It was fierce, desperate, full of all the emotions he couldn’t put into words. His fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand settling on your waist as he pulled you closer, as if afraid you might slip away.

You kissed him back just as fervently, your hands sliding into his hair, your heart pounding as the rest of the world faded into nothing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile—the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

You smiled back, threading your fingers through his. “Come on. Let’s finish the movie.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, as he leaned back in his seat. His hand stayed in yours, his fingers laced with yours as the movie continued to play.

And as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at the faint, contented smile on his face. The weight that had pressed on him all day seemed lighter now, the shadows in his eyes not quite as dark.

In that moment, you made a silent promise to yourself. Whatever it took—whatever he needed—you would do it.

Because seeing him like this, peaceful and at ease, was worth everything.

---

The Heart of a Soldier

James Buchanan Barnes is a man of contrasts.

He is strength and vulnerability woven together into something impossibly complex. A ghost of the past, trying to carve a future out of the rubble. A man who carries more pain than most of us could imagine, yet still somehow puts others before himself, time and time again.

When you first meet him, you see the strength. It’s impossible not to. The broad shoulders, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the vibranium arm that gleams like a badge of survival and sacrifice. He moves with a deliberate grace, each step purposeful, every motion controlled. Even when he says nothing, his presence commands the room.

But if you spend enough time with him, you’ll start to notice the cracks. The subtle moments that betray the weight he carries. The slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for his morning coffee. The way his jaw tightens at the mention of the Winter Soldier, like the very name wraps around his throat and squeezes. The distant look in his eyes when the room gets too quiet, too still—when the ghosts of his past come creeping in to haunt him.

James Barnes is a man haunted. By memories that feel stolen. By faces he can never forget. By a ledger he believes can never be wiped clean, no matter how many lives he saves or how much good he does.

And yet, despite everything, he cares.

He cares with a fierceness that is both breathtaking and heartbreaking.

I’ve seen it in the way his blue-gray eyes scan a room, always vigilant, always watching for potential dangers that no one else has even considered. I’ve seen it in the way he talks about his past—not with bitterness, but with guilt so heavy it weighs down his every word, as if the things done to him were somehow his fault. And I’ve seen it in the way he puts everyone else before himself, even when he’s quietly falling apart.

There’s a fragility to James Barnes, but it’s not the kind born of weakness. It’s the fragility of a man who has been shattered and pieced back together more times than he can count. It’s the fragility of someone who knows exactly how easily those cracks can form again.

But there’s also a resilience in him that takes your breath away.

Because no matter how many times he’s been broken, no matter how often he’s been knocked down, he gets back up. He keeps fighting—not just for himself, but for everyone who needs him. For his friends. For the world. For people who will never know his name or what he’s sacrificed for them.

James Barnes doesn’t see himself the way others do. He doesn’t see the incredible strength it takes to wake up every morning and choose to keep going. He doesn’t see the courage it takes to face a world that has judged him unfairly and still stand tall.

But I see it.

I see it in the way he carries his pain like a shield, always trying to protect the people he loves from the weight of it. I see it in the way he clings to his humanity, even when the world tried to rip it away from him. I see it in the way he cares—so deeply, so unconditionally—even when he believes he doesn’t deserve to.

James Barnes is not perfect. He’s messy, flawed, and so deeply, painfully human. But that’s what makes him extraordinary.

He is proof that even in the face of unimaginable pain, there is still room for love. For kindness. For hope.

And that is the heart of James Barnes—the soldier, the survivor, the man who refuses to give up.

---

The next morning, you handed the article to Bucky, your heart pounding as he took the carefully printed pages from your hands.

He didn’t say anything at first. His blue-gray eyes moved steadily over the words, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. You watched him carefully, noting the way his brow furrowed, then smoothed, then furrowed again. The faint twitch of his lips hinted at something—whether a smile or a grimace, you couldn’t tell.

When he finally set the paper down, his hand lingered on it for a moment, his thumb brushing against the edge as though he wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

“This is…” he began, his voice low and a little unsteady. “It’s beautiful. But…”

“But you’re not ready for it to be out there,” you finished for him, your voice calm and understanding.

Bucky nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t think I ever will be. Not with this one.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to place your hand over his. The warmth of his touch felt steady, grounding. “What I said the first day still stands, Bucky. You’re in control of this. If you want me to burn it, I’ll burn it. If you want to keep it for yourself, I’ll hand it over, and the world will never know.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he reached for the pages again, folding them carefully with the precision of someone handling something precious. Without a word, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting the fabric lightly as if to reassure himself they were safe.

“I think I’ll keep it,” he said quietly. “At least for now.”

“Take all the time you need,” you said gently, your smile never faltering.

His eyes lifted to meet yours then, and the weight of his gaze made your breath catch. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite name—gratitude, certainly, but something deeper too. Affection? Trust? Whatever it was, it made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” you replied.

And as the morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft golden glow across the room, you felt the weight of his trust settle over you like a promise. It was fragile and precious, something you would protect with everything you had.

Because James Buchanan Barnes deserved that. And so much more.

---

Bucky Barnes was a tease.

Not the innocent kind, either. No, this man had decades of charm sharpened by a 1940s sense of confidence and an uncanny ability to get under your skin. And the more comfortable he got around you, the more his teasing side seemed to flourish.

It started subtly—offhand comments, little smirks whenever he caught you staring too long. But lately, it had escalated to a level you could only describe as weaponized flirtation.

And you were not okay.

The sweltering summer heat wasn’t helping. On the hottest days, Bucky had taken to ditching his shirts altogether while he worked on the house renovations. He’d claim it was a practical choice, muttering something about how it was “too damn hot for anything else,” but the smug look he wore every time he caught you sneaking a glance told a very different story.

“Enjoying the view, doll?” he’d ask, his voice dripping with amusement, lips curling into that maddeningly perfect smirk.

You’d roll your eyes, muttering something about how he needed to get over himself. But the truth was, you were enjoying the view. How could you not? The man looked like he belonged in a sculpture gallery, every muscle flexing with purpose as he lifted beams, sanded down furniture, or hammered nails into place.

And Bucky knew it.

It wasn’t just the shirtlessness, either. Oh no, he liked to test your patience in other, more creative ways.

One afternoon, you were in the makeshift kitchen—a chaotic but functional space you’d thrown together while waiting for the new appliances to arrive—stirring a pot of sauce. Bucky sauntered in, his presence so effortless it sent a ripple of awareness through you.

“Excuse me, doll,” he murmured, leaning over you to grab something from the shelf above your head.

His chest brushed against your back, the cool vibranium of his arm resting lightly on the counter for balance.

Your breath hitched. You froze, spoon suspended mid-stir, as his warmth pressed against you. “You, uh… you need something?”

“Just the pepper,” he said, his voice casual as he reached for the container and stepped back.

When you turned, his grin was positively wicked.

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, glaring at him as the heat rose to your cheeks.

“And you’re adorable when you blush,” he shot back, winking before strolling out of the kitchen like he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. The man was going to be the death of you.

---

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of work, you decided you both deserved a break. The house renovations had consumed your lives for weeks, and the weariness clung to your body like an old coat you couldn’t shake off. On your way over to the house, you grabbed a bottle of wine, figuring it would be the perfect way to unwind and steal back a moment of normalcy.

“I brought reinforcements,” you announced as you stepped through the door, holding up the bottle with a triumphant grin.

Bucky looked up from where he was crouched on the living room floor, fiddling with the legs of a coffee table he’d been assembling. His hair was tousled, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead, and his hands were smudged with wood stain. When his eyes landed on the bottle, one brow arched in curiosity.

“Wine, huh?” he said, rising to his full height and wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s the occasion?”

“Surviving another week,” you quipped, kicking off your shoes. “And I don’t feel like writing tonight, so I figured we could celebrate.”

His lips curved into that warm, easy smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. He tossed the rag onto a nearby chair and walked toward you, his movements unhurried but deliberate.

“You know what?” he said, his voice softening. “I like the way you think.”

---

A few minutes later, you were both settled on the worn but comfortable couch, two glasses of wine in hand, a classic movie flickering on the new TV in the background. The first glass went down smoothly, the wine melting the tension from your shoulders and loosening the knots in your mind. Conversation flowed easily between you, punctuated by bursts of laughter and playful jabs as you recounted the day’s mishaps.

It was the second glass, however, that emboldened you.

You weren’t sure exactly when it started—maybe it was the way his arm brushed against yours as he reached for his glass, the heat of his skin lingering longer than it should have. Or maybe it was the way his smile lingered too, his gaze dipping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. Whatever it was, the subtle shift in the air between you was impossible to ignore.

Your hand drifted to his thigh, resting there lightly as you turned to ask him a question about the movie. The warmth of his leg seeped into your palm, grounding you, and though he didn’t say a word, you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he glanced down at your hand. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn’t move to stop you.

A few minutes later, you found yourself leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder. The scent of him—wood shavings, a hint of sweat, and something that was purely Bucky—filled your senses, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

“You comfortable there, doll?” he teased, though his voice had softened, the usual edge replaced with something gentler, more affectionate.

“Very,” you replied, your fingers absently tracing small, lazy circles on his thigh.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but the tension in his body shifted, a subtle crackling like static electricity sparking in the air between you.

When he turned his head to look at you, his blue-gray eyes were darker than usual, the light from the TV casting soft shadows across his face. His gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back up to meet yours.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft, tentative, testing the fragile line between friendship and something far deeper. But the moment he responded—his hand sliding to your waist, his lips pressing more firmly against yours—the kiss deepened, unraveling every ounce of restraint you’d been holding onto.

His vibranium hand found the back of your neck, the coolness of the metal a sharp contrast to the heat of the moment. You shifted, straddling his hips without even realizing you’d done it, your hands moving to his chest, trailing slowly downward as your mind blurred with the feel of him beneath you.

But just as your fingers began to wander lower, he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and a little breathless.

You blinked at him, your cheeks flushing as you realized what you’d been doing. “Sorry, I—”

He shook his head, a soft smile spreading across his face as he cupped your cheek. “Don’t apologize. Trust me, it’s not that I don’t want to…”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m still a gentleman,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again, this time slower, sweeter, his lips lingering against yours. “And if we’re going to do this, I’d like to take you out first. A proper date.”

His words sent your heart tumbling into a freefall, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and you felt the sincerity in his words settle warmly in your chest. “What do you say?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

His chuckle was soft, almost disbelieving, as though he hadn’t entirely expected you to agree so quickly. He pulled you into another kiss, this one unhurried and tender, the kind that made your toes curl and your pulse race.

When you finally pulled back, you rested against him, your head on his chest as the sound of his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as the movie played on, its faint dialogue a distant murmur neither of you paid attention to.

His fingers found yours, lacing them together with a quiet intimacy that made your chest ache in the best way.

And as you lay there, wrapped in his warmth, you couldn’t help but think that this was the start of something wonderful. Something neither of you had planned for but both of you had been waiting for.

Because with Bucky, everything felt right.

---

Bucky couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

He’d faced Hydra assassins, alien armies, and the demons of his own past. He’d stared death in the face more times than he cared to count. But somehow, planning a date—one simple evening—felt like the most terrifying thing he’d ever done.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself. It was just that he had no clue where to start. The world had changed so much since the last time he’d done anything remotely romantic. What did people even do on dates these days?

Dinner and a movie? Too cliché. A trendy rooftop bar? That didn’t feel like him at all. A fancy restaurant? Too formal, too stiff, and way too far outside his comfort zone.

He spent an entire morning agonizing over it, pacing back and forth across the freshly polished floor of the house like a man on trial. By the time lunch rolled around, he admitted defeat: he needed help.

Unfortunately, his options were… limited.

Tony? Absolutely not. The man would never let him live it down. Steve? He considered it for half a second before dismissing the idea. Steve’s idea of romance was still stuck somewhere in 1943, and while the simplicity of “dancing to some old tunes” was charming, it wasn’t the vibe Bucky was going for. Clint? Off the grid with his family, and his only response to Bucky’s text had been: "Figure it out, Barnes. I’m on vacation." Natasha? The thought of asking her for advice was enough to make him shudder. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

That left… Sam.

Bucky grimaced as he picked up his phone. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Sam answered on the second ring, and the teasing began almost immediately.

“You’re asking me for dating advice?” Sam’s grin was audible through the phone. “Man, this is too good. Hold on, let me get my phone. Gotta record this for posterity.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Bucky growled, his tone low and threatening.

“Alright, alright,” Sam said, still laughing. “Look, here’s my advice: don’t overthink it. She likes you, Barnes. You don’t need to impress her with some big, elaborate plan. Just keep it simple, keep it natural.”

“Simple,” Bucky repeated, nodding slowly.

“And don’t forget the flowers,” Sam added, clearly still enjoying himself. “Ladies love flowers. You’re welcome.”

Before Bucky could respond, Sam hung up, leaving him standing there with the distinct feeling that he’d just walked into a trap.

---

Armed with Sam’s advice and a determination to make the evening perfect, Bucky got to work.

The newly finished living room became the centerpiece of his plan. He strung up soft, twinkling lights around the ceiling beams, their golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance over the room. He wasn’t exactly an expert decorator, but he knew enough to keep it simple. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center of the coffee table—elegant and understated, just like you. Around the vase, he placed a few flickering candles, their soft light dancing across the surface of the polished wood.

He ordered food from a place he knew you loved, something comforting and familiar but still special enough for the occasion. The kind of meal that didn’t scream “fancy” but felt meaningful, thoughtful. There was wine, of course, and though Bucky wasn’t much of a drinker, he figured it would help set the mood.

When he stepped back to survey the room, he felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension. It wasn’t perfect—he’d never been one for frills or extravagance—but it felt like him. Honest. Simple. And, more importantly, it felt like you.

---

By the time you arrived, Bucky was a bundle of nerves, though he did his best to hide it.

The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, pausing for half a second to take a steadying breath before opening it.

You stood there, smiling, holding a small box of pastries in your hands. “I brought dessert,” you said cheerfully, your eyes lighting up as you looked at him.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile back, his nerves easing just a little. “Good,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “I’ve got the rest covered.”

When you stepped into the living room, your eyes widened slightly as you took in the scene. The twinkling lights, the candles, the flowers—it wasn’t over-the-top, but it was thoughtful, intimate. Perfect.

“Bucky…” you said softly, turning to look at him. “You did all this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah. I, uh… wanted to do something nice. For us.”

Your smile widened, and he felt the last of his nerves melt away.

“It’s perfect,” you said, setting the pastries down on the table and stepping closer to him. “You’re perfect.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” you said, your voice warm and sincere.

The evening unfolded like a dream. You shared the meal on the couch, the plates balanced on your laps as you laughed and talked, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. The soft glow of the candles bathed the room in warmth, and the tension of the day melted away with every stolen glance, every shared smile.

At some point, the food was forgotten, and the two of you were curled up together on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder as his arm draped loosely around your waist. The warmth of his body against yours felt grounding, steadying, like coming home after a long journey.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. “Thank you for saying yes,” he replied, his voice low and rough with emotion.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. Slowly, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft and unhurried, a promise wrapped in tenderness.

When you pulled back, your smile was radiant, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin in return.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing, “Sam was right about the flowers.”

You laughed, the sound light and musical, and pressed another kiss to his lips.

And as the evening stretched on, the two of you tangled together on the couch, the twinkling lights casting shadows that danced across the walls, Bucky felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time.

---

You felt nervous. It wasn’t the kind of nervousness born from inexperience—you weren’t a virgin, and this wasn’t your first time exploring intimacy. But something about this—about being with Bucky—felt so different, so intense, that it left you momentarily paralyzed.

Your heart raced as you sat curled up against him on the couch, the movie on the screen now nothing more than a blur of colors and sound. It had been forgotten long ago. All of your focus had shifted to him—to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him—woodsy, clean, and entirely Bucky. The way his arm rested lightly around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, sent sparks down your spine.

You wanted more.

You wanted to hear his voice, soft and low, saying your name. You wanted to see him lose that careful restraint he always carried. You wanted to feel him—his warmth, his strength, the raw intensity you knew he was holding back.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize your hands had a life of their own.

Your eyes remained blankly fixed on the screen, but your hand drifted downward, almost instinctively. It started small, innocent, just a gentle graze against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. But the sensation sent a thrill through you, and you didn’t stop there. Slowly, tenderly, your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing against the bare skin of his abdomen.

His skin was warm, firm, the muscles beneath taut and solid. You let your fingertips trace the faint ridges of his abs, moving lower to the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Your touch grew bolder, more deliberate, your movements both curious and deliberate.

You felt his breathing shift before you heard it—a quickened inhale, soft but unmistakable.

Bucky froze for half a second, his chest rising and falling just a bit faster now. At first, it seemed like he was surprised by your touch, caught off guard. But when realization dawned on him, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed still, letting you explore, letting your hands roam freely.

He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stay calm, to not ruin the moment. He wanted this—God, he wanted this—but he was terrified of moving too fast, of scaring you off. So he stayed quiet, curious and eager to see what you would do next.

But you didn’t know that.

When he didn’t react right away, you hesitated, your confidence faltering slightly. Was he not enjoying this? Did he not want you like you wanted him? The thought made a flicker of doubt creep into your mind, and without thinking, you let your nails rake softly across the skin of his stomach, testing his reaction.

The quiet hiss that escaped his lips was all the answer you needed.

A rush of boldness surged through you. You raised your head and kissed the side of his neck, your lips brushing against his skin in soft, feather-light touches. His scent overwhelmed your senses, and you felt a shiver run through him as you trailed your kisses downward.

When you reached his collarbone, you nipped at the sensitive skin there, your teeth grazing just hard enough to leave a faint mark.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a jolt of heat through your body. “You’ll leave a mark.”

You smirked against his skin, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Good,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry. “They’ll know you’re mine.”

Your words sent a chill down his spine, a spark of something primal and unrestrained roaring to life within him. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant, the careful control he always held snapping like a rubber band.

Before you could react, he turned, his movements swift and fluid as he pushed you down against the couch. The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as you found yourself beneath him, his body hovering over yours, his hands braced on either side of your head.

Your eyes widened, your pulse racing as you stared up at him. His breathing was heavy now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch.

They were darker than you’d ever seen them, a storm of want and need swirling within their depths. He looked at you like you were his entire world, like nothing else existed except for you in this moment. And there was something else there too, something primal and possessive that sent a thrill through you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat pooling low in your belly, the unmistakable ache building between your thighs. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but not afraid. No, fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

What you felt was something entirely different.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze flicked to your lips, and for a moment, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he were holding himself back. But then his resolve broke, and he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.

It was hungry, desperate, and full of a passion he could no longer contain. His hand cupped your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing closer to yours.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your touch. His weight pinned you to the couch, grounding you, anchoring you to him as your kisses grew more heated, more frantic.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged as he struggled to regain control. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch soft and reverent in stark contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, your fingers trailing up his arm to rest against the cool vibranium of his shoulder. “Good,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his in a teasing kiss.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “You don’t know what you’ve started, doll.”

“Then show me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

And with that, Bucky’s control shattered completely.

With a strong yet tender motion, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, fitting perfectly against him as though you belonged nowhere else.

“Don’t you dare let me go,” you whispered, your voice soft with laughter, though your words carried a quiet plea.

He kissed your neck, the brush of his lips sending a shiver down your spine. His chuckle was warm, rich, and laced with something deeper. “I’m never letting you go,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears, like a sacred promise.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, revealing the sanctuary within—a simple space, bare but comforting. The bed, the only real bed in the house now, beckoned like a haven. He lowered you both onto the soft mattress, his movements careful, as if afraid to break the moment. His metal arm supported him as he leaned over you, the faint gleam catching the dim light. His long hair fell in a cascade around you, strands tickling your face like a silken veil.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or ravenous. It was soft, achingly tender, and filled with so much love that your chest tightened, the emotions welling up in your throat. You’d never been kissed like this before, as if every touch of his lips were a vow. His hands began to explore your body, slow and reverent, as if learning every curve by heart.

“Can I?” His voice was hushed, his fingers grazing the edges of your dress, a question lingering in the air. Between his gentle hands and the feather-light kisses he pressed against your throat and lips, you felt utterly unraveled.

Words escaped you, but you managed a nod, giving him the silent permission he craved. Yet that wasn’t enough for him. “I need to hear you say it, sweetheart,” he whispered, his teeth grazing your neck in a way that stole your breath and sent sparks dancing along your skin.

“And who’s leaving marks now?” you teased, your voice breathy as you tugged lightly at his hair.

His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “I only return what’s given,” he replied, his fingers tracing the hem of your dress, teasing and testing.

“You can, Bucky,” you said, your voice steady despite the rush of heat coursing through you. “You can do anything to me.”

For a moment, he stilled, the weight of your words sinking in. He swallowed hard, his dark eyes softening as if the trust you’d given him meant more than he could express. Then, a slow, confident smirk tugged at his lips.

He kissed you again—brief, a teasing peck that left you wanting. Sitting up slightly, you reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. It fell to the floor, forgotten. You were left in nothing but your underwear—a dark blue set you’d picked on a whim, something prettier than your usual, though you’d never guessed it would matter so much tonight.

His gaze swept over you, lingering, darkening with desire. His nearly black eyes burned as if memorizing every inch of you. The slight hitch in his breath was all the confirmation you needed.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe, his eyes tracing the contours of your body as though committing you to memory. The way he looked at you made you feel like more than beautiful—it made you feel like art, something to be cherished and admired.

His lips traveled down your neck, their warmth leaving a trail of fire that seeped into your skin. Gentle, reverent, and yet charged with an intensity that set your nerves alight, his kisses carried a heat that no blanket could rival. Despite the sweltering summer air pressing against the room, you craved this heat, welcomed it, especially when it came from him.

His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every touch. One hand cupped your breast, the other tracing lazy circles along your ribs before his lips replaced his fingers. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch. Pleasure bloomed under his care, sharp and exquisite, like the first taste of forbidden fruit.

With a deft motion, he pushed the fabric of your bra aside, baring your breast to his hungry gaze. His lips descended, soft yet searing, as his tongue flicked over your nipple, exploring and tasting like a man starved. The sensation sent a shiver through you, your body responding with a quiet moan when his teeth grazed the sensitive peak.

His free hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as if proximity alone could express what words could not. In a swift, practiced motion, he unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his movements fluid and precise. On any other night, you might have teased him for his efficiency, but now, all you could do was revel in the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good,” you breathed, the words tumbling from your lips unbidden. His skilled tongue danced across your nipple, teasing and biting, while his hand lavished attention on your other breast, kneading it with gentle care. The contrast between the sharpness of his teeth and the softness of his touch created a perfect harmony, leaving you gasping.

“I’m not planning to stop,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough with promise. His hand began its descent, trailing down your body with an almost worshipful attention. He didn’t rush, savoring every curve, every hollow, as if memorizing the map of you. His fingers lingered on your waist, your hips, your stomach, their touch igniting sparks that made you squirm beneath him.

As his lips followed the path his hand had taken, his tongue left a scorching trail across your skin. Every kiss, every caress, unraveled you further, leaving you whimpering and gasping for breath. The sounds that escaped you were raw and unfamiliar, born of a pleasure so intense it was almost terrifying—and yet, you craved more.

Your hands found his arms, the corded strength beneath your fingers grounding you even as you floated in a haze of sensation. When you opened your eyes, a pout formed on your lips as you realized he was still fully clothed.

“This feels unfair,” you murmured, pushing him gently away with a playful shove. With a burst of determination, you straddled him, reversing your positions. His brow arched at the shift, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he allowed you to take control.

“It feels unfair to see you still dressed,” you continued, your voice sultry as you tugged at the hem of his shirt.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as his hands moved to help. But you swatted them away, shaking your head. “That’s my job,” you said, your words teasing but firm.

Slowly, you began unbuttoning his shirt, taking your time with each one. The deliberate pace wasn’t for efficiency—it was for the sheer joy of revealing him inch by inch, watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. His skin was warm, taut, and irresistible.

As you worked your way down, you leaned in, pressing soft kisses along his neck, down his collarbone, and across his chest. He let you guide him, his head tilting back, his lips parting in a quiet exhale of pleasure. When the last button was undone, you pushed the fabric aside, baring him completely to you.

For a moment, you just looked at him, marveling at the way he seemed both strong and vulnerable beneath you. And then you leaned down, letting your lips explore his skin, savoring the salt and warmth of him as your fingers traced the hard lines of his body.

Quickly, he shrugged off his shirt, tossing it carelessly in the same direction as your discarded dress and bra. The fabric landed somewhere forgotten, but the man before you was anything but. Though you’d seen him shirtless before, this time it was different. This time, you didn’t have to avert your eyes, pretending you weren’t staring when you were. Now, you could let your gaze roam freely, drinking him in the same way he devoured the sight of you, his eyes lingering on your bare chest.

And there was so much to take in.

He was shaped like a god—broad shoulders that seemed built to bear the weight of the world, a tapered waist most would envy, and muscles that moved beneath his skin like poetry in motion. But it was the scars that captured you. They told a story, a painful testament to everything he had endured. They marked him, not as broken, but as someone who had survived battles most could never comprehend.

Your expression softened as your eyes traveled over him, and you leaned in, pressing your lips gently to the first scar you saw—a smaller one near his collarbone. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sound raw and unguarded, as if no one had ever dared to touch him there, let alone kiss him. He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten that particular scar.

You moved slowly, reverently, your lips tracing each jagged mark, each uneven line etched into his skin. With every soft kiss, you felt the tension in his body begin to melt away. At first, he seemed unsure, his muscles taut beneath your touch, but as you continued, he relaxed bit by bit, surrendering to the tenderness you offered so freely.

To him, those scars had always been grotesque reminders of his past—of pain, loss, and things he’d rather forget. But here, now, with you lavishing them with love, they felt different. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel ugly or ashamed. He felt... cherished.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He didn’t care if you saw it, because he knew—he knew—you wouldn’t judge him. You’d only love him. You’d love him the same way you always had, patiently, quietly, steadfastly.

And you did.

You hadn’t said the words yet; they felt too monumental for this fragile, burgeoning moment. You understood that Bucky needed to take things one step at a time, and you were okay with that. Because even without the words, he showed you how he felt. In the way he always thought of you, the little things he did. How he ordered from restaurants he didn’t particularly like just because you loved them. How he listened to you ramble about your day or sing off-key to your favorite songs without complaint. How he sat through the “essential” 21st-century movies you made him watch, even the ones he found ridiculous.

Bucky wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of actions.

When your lips found that scar where flesh gave way to metal, his breath hitched again. This scar was different. It was rawer, harsher—a jagged edge where his humanity ended, and the cold, unyielding metal began. It was a scar he hated, one that still ached on bad days, a reminder of what he had lost.

But you kissed it as if it was no different from the rest of him, as if it was just another part of his story, of him. Your lips lingered, pressing warmth into the unfeeling metal, and he closed his eyes. More tears slipped free, unbidden, but they weren’t just tears of sadness. They were something more profound.

It wasn’t just love he felt from you; it was acceptance. Complete, unconditional acceptance. Of who he had been. Of who he was now. And most importantly, of who he was becoming.

“Let me take care of you, James.”

The sound of his given name on your lips made his eyes snap open. The way you said it—softly, reverently, as though it was the only name that mattered—set something off inside him. When he looked at you, he saw the universe in your eyes. No one had ever looked at him like this before, like he was everything. Like he was your everything.

And he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He pulled you to him, his hands firm but trembling with restraint, and kissed you as though the world were ending. As though you were the only thing worth saving in the wreckage. His lips claimed yours with an intensity that spoke of hunger, of longing, of love so raw it scared him. He kissed you like you were the best damn thing to ever happen to him—because you were.

When he finally pulled back, his chest rising and falling heavily, he gave you a smile that nearly undid you. It was soft and full of a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. His eyes, deep pools of love and trust, held you captive, saying more than words ever could.

That look was all you needed before leaning down, starting your slow, deliberate journey down his body.

Your hands trailed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles and scars with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. You scratched lightly around his ribs, your nails dragging in a way that sent shivers through him. Your tongue flicked playfully at his nipple, teasing him with a warm, wet touch before nipping it lightly with your teeth.

He groaned, his body shifting on the bed, a mix of surprise and pleasure flashing across his face. He looked down at you, a half-hearted glare in his darkened eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Deep down, he didn’t want you to stop. The sharp sting of your bite was a pleasure he hadn’t known he could enjoy, because he knew it came from you. And with you, he trusted completely.

His eyes fluttered closed as your hands drifted lower, deftly undoing his belt. Slowly, deliberately, you opened it, savoring the moment while your tongue continued its exploration of his chest, down his stomach, tracing every ridge and hollow. You took your time, drinking him in like a work of art, tasting him as though he were your favorite flavor.

When his hips lifted to help you slide his pants down, your breath caught in your throat. The sight of him, bare and ready for you, made your mouth water. You didn’t bother hiding your hunger. You’d thought about savoring the moment, teasing him, but tonight your patience was nowhere to be found.

“Can I taste you, Sergeant?”

Your voice was sultry, and the smirk that curled your lips was wicked. You watched his cock twitch at the sound of his rank on your tongue, and it thrilled you. His eyes snapped to yours, darker than you’d ever seen them, devoid of the usual gentle blue hues. There was no innocence left in his gaze—just unbridled desire.

“Can I suck this beautiful cock?” you purred, your voice dripping with want.

His breath hitched, and just when he thought you couldn’t surprise him more, you reached for his left arm—the metal one. The arm that had brought so much fear to others and yet made you look at him with awe. Gently, you guided it over your head, locking his gaze.

“Will you show me how you like it?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky Barnes was speechless. You, with your teasing smirk and bold confidence, had rendered him completely at a loss for words. He stared at you, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Finally, he nodded.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy. Smirking, you mimicked his earlier words, tilting your head. “I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your belly. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just hard enough to remind you that while you were in control for the moment, he could take it back whenever he wanted. The hold was firm but careful, his touch a perfect blend of dominance and care, leaving you breathless.

When a moan slipped from your lips at the pressure, he nearly lost it. The sound of your pleasure, the sight of you beneath him, drove him to the edge. He swallowed hard, his voice rasping when he finally spoke.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want with me, doll,” he breathed, his words like a prayer offered to a goddess.

Then he pulled you into a kiss—rough, passionate, claiming. His teeth caught your lower lip, biting down just enough to draw a groan from you, the sound vibrating against his mouth.

You pulled away from him, your hands firm but teasing as you pushed him back onto the bed. His body yielded to you easily, his left hand still tangled in your hair, the grip soft and almost reverent now. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, stayed locked on yours, watching your every move as if he couldn’t bear to look away.

Settling yourself on the bed between his legs, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the taut muscles of his stomach. Slowly, deliberately, your tongue traced a path downward, tasting the salt of his skin. When you reached his navel, you circled it lazily, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you.

Your hand came to rest on his thigh, steadying yourself as you lowered your head further, your lips skimming along the base of his hardening length. Without breaking eye contact, you nipped at the sensitive skin just beneath his base, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His hand twitched in your hair, his grip tightening ever so slightly, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t pull you away.

He wouldn’t stop you.

He wouldn’t dare.

When you pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock, he twitched again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about the ways he might die, but now he was certain of one thing: it would be your tongue that would end him. Definitely your tongue.

That very tongue was now dragging along his length, from tip to base and back again, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch. He was growing harder under your touch, and you relished the way his breath grew ragged with each lick, each kiss. When you lapped up the bead of pre-cum at his tip, you hummed softly, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

“I can’t wait to taste you for real,” you murmured, your voice thick with promise.

He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever words he’d planned to say vanished the moment you lowered your head and took him fully into your mouth. The guttural moan that escaped him sent heat pooling between your thighs, your body responding to the raw, sinful sound of his pleasure. You could have come undone just from his voice alone.

At first, your movements were slow, your head bobbing gently as you adjusted to the weight and feel of him. Your tongue flattened against the underside of his cock, teasing the sensitive ridge as you hollowed your cheeks. His hands tightened in your hair, guiding you without forcing, but when you spoke again, your words set something alight in him.

“I want you to show me, Sergeant,” you said, your voice sultry and daring. “Use me however you want.”

His eyes widened, the dark blue of his irises nearly swallowed by black. The sultry tone of your command, paired with the sheer want in your gaze, made something snap in him. He didn’t need to be told twice.

“Good girl,” he breathed, his voice rough as his hands guided your movements, his fingers tightening their hold in your hair. You moaned around him at the praise, and the vibration sent a shudder through his entire body.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his words spilling out between breaths. His head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving. “Such a good girl for me.”

You whined softly at his praise, the sound muffled but unmistakable. His lips curved into a grin, even as his body betrayed how tightly he was holding onto his control. “Look at that,” he said, his tone both teasing and affectionate. “Someone’s kinky.”

Your hum of affirmation sent another jolt of sensation through him, pulling a ragged moan from his throat. His hips bucked slightly, but he restrained himself, letting you keep the pace. For now.

But as your movements quickened, your enthusiasm matched only by the need burning in your eyes, he realized he wasn’t going to last much longer.

&&&&&&&

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last much longer,” he murmured, voice husky and strained. His head fell back against the pillow, lips parting to say more, but the words died on his tongue when your pace quickened, your determination unwavering. The heat of your mouth, the soft press of your lips, and the way your hand cupped and squeezed him—it was all too much.

A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, holding you as though letting go would shatter him entirely. His hips lifted instinctively, his body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure as he spilled into your mouth. "Oh, god, right there, baby," he groaned, the sound rough and unfiltered, pure bliss etched into every syllable.

When the waves of release finally ebbed, his grip lingered in your hair, unaware until your gentle touch coaxed his hand free. "Sorry," he whispered, voice hoarse and apologetic as his fingers brushed over your scalp soothingly.

You leaned up to kiss him, your lips warm and soft against his. But his response surprised you—hungry, fervent, as if tasting you wasn’t enough, as if he needed you closer, deeper. He pulled you into his arms, his hold reverent yet possessive, and the kiss left you breathless.

“You are the most amazing woman ever,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t help but laugh, settling yourself over his stomach, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You’d tell that to any woman who’d suck you off,” you teased, your smile playful.

His hand cupped your cheek gently, halting your laughter. The tenderness in his eyes was staggering, like he could see through every wall you’d ever built.

“No,” he said, voice low and steady, each word sinking deep into your soul. “I care for you more than I thought I had it in me to care about someone. You’ve become so important to me, so fast, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. Because I can’t imagine my world without you.” His thumb stroked your cheek, his touch grounding. “So, no, doll,” he added, the nickname a soft caress on his lips. “I wouldn’t say that to anyone else. There’s no one but you.”

His kiss was sweet this time, unhurried, filled with a quiet kind of passion that made your heart ache in the best way. But as your hips shifted against him, you felt him stir beneath you, his body reacting with a swiftness that sent heat pooling in your belly.

A moan escaped you when you felt his growing arousal press against your core, his readiness unmistakable. His hands moved to your hips, grounding you as his fingers curled into the waistband of your underwear. You lifted just enough for him to slip the delicate fabric down, tossing it aside without a second thought.

“Today’s about you, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his in a feather-light kiss. “I want to show you how amazing you are, how you make me feel, and how much I…” You faltered for a moment, your vulnerability catching up to you. Swallowing, you smiled softly. “How much I care for you.”

Before he could respond, you guided him to your entrance, the heat of him against you making your breath hitch. Slowly, you sank down onto him, a shared moan escaping as he stretched and filled you completely.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips firmly, though not harshly. His gaze was locked on you, watching the way you moved, the way your body welcomed him. “So perfect. Such a good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver through you, your walls fluttering around him in response. “Bucky,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest. “You’re so big… feels so good!”

He grinned, a wicked edge to his smile, and thrust up into you with a controlled strength that stole the air from your lungs. “I’m not stopping, doll,” he rasped, his voice laced with promise.

Before you could fully comprehend, he shifted you effortlessly, rolling you onto your back. Now he towered over you, his body a protective shield, his movements precise and powerful. His lips brushed your ear as his hand trailed down your stomach, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“There she is,” he murmured with a chuckle, his fingers teasing your clit just enough to make your toes curl.

The combination of his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you and the delicious friction of his fingers had you seeing stars. Your cries filled the room, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his movements unrelenting, yet careful in a way that spoke of his care for you. “So perfect for me. God, I could do this forever.”

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the intensity of it all—the connection, the pleasure, the raw intimacy. It wasn’t just sex; it was something deeper, something that felt like home.

As his pace quickened, you felt the tension building within you, every nerve ending alight. “Bucky,” you cried out, clutching at his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that felt like a vow. His voice was low, rough with emotion, as he whispered, “I need you to cum for me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, a soft, breathy "Bucky—" on your lips, but then his fingers found your clit again, moving in that maddeningly skilled way that turned your thoughts into static. The tension inside you unraveled with explosive force, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body trembled, your head falling back, and you felt like you were floating, like he’d untethered you from reality itself.

“God,” you managed to breathe, your eyes fluttering open as you tried to thank him. But before you could form the words, his hips surged forward, and he was moving inside you again, drawing a startled cry from your lips.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your own. “So perfect for me.” His mouth descended on yours, capturing your gasp in a kiss so deep it felt like he was stealing the air from your lungs.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, the praise falling from his lips like a benediction. The way your body responded to his words made him chuckle, a low, wicked sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “You like that, huh? You like being my good girl.”

Before you could reply, his pace quickened, his fingers expertly teasing your clit once more. His mouth traveled down, capturing your nipple between his lips, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to draw soft, helpless moans from you. The warmth of his mouth, the steady thrust of his hips, and the relentless circling of his fingers sent another wave of pleasure building within you.

“I’m close, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “But I need you to cum for me again. One more time, doll. Just one more.”

No man had ever made you feel the way Bucky did. No one had ever cared to learn your body like this, to make you feel so utterly cherished, so thoroughly undone. You shook your head weakly, overwhelmed. “I can’t, Bucky,” you gasped. “I’m still—”

“Yes, you can, babygirl,” he growled, cutting you off. His hands tightened on your hips, grounding you as he drove into you with a force that left you breathless. “I know you can. You’re my good girl, and you’re gonna cum for me.”

The commanding edge to his voice sent a thrill racing through you, and the coil of pleasure tightened in your belly once more. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Come for me. Now,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly demand that sent you spiraling over the edge.

You cried out his name, your body shuddering beneath him as your orgasm tore through you. Your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint, reddened trails, but if he felt the sting, he didn’t care. The moment your walls clenched around him, he let go, his movements turning erratic as he spilled into you with a deep, guttural groan.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were your labored breaths, the quiet hum of the world beyond forgotten in the aftermath of your shared release. Bucky’s body was warm against yours, his weight a comforting presence, though he somehow managed to hold himself up just enough not to crush you.

After a moment, he rolled to the side, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He turned to you, his eyes wide, his expression suddenly serious.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow. His reaction made your stomach twist, but before you could say more, he sat up abruptly, his gaze darting around the room nervously.

“I…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I came inside you.” His voice was laced with guilt, and he looked at you as though he’d committed some unforgivable sin. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

Realizing what he meant, you reached for him, your hand cupping his cheek gently. “Bucky, it’s okay,” you said, your voice soft and reassuring. You tilted your head toward the small scar on your hip, showing him the faint outline of your IUD. “I’m covered. You don’t need to worry.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, but his brow furrowed again. “Still, I should have asked. I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off with a kiss, tender and full of affection. “You’re the sweetest man ever,” you murmured, your fingers brushing against his cheek. Your smile was the one you always gave him when you wanted to chase away his doubts. “But you don’t need to worry. I wanted you to.”

His eyes softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he let out a shaky breath. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “In that case,” he said, a hint of his usual playfulness returning, “you were amazing, doll. Absolutely amazing.”

“So were you,” you replied with a grin.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “For going on that date with me.”

Your heart melted at the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in his world. Was it those old-fashioned 1940s charms, or was it just Bucky? Either way, it made your chest ache with something too big to name.

“The best date of my life,” you told him, meaning every word.

He smiled at that, his hand finding yours. “C’mon, doll,” he said, his tone soft but warm. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

And as he led you to the bathroom, his touch gentle and his eyes full of adoration, you couldn’t help but think that this—this connection, this feeling—was worth everything.

---

After the night you spent together, something shifted between you and Bucky.

It wasn’t dramatic or earth-shattering, but it was there—this quiet, unspoken understanding. It hung in the air between you like the faint scent of rain, subtle but impossible to ignore. You were together now, bound by something deeper, something that needed no words to define. Every teasing glance, every soft touch, every shared smile—they carried a gravity that hadn’t been there before, a kind of sacred weight that made your chest ache with warmth.

The house, too, seemed to reflect this change. In just three weeks, you and Bucky had breathed life into what had once been little more than a forgotten relic. Dusty floorboards now gleamed, rooms once choked with cobwebs now felt open and full of promise. Of course, most of that transformation was thanks to Bucky—his strong hands, his quiet determination, his uncanny ability to make even the most daunting task seem simple. But you liked to think you’d helped in your own way, even if it was just by being there—keeping him company, making sure he didn’t forget to eat, or distracting him with your clumsy attempts at “helping.”

One evening, as you stood in the doorway of the now-finished kitchen, you couldn’t help but marvel at what the two of you had accomplished. The counters sparkled in the golden light of sunset, the new appliances gleamed, and the faint, clean scent of fresh paint lingered in the air.

“This place looks incredible,” you said, your voice soft with awe.

“Not bad for three weeks,” Bucky replied, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His voice carried a note of pride, though his expression was as relaxed and easy as always.

“Not bad at all,” you agreed, smiling at him. But then you couldn’t resist adding, “Though I think I deserve at least half the credit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into that irresistible smirk that always made your knees feel just a little weaker. “Half? Doll, you almost took out the drywall with a hammer on day two.”

“Details,” you said with a wave of your hand. “I was the emotional support. That counts for something.”

His laugh was low and rich, the sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He crossed the room, his presence filling the space as he stopped in front of you. “Yeah, it does,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart stutter, and you barely had time to catch your breath before he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

---

As amazing as things felt between you, there was still a secretive edge to it all.

The decision to keep your relationship quiet had been mutual, though it wasn’t without its complications. It wasn’t shame or uncertainty that kept you silent—it was the weight of Bucky’s world. His life had always been lived under a microscope, every move dissected and analyzed by those who cared for him. His friends meant well, but they had a way of meddling, of poking and teasing and offering unsolicited advice. And so, for now, you both chose to hold this fragile, perfect thing close, safe from prying eyes.

One evening, as you sat together on the porch, the horizon blazed with the deep oranges and purples of a dying sun. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of pine, and the world felt perfectly still. You were leaning against him, your head resting on his shoulder, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice low and tinged with something heavy.

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised. “For what?”

“For not telling anyone,” he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as if he were bracing himself. “For asking you to keep this between us.”

“Bucky…” you began, your heart twisting at the guilt in his voice.

He shook his head, his blue eyes finally meeting yours, filled with a vulnerability that stole your breath. “You deserve better,” he said, the words raw and quiet. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to hide how they feel about you.”

Your fingers found his, threading together as you held his gaze. “I’m not hiding,” you said softly. “I’m just waiting. And I’m okay with waiting—for you.”

His breath caught, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. The air between you felt charged, every unsaid word passing through that space, heavy with meaning.

“Are you sure?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll tell them. Until then, I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension in his frame melted away, his shoulders sagging with relief. He pulled you close, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss that felt like a promise.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

“Always,” you replied, letting your eyes slip closed as you leaned into him. Together, you sat in silence, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded into twilight, the stars beginning to blink awake one by one.

In that quiet, sacred moment, you knew without a doubt that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. And that, more than anything, was enough.

---

Keeping your relationship with Bucky a secret had seemed like the right decision.

It wasn’t about hiding. It was about holding onto something precious, something new and fragile, just a little while longer. Bucky needed time to adjust—to let himself believe that happiness wasn’t fleeting, that this bond between you was real and wouldn’t be taken away. You understood that, so waiting felt like a small price to pay.

But there was one thing neither of you had accounted for: Sam Wilson.

Sam had an uncanny ability to read people. He wasn’t nosy, but once he noticed that Bucky had returned from your date with a rare, unguarded smile, the wheels in his head started turning. It was only a matter of time before he connected the dots—and naturally, he spilled the news to Steve Rogers. And the thing about Steve was that while he was the embodiment of loyalty and good intentions, he wasn’t exactly subtle.

---

The celebration started off perfectly.

The small party you and Bucky hosted to mark the near-completion of the house had everything: good food, warm laughter, and a sense of accomplishment that filled the air like the smell of fresh paint. The living room buzzed with chatter as your friends admired the transformation.

“It’s amazing,” Natasha said, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Didn’t think Barnes had it in him to pick out curtains.”

“Those were my contributions,” you replied with a grin, earning a small chuckle from her.

In the kitchen, you and Bucky worked together to set up the drinks. He was pouring whiskey into glasses with practiced ease while you arranged a platter of snacks, sneaking a glance at him every so often. The way the soft, golden light from the kitchen window played on his features made your chest tighten. This felt right—building something with him, being part of his life.

And then Sam walked in.

“Well, well, well,” he announced loudly, a grin splitting his face as he leaned against the doorframe. “Look at the happy couple!”

The room fell into a stunned silence, like a record scratching to a halt. For a beat, no one moved. Then, as if a dam had burst, the chatter shifted into excited whispers and laughter.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back with enough force to make him stagger slightly. “Knew you had it in you, pal,” he said, grinning like a proud older brother.

Tony, never one to miss an opportunity to stir the pot, raised his glass in a mock toast. “About damn time, Barnes. I thought you were going to let this one slip through your fingers.”

Natasha smirked from her spot in the corner, her knowing gaze flicking between you and Bucky like she’d figured it out long ago.

Bucky’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his body went rigid beside you. His jaw tightened, and his hand, which had been resting on the counter, curled into a fist. His expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his blue eyes as he turned to face Steve and Sam.

“You told them?” His voice was low, laced with simmering anger.

Steve raised his hands in defense, his wide-eyed expression betraying his guilt. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Bucky snapped, cutting him off. His words were sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Sam, ever the unapologetic instigator, shrugged with an infuriating grin. “Come on, man. It’s not like it was a big secret. We all saw it coming. We’re happy for you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning cold and cutting. “It wasn’t your story to tell. It’s my life. My choice.”

The hum of conversation that had begun to pick back up quickly died again, leaving an uncomfortable, heavy silence in its wake. All eyes turned toward Bucky, the tension in the room palpable.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your hand brushing against his arm, hoping to anchor him.

He glanced at you, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened. But the hurt and frustration in his eyes didn’t fade. “I need some air,” he muttered, his voice tight and clipped.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sound of the back door closing behind him echoing like a final note in an unfinished song.

You stood frozen for a moment, torn between following him and facing the room.

Your gaze landed on Sam and Steve, and a sharp wave of frustration surged through you. They looked guilty enough—Steve with his sheepish frown, Sam with his slightly deflated bravado—but that didn’t stop the words from spilling out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you demanded, your voice low but firm enough to cut through the awkward silence.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting on his hips. “We didn’t mean to upset him,” he said, his tone apologetic. “We’re just… happy for him. For both of you.”

“That’s not the point,” you snapped, your frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t about you. Do you have any idea how hard it was for him to let me in? To trust that this could be something real?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Look, we get it. He’s been through hell. But we’re his friends. We’re on his side.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to decide when he’s ready to share this with the world,” you shot back, your tone sharp. “You might think you were doing him a favor, but all you did was take away his choice.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged, guilt written all over his face. “We were out of line,” he admitted quietly. “We didn’t think about how much this would mean to him.”

“No, you didn’t,” you agreed, your voice softening just slightly. “He’s angry, and he has every right to be.”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. We messed up. I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I’ll handle it. Just… give him some space.”

---

You found Bucky on the back porch.

He was leaning against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in soft shades of lavender and gold. His shoulders were tense, his hands gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles were white.

You stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against your skin as you closed the door behind you. “Hey,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He glanced at you, the tension in his face easing slightly. “You don’t have to be out here,” he muttered. “Go back inside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said gently, stepping closer. “Bucky, I’m sorry. They shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault,” he interrupted, his voice rough. He turned to face you fully, his blue eyes filled with frustration and hurt. “I just… I wanted this to be ours for a little while longer.”

“It still is,” you said, reaching out to take his hand. “What we have doesn’t change just because they know.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his grip tightening slightly. “It feels like it does,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like it’s not just ours anymore.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Then let’s make them understand. This is your life, Bucky. No one else gets to decide how you live it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as he pulled you into his arms. “I’m lucky to have you,” he murmured into your hair.

“You always will,” you replied, your voice steady and sure.

And in that moment, as the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, you knew you’d face whatever came next—together.

---

Title: Just James

James Buchanan Barnes is not an easy man to define.

For decades, the world has known him by his titles: The Winter Soldier. Hydra’s Ghost. The Soldier with a Shattered Mind. For a long time, those labels seemed to stick, as if they were the only things he’d ever been or could be.

But spend a little time with him, and you’ll find that James Barnes is so much more than his past.

When you meet him, the first thing you notice is his presence. It’s not the commanding kind—it’s quieter, steadier, like the deep roots of an old oak tree. He doesn’t need to say much to make an impression. It’s in the way he moves, the way he listens, the way he watches everything and everyone with a quiet intensity that speaks of someone who has seen too much but still manages to care.

Caring is, in fact, at the heart of who James Barnes is.

He is the kind of friend who will notice when you’re having a bad day and quietly make it better without ever drawing attention to himself. Maybe it’s a warm cup of coffee placed in front of you without a word, or a small fix to something broken that you didn’t even know he’d noticed. He doesn’t make grand gestures; he makes small, thoughtful ones that linger long after they’re done.

James Barnes is also a man who, despite everything, has a surprisingly sharp sense of humor. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it—a dry comment here, a teasing smirk there. He doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it’s the kind of laugh that makes the room feel warmer.

And then there’s the charm.

He’ll deny it if you ask, but there’s no mistaking the trace of 1940s Brooklyn ladies’ man still lingering in his DNA. It’s in the way he leans against a doorframe, arms crossed, with that faint, lopsided grin that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s in the way he says “doll” like it’s second nature, with a teasing edge that somehow feels both old-fashioned and timeless.

But beneath the charm, beneath the humor, lies a vulnerability that few people get to see. It’s in the way he sometimes hesitates before opening up, the way he gets quiet when the conversation drifts too close to old wounds. James Barnes is a man carrying more weight than most of us could imagine, but what makes him extraordinary is the way he still manages to move forward.

He doesn’t see himself as a hero, but in many ways, that’s exactly what he is.

James Barnes is the friend who will drop everything to help you. He’s the man who will put others’ needs above his own, even when he’s struggling. He’s the kind of person who makes you believe in second chances, not just for him, but for yourself, too.

He’s funny, and thoughtful, and maddeningly stubborn. He’ll tease you relentlessly, but if anyone else dares to so much as look at you wrong, they’ll regret it. He’ll hold your hand when you’re scared, fix things you didn’t know were broken, and somehow make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who truly matters.

James Barnes is not defined by his past. He is not the Winter Soldier. He is not a title or a label or a ghost of what once was.

He is a man. A man who deserves love, happiness, and everything good this world has to offer.

And for those lucky enough to know him, he’s so much more than that.

He’s James.

And that’s enough.

---

Title: A chance to live

James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

It’s not because he doesn’t want it or wouldn’t welcome it—it’s because he doesn’t believe he deserves it. For so long, the weight of his past has felt like a life sentence, something permanent and unchangeable. Every scar on his body, every memory forced into his mind, every name he can’t forget—they’ve all told him the same thing: that he is broken, irredeemable, and unworthy of anything good.

But James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

What he asks for is something simpler, something quieter, something more human: a chance to live.

When you spend time with Bucky, you see the effort it takes for him to move through the world. The way he still flinches when someone approaches him from behind. The way his hands tremble just slightly when he’s surrounded by too many people. The way he avoids mirrors, as if afraid of who—or what—he might see staring back at him.

But you also see the will.

The will to keep going, even on the days when the past feels too heavy to bear. The will to change, to be better, to be someone he can look in the eye and not hate. The will to laugh, to connect, to open up—even when it scares him.

James Barnes doesn’t want to be a hero. He doesn’t want to be remembered for his deeds or honored for his sacrifices. He doesn’t want a statue or a medal or a parade.

He just wants what so many of us take for granted: a life of his own.

He wants to wake up in the morning and not dread the day ahead. He wants to walk down the street without feeling like a ghost. He wants to sit on the porch of his house—the house he’s worked so hard to rebuild—and feel the warmth of the sun on his face without worrying about what might be lurking in the shadows.

He wants to love and be loved in return.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t expect the world to forgive him. He doesn’t expect to erase the past or undo the harm that was done. But he hopes—quietly, desperately—that the world might let him try. That it might give him the space to rebuild himself, to find something worth holding onto, to create a future that isn’t defined by the horrors of his past.

And maybe, just maybe, if the world can give him that chance, he can begin to forgive himself.

Because beneath the layers of guilt and grief, beneath the scars and the shadows, is a man who wants nothing more than to live.

And James Barnes, for all that he’s been through, for all that he’s endured, deserves that chance.

He deserves to live.

---

The evening was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

The soft golden glow of a single lamp illuminated the room as you handed Bucky the articles. Your hands trembled slightly, though you tried to mask it, and your heart raced with a nervous anticipation that made your chest ache. He took the papers from you with a small, curious smile, his calloused fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Then, he sat down, the weight of the moment settling heavily in the air.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint rustling of the paper as he turned the pages. Each sound was magnified, echoing in your ears like the ticking of a clock. You watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes moved across the words, his expression flickering between concentration and something softer—something almost fragile.

These articles weren’t just words on a page. They were pieces of your heart laid bare, fragments of everything you saw in him: his strength, his resilience, his capacity for love, even after all the pain he had endured. They were a mirror, reflecting the man he had become, not the man he feared he was.

When he finally finished, he placed the papers down on the table with deliberate care. He didn’t look up immediately, and your stomach twisted with doubt. Had you said too much? Was it too personal? Too raw?

But then he looked at you, and the breath caught in your throat. His blue-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears, the kind he rarely let anyone see. The vulnerability in his gaze made your chest tighten, and you suddenly understood that this wasn’t just about the articles. This was about him confronting a version of himself he wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The silence felt like a taut string, ready to snap, and your heart pounded with every passing second.

Then, finally, he broke it.

“This… this is incredible,” he said, his voice low and steady, though it trembled slightly at the edges.

Your cheeks flushed, and you gave him a small, shy smile. “I’m glad you think so. I just… I wanted people to see you the way I see you.”

He stared at you as if he couldn’t quite believe the words you’d spoken. His expression was raw and unguarded, the kind of openness he rarely allowed himself.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “How you make me feel like this—like I’m more than what I’ve done. Like I’m worth something.”

“Because you are,” you said simply, your voice soft but firm. You reached out, taking his hand in yours.

The warmth of his touch, the way his fingers instinctively tightened around yours, felt like an unspoken promise. He held your gaze, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet glow of the room.

Then, he spoke again, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and beautiful. He said them as if he was testing their weight, as if he wasn’t entirely sure they would hold. But the way his hand tightened around yours, the way his eyes searched yours, told you he meant them.

“I love you,” he said again, more certain this time, his voice steady. “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say that again. But I do. I love you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you leaned forward. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing lightly over the faint stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He pulled you into his arms then, his hold firm but gentle, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. His lips found yours, and the kiss was slow, tender, and filled with all the things he couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t just an expression of love—it was an affirmation, a quiet acknowledgment of everything you had built together.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hands stayed on your waist, anchoring you to him, as if he needed the physical connection to keep himself grounded.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft and sincere.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For giving me this,” he said simply. “For giving me a chance.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You gave yourself that chance, Bucky. I just helped you see it.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression shifting to something resolute, something stronger.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he said quietly. “But… I think I’m ready. If you want to publish this—if you think the world should see it—then let’s do it. Let’s tell them.”

Your heart swelled with pride and love, and you leaned forward to kiss him again, your hands still cradling his face. The kiss was softer this time, but no less meaningful.

When you pulled back, you searched his eyes for any hint of doubt, but all you saw was determination. “Are you sure?” you asked, your voice trembling with emotion.

He nodded, his expression steady and sure. “Yeah. I’m sure. I want them to know the truth—not just about what I was, but about who I am now. About the people who’ve helped me get here.”

A lump formed in your throat as you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over his skin. “Okay,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “We’ll do this together.”

He smiled then, a small but genuine smile that lit up his face in a way that made your heart ache. “Together,” he echoed, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.

And as you sat there, holding each other in the quiet glow of the room, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever storms you had to weather, you knew you’d face them side by side. Together, you were unstoppable.

---

Over the next week, your series of articles began to roll out, one by one, like chapters in a story that needed to be told.

Each piece was a love letter to James Buchanan Barnes—not just the man you loved, but the many versions of him that had existed before. Each article revealed a different facet of his life, weaving together a tapestry of pain, perseverance, and quiet triumph.

The first article painted a picture of a boy from Brooklyn, a boy who loved fiercely and laughed loudly. You wrote about the way Bucky had adored his mother’s homemade meals, the nights spent teasing his sisters, and the way his father’s old stories had sparked his sense of adventure.

The next article delved into his role as a best friend. You described the steadfast loyalty he’d shown Steve Rogers, the skinny kid from Brooklyn who had a fire too big for his frame. Bucky had been his anchor, his protector, and his brother in every way that mattered.

Then came the soldier. You recounted his bravery in the field, the unwavering courage with which he faced danger, not for glory but for the men standing beside him. But you didn’t shy away from the darkness. You wrote about his fall, the horrors inflicted upon him, and the years he spent as a ghost—a weapon, stripped of identity and choice.

Yet, you balanced the shadows with light.

You wrote about the man you knew now: the way his lips curved in a rare, genuine smile when he found a stray cat or fixed a squeaky hinge; the way he cared for his friends with an understated tenderness, always putting others first even when it cost him. You wrote about his quiet resilience, his determination to rebuild his life, and his courage in confronting his demons.

And above all, you wrote about his humanity—the small, everyday moments that revealed his heart. How he’d pick up your favorite snacks without being asked. How he could spend hours tinkering with a broken toaster just because it mattered to someone. How he was learning, slowly but surely, to let himself be loved in return.

---

The response was immediate and overwhelming.

Emails, comments, and messages poured in from readers around the world.

People who had felt unseen, misunderstood, or broken wrote to say they saw themselves in his story. Veterans shared their own struggles with identity and purpose, thanking him for his honesty. Survivors of trauma found hope in his resilience. And countless others simply marveled at the raw courage it took to lay his soul bare for the world to see.

One letter, in particular, stood out. It was from a young woman in Kansas who wrote:

"I’ve never known how to tell my family about my struggles, about the things that haunt me. But reading about Bucky—about how he faces his past with so much strength—it’s inspired me to try. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to keep trying even when it feels impossible."

You read her words aloud to Bucky one night as the two of you sat together in the quiet comfort of your living room. He listened in silence, his hand resting over yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“Do you see now?” you asked softly, your voice thick with emotion. “Do you see what you mean to people?”

He didn’t reply right away. His gaze was fixed on the letter in your hands, his expression a mix of wonder and disbelief.

---

For Bucky, the most profound response came from within.

Each evening, he would sit quietly and read your articles. At first, it was difficult. The words felt too raw, too vulnerable, like staring at an unflinching mirror. But as the week went on, something began to shift.

The boy who loved fiercely, the best friend who stood unwavering, the soldier who fought bravely, the man who was shattered and rebuilt piece by piece—they were all him. Not ghosts. Not shadows.

Him.

And for the first time in a long time, he began to believe it.

He no longer felt like a relic of the past, a man defined only by his mistakes and the damage done to him. He began to feel whole, as if the fragments of his life were finally coming together to form something stronger, something true.

One evening, as he finished the last article, he closed his laptop and turned to you. His blue-gray eyes were clear, steady, but there was a softness there too—a quiet peace you hadn’t seen before.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice filled with a sincerity that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “For what?”

“For showing me the parts of myself I couldn’t see,” he murmured, his arm wrapping around you. “For believing in me when I couldn’t. For reminding me that I’m more than what I’ve done.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you held them back, your voice steady. “You’ve always been more, Bucky. You just needed to see it for yourself.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there as if drawing strength from your presence. “I see it now,” he said quietly. “For the first time, I really see it.”

And in that moment, as the soft hum of the world outside faded into the background, you knew that he wasn’t just healing—he was becoming. Not the Winter Soldier. Not a hero or a villain. Just Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

A man who was no longer defined by his past but by the love and resilience that would carry him into the future.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he deserved it.

24 notes · View notes

brunchable · 2 months ago

Text

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie. Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt. A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know.

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you.

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold.

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room.

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded.

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × ×

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder.

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back.

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question.

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways.

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips.

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance.

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more.

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous.

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself.

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer.

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality.

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin.

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile.

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear.

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder.

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength.

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × ×

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house.

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him.

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes.

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door.

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside.

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else.

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore.

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm.

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back.

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes.

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × ×

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh.

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm.

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually.

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room.

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch.

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you.

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile.

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets?

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip.

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure.

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little.

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still.

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light.

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep.

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase.

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words.

“What’s that?”

“This.”

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body.

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply.

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting.

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless.

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front.

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon yourself to him.

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you.

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire.

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.”

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder.

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy.

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him.

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

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buck-star · 9 months ago

Text

Light after Dark | Bucky Barnes

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 -> Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> You ex-boyfriend never treated you well but when Bucky steps into your life it changes and he shows you how much he loves you. Would the behaviour you had with your ex-boyfriend be there because Bucky looks distanced.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 10.057 (it’s long but worth it, guess so)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) 18+, Minors DNI, angst, abusing ex-boyfriend, violence, slapping, shouting, wound/scars because of abuse, smut, non/dub-con, manipulation, blowjob, deep throating, nipple play, handjob (male!receiving), cum eating, fingering (fem!receiving), oral (fem!receiving), protected p in v, multiple orgasm, belly bulge, praises, fluff

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 -> Hello hello! It's me, again. Got bit of an angsty idea. Let's say that reader has an abusive ex, and this dude was physically and emotionally draining. She never had a single nice thought about herself in three years. She always thought she had big thighs, or wide hips etc etc. And let's say that she does have some scars from her ex, whenever he used to beer bottles at her they'd crash and cut her. She always thought she was not worthy, because he used to cheat on her all the time. Now, presently, we're with Bucky. And nowadays Bucky has been a little irritated and distant. And you think the worse, and your defense mechanism come up. Back with your ex, you used to cook good food and make so much effort (but your asshole ex never bothered) Bucky is confused why there's whole royal course of a meal on the table when he comes home. You don't want to point out the obvious and say it's for nothing, but it's really because you don't want him to leave. Bucky knows something is up, but how does he approach the situation???🤭🤭🤭This was pretty long lol (Again you don't have to write this if you’re uncomfy😌😌) Okie BYE!! @amathslutsguidetofandom

𝐀/𝐍 -> Thank you so much for the request. I absolutely love it and I hope you like what I made with that. Also wanna thank my best friend @imtryingbuck for listening to me, and helping me with some parts during writing.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

“Come one, can’t you get your shit together? It’s not that hard,” he shouted at you, throwing his hands up while he looked at you.

His expression was disgusted, and he was disappointed — because of you, like he always was. You just asked him to help you with the plates, but he was annoyed, mad that you couldn’t do it without annoying him. You didn’t want to annoy him; it was never your intention, but you’re tired — working hard in the household every day, sleeping only half of the night — and he never appreciates what you did. He wanted to have a meal — a proper meal — but you presented him with something he didn’t want to eat that day. How could you dare to cook soup when he wants meat?

“Take your plate and sit on the floor,” he told you, pointing next to him on the ground.

“P—please. I’m sorry,” you whimpered.

He rolled his eyes, and not even now have you done what he told you. Alex placed his hand on your shoulder, pushing you down until you were sitting next to him on the floor. He used his hand under your chin to tilt your head up, forcing you to lock in with him. Alex let go of your chin, smirking at you before his hand met your cheek painfully. You hissed, tears building in your eyes, but you swallowed harshly and looked down on your plate, which was lying in front of you.

“Shut your mouth. I don’t wanna hear a fucking word."

Your body started to tremble, but you stayed quiet. Alex laughed, turning to the plate in front of him and sliding the spoon through it a few times. He hadn’t tried the soup you cooked; he stared at the plate. That’s nothing a person like him would eat; Alex deserved better than soup. He deserved to be treated well. He turned his face, seeing you sitting in the same position since he smacked your face. You weren’t saying a word; your hands were shaking, and you tried to hide your tears. He took the plate in one of his hands, holding it above you. With a sadistic expression, he let the soup fall down on you.

“Oh— sorry. I forgot you’re not the trash,” he said.

You whimpered, feeling the hot liquid covering your body and burning your skin. Alex watched you and the way the soup soaked your clothes. He then stood up and pushed you to the side; you were curled up in yourself, crying silently while he just kicked you. Alex walked out of the kitchen, leaving you a whimpering and crying mess lying on the ground. Alex just left the house when you started crying more.

Almost half of the night you were lying on the ground, your body trembling, and you cried until there was no tear left anymore. You loved that man; you feel in love with him because he was caring; he made you feel good and appreciated you. But you feel like you were the reason for him being the way he is now. Maybe you were too fat, maybe your food wasn’t good, maybe you didn’t do things like you should do then? You often thought about it already — sleepless nights while Alex was sleeping next to you, smelling like a bottle of alcohol itself while he wrapped his arm around your waist.

Somewhere in the night, you heard the keys in the door. Your body tensed immediately while you pretend to be sleeping on the couch. Alex knew you weren't, and even when he would wake you up, he was drunk and frustrated.

“Babe, come here now. You little bitch,” he shouted through the house, and you sat up. “I won’t repeat myself, slut.”

You slowly walked toward him, holding your arms tightly around your body to cover yourself a bit. He grinned when he saw you walking closer to him; you look so small, while he felt so good looking at your scared form in front of him. Alex was holding a bottle of beer in his hand, and he took a sip, groaning when he noticed that the bottle was empty.

“Alex, y—you should go to bed,” you mumbled, and he raised his eyebrow.

You dared to say something, telling him what he had to do. He didn’t think twice when he lifted the bottle and smashed it against your head. The glass broke and left a bloody wound on your head. You whimpered and tried to hide the tears from rolling down your cheeks, but he saw it, and it made him chuckle even more. Now you knew that you shouldn’t tell him what to do, or else Alex would show you that you were his own little toy to treat and fuck you however he wanted.

“Get on your knees.”

“P—please. C—can I just clean the wound?”

“Get on your knees, or I will give you more than just this one to clean. Fucking little bitch,” he hissed, grabbing your chin harshly.

You whined, trying to turn your face away, but he was too strong for you. So you needed to look directly into his eyes while he leaned closer, and you smelled his breath — which smelled like nothing but alcohol. You pushed the urge to look disgusted away, but when he leaned even closer and captured your lips with his, you tried to pull away from him. His tongue slid over your lips, and when you weren’t parting your lips, he just smacked your cheek to make you hiss in pain. Then you opened your mouth, and he was able to guide his tongue into it. You felt disgusted, but you loved him, and when it was what he wanted, you wouldn’t deny it; otherwise, he would still do it. He has control over your relationship, as he showed you. Alex pulled away from you, leaving you panting while he smirked and pushed you down on your knees.

“Suck my fucking dick. Other girls would beg me to suck it, so why are you complaining about my dick, huh? Thinking you’re pretty? You’re not; have you seen your ugly, fat thighs? I would be ashamed to show them someone,” he said, and you nodded.

You didn’t stop the tears from rolling down your cheeks; you felt so ashamed and embarrassed for looking the way you do. With shaking hands, you gasped his belt and unbuckled it. Opening his pants before you shoved them down his legs. You saw the outline of his dick in his pants, but he wasn’t hard. When you looked at his dick a moment too long for his liking, he cleared his throat, grasped your hair, and pushed you closer.

“Do you really think I will be turned on when I see you? You’re just a little ugly slut,” he said, laughing about the tears in your eyes.

You knew you weren't the most beautiful person, but even when you heard that for three years now, it was still hurtful. Alex always told you that he could have everyone, that everyone wanted to be with him, but he was together with you, even when it’s just because you couldn’t be without him — that’s what he was always saying.

You pushed his boxers down as well, revealing his soft cock. Alex took his shaft in his hand, stroking himself a few times before he pulled you closer and tapped his dick against your lips. You opened your mouth slightly, and when he managed to push into you, he immediately rammed his dick down your throat. He never paid attention to how you felt when you had sex; he didn’t care. You gagged around his length, trying to get used to it, but he had already started to thrust into you. His cock always slid down your throat, and his balls slapped against your chin. His hand in your hair guided you over his cock, and he slapped your cheeks a few times, causing more tears in your eyes.

“You’re such a fucking little slut, aren’t you? That’s the only thing you can do. Sucking my cock."

Your nails were digging into your tights, trying to ground you while he held you on his cock. He was deep in your mouth and throat, and you tried not to panic, but when he didn’t let you pull back, you wiggled softly, trying to move away from his length. But he didn’t let you move away; he was holding you with his cock in your mouth in place. When he was finally letting go of you, you pulled away and breathed deeply, crying quietly, while he grabbed your chin once again. His eyes darkened as he looked into yours. And you knew you shouldn’t have tried to pull away from him.

“Do you wanna kidding me? Making a scene like that?” He asked, looking disappointed at you.

He didn’t wait for an answer before he pushed his dick back inside your mouth. His hips thrusted forward, he groaned, and you felt his dick twitch in your mouth just before he came in your mouth. His cum was sliding down your throat, and he pulled away, smacking your face again before he pointed toward the couch.

“A—Alex.”

“Can’t you just keep your mouth shut? You annoy me. You’re my girlfriend, and your boyfriend wants to fuck you now.”

When you woke up next to your boyfriend, your pussy was aching. He fucked you rough, never minding if it would hurt you or if you enjoyed this sex too. You were slowly getting up, and you felt disgusted with the mixture of sweat and cum on your body. So you walked to the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible to not wake him. You really needed a hot shower, so you did exactly that. A hot, relaxing shower was perfect for your arching pussy and your tensed muscles, but when you heard Alex shouting that the breakfast wasn’t ready, you panicked again. You should have done the breakfast first and then thought about a shower. He swung the door of your shared bathroom open, narrowing his eyebrows.

“Do you think you could take a shower before making breakfast for me?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“I’m sorry—“

He walked closer, towering over you and pulling the towel away, leaving you naked in front of him. Alex looked your body up and down, slapping your breast and causing you to gasp.

“Have you looked into the mirror? Look how ugly you are, and your pussy, only great because she is still tight,” he said, turning around to took a shower as well.

You wrapped your arms around your body, trying to cover it. He is right; you’re ugly, and you can’t even look at yourself in the mirror. Your body is covered with scars — scars he caused with beer bottles or when he just hit you hard enough. You bent down to lift your towel, wrapping it around you, and got out of the bathroom to change into leggings and a t-shirt. Then you made your way to the kitchen, preparing some breakfast for the two of you.

It didn’t take long until Alex walked into the kitchen. He smirked at you when you looked so small compared to him since you tried to make yourself small around him. And especially because he can see the respect or more fear you have in your eyes when you look at him. You placed the plates on the table, both of you taking a seat, and you ate in silence; you didn’t want to annoy him. When he was finished, he looked at you, shoving his plate closer to you.

"You already made better food. I want you to clean until I come home from the meeting,” he told you.

“Oke,” you said, taking the plates to put them in the other dishes to clean them later.

Alex went to work, and you needed to clean. You weren’t really motivated to do so, but you didn’t want him to be angry at you again. So you started in the kitchen and then went to the living room. When you were almost finished, you heard Alex coming back home, and your muscles were immediately tensed.

“Lunch?”

“I cleaned and haven’t-“

“I don’t mind. You have to bring lunch to the table, and you didn’t once again,” he said.

“Thought I told you that when you’re not doing what I said, I will break up. You want that? No? But you did it, no. Lazy ass didn’t do what she was told.”

You whimpered, but he shook his head, pointing to the door of the apartment. And grasped your arm to pull you closer to the door. It was raining outside, and you knew he didn’t mind; he would let you wait outside until he allowed you to come back into the apartment. Alex went back inside and left you in front of the door. Your clothes were immediately soaked because of the rain, and you felt the cold all over your body. You were freezing, but he wouldn't let you into the apartment until he wasn't mad anymore. So you sat on the ground, your back against the wall, and your legs were pulled against you while you wrapped your arms around them. You cried quietly, trying to warm yourself up a bit while the cold rain was wetting your whole body.

"Hi, are you oke? Aren't you freezing?" A soft voice asked, and you looked at the man in front of you.

He was kneeling, offering you his hand, but you just smiled at him. He saw that it wasn't a real one, but he didn't want to pressure you. His brown hair was as wet as you were, but he didn't mind. He also didn't mind taking off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders.

"Thank you," you mumbled.

"I'm Bucky, and you?" He asked softly, his hand resting on your knees.

The warmth of his body warmed you a bit as well, and his steel blue eyes and the smile on his lips warmed your heart. You admired his blue eyes; he looked soft and beautiful.

"I'm Y/N"

"And what is a pretty girl like you doing outside in the rain?"

You blushed and turned your face away. Bucky smirked, looking at you, while he tried to find out why you were sitting there with a bruise on your pretty face. He hadn't seen that one before, but when he did, he reached out to slide his fingers over your face to turn it toward him. You hissed, trying to escape his fingers even when his touch was way softer than Alex's. Bucky removed his hand and waited until you were ready to face him again.

"I'm sorry; I didn't know I would scare you. I don't want to hurt you, but where are the bruises from?" He asked, and you shook your head.

"Nothing, really. I just- I just walked against the counter yesterday. I was stupid and ignored the open door of the counter. And I'm sitting here because I forgot my keys," you tell him.

Bucky nodded. He didn't really believe you, but he didn't want to push you either. When he noticed someone opening the door behind you, he got up to face the person behind you.

"You little slut, didn't I tell you to get pizza?" Alex asked, ignoring Bucky, who furrowed his eyebrows.

"Alex, you didn't say that you wanted pizza," you said quietly, looking at your hands.

"Don't dare to talk back, or you can spend the rest of the night here as well," he shouted at you, and you flinched.

Bucky's jaw was clenching when he saw the way Alex treated you, and when you got up from where you were sitting, Bucky reached out to grab your shoulder and pushed you behind him. Alex was laughing about it; his eyes were piercing into Bucky's.

"Do you think someone like him would treat you better? You're nothing but slut, a dumb little bitch," he said to you even when he was looking at Bucky.

You whimpered softly, but before you were able to say something, you saw Bucky's arm flying forward, and a moment later, your boyfriend was walking backwards, his hand covering his nose while he hissed in pain. Bucky just broke his nose with one punch, and you saw the blood slowly running down his chin, and Alex's hand was covered in it as well. You weren't sure if you felt scared or thankful that Bucky protected you for your boyfriend.

"Fucking slut. I'm gonna break up with you; fuck your new lover; he won't love you the way I loved you," he said, shutting the door and leaving you with Bucky in front of it.

Bucky turned around, seeing you crying, and, with widening eyes, looking at him broke his heart. He didn't want to scare you more, but he was just too angry at Alex for treating you the way he did. Bucky smiled nicely, opening his arms for you to decide if you wanted him to hug you or not. You hesitated a moment, but his warmth and the way he protected you made you crave more. So you walked closer toward him and let him wrap his arms around your shoulders, pulling you as close as possible. You placed your hand on his chest, inhaling his sweet-mint scent, and closed your eyes for a moment.

For the first time in years, you felt saved and loved. Someone could really like you the way you are. Bucky didn't know you, but he gave you the warmth you never got from your ex-boyfriend. His touches were soft, and you enjoyed the warmth and softness of them.

"You will come home with me. You can sleep in my bed then; I prefer the floor in the living room," Bucky said.

You were freezing, and when Bucky already offered you his bed and maybe a warm shower, you would definitely say yes. So you nodded softly, and Bucky lifted you up, his hands resting under your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist while you placed your hands around his neck. You looked at him with a smirk, and Bucky grinned just as much as you did. Only then did you realise his beautiful blue eyes, which light up when he smiles, like he did.

"Can I take a shower then as well? And Bucky, I think I'm too heavy for you to carry me home," you say quietly.

"You can also take a long, warm bath if you want to. And don't worry, you're not too heavy for me," he chuckled and gave you some butterflies in your stomach, causing you to giggle softly.

"I'm home, doll," Bucky shouts through the apartment you both live in now.

Bucky takes off his jacket and shoes and makes his way into the kitchen. He inhales the smell of the food deeply, smiling when he sees the plates filled with his favourite food on the table. He walks around the table, wrapping his arms around your waist, and pulls you flat against his broad chest. Bucky places his chin on your shoulder and looks at you while you're cooking.

When Bucky picked you up that day, you met him for the first time. He brought you to his home, and like he said, you were allowed to take a long, warm bath, and you slept in his bed. It was the first time in forever that you felt safe. Bucky made breakfast in the morning — a lot of breakfast because he wasn't sure what you liked to eat, so he made pancakes and French toast, and he offered you cereal. When you finished the dinner, he asked you to look over your wounds, and when you allowed him to do so, he picked you up to carry you into the bathroom and placed you on the edge of the bathtub. Bucky slowly moved his fingers over your thighs, and when you looked away because you were ashamed, he told you how beautiful you are.

Bucky took off your shirt, revealing a lot of scars and wounds all over your body. The hiss that left his lips made you flinch, but he assured you that he was just shocked that such a beautiful person like you has an ex-boyfriend like Alex. Bucky cleaned all your wounds; he didn't say that you were ugly. His words surprised you every time because he always admired your body, and he still does. The two of you came closer when Bucky offered you to stay with him, so you both would have someone, and you said yes, but your behaviour with your ex-boyfriend needed time to slowly fade away.

Bucky was really confused when you were always up before him when you made the meals and always studied his expression to see if it was good or not. With time, Bucky learned to tell you that the food is good, that he would like to cook with you together, and that he is going to help you with the dishes. Bucky took care to always tell you when he got home and to tell you what he would like to eat, or he told you to decide. When you were unsure, Bucky helped you decide, but he never pressured you. His only intention was to make you happy because he could never get enough of your beautiful smile.

Whenever you were looking into the mirror and a disgusted expression was on your face while a few tears fell down your cheeks — you wanted to be at least a bit handsome — Bucky smirked and was standing next to you, and he wiped your tears away with his thumbs. He took off his shirt and showed you the scars on his own body. The bunch of scars around his metal arm, but also the others. He showed you a side of himself that was also just a broken man, and you fell in love with that side just as much as you fell in love with the strong Bucky who would punch everyone to protect you.

When you suddenly got woken up by a scream and you were scared your ex-boyfriend was shouting at you, you needed a moment to remember that you were with Bucky. It confused you at first why you heard a scream, but when you heard another and then a noise that sounded like a punch, you got up to find Bucky sleeping on the floor in the living room. It wasn't new to you to see him lying there, but when you saw the tears rolling down his cheeks and the sweat on his forehead, you walked closer to place your hand on his shoulder. He woke up immediately and tried to wipe the tears away, but everything in his body told you that he had a really bad nightmare. You sat in his lap; your arms were around his neck, and you were sliding your fingers through his soft brown hair. Bucky had his face hidden in the crock of your neck. You being close to him is just as helpful for him as his being close to you to feel safe and comfortable.

You never judge him for having nightmares, for not being comfortable around too many people, or for struggling with his scars and mental health sometimes. And he gives you the same; he never dares to judge you. Bucky tries to show you how beautiful you are, that you're worth it, and that you are and can be more than you think. And he loves you the way you are, just like you love him the way he is.

Slowly, you get used to being good the way you are, and Bucky will never shout at you or hurt you. But for a while, he has looked irritated and distant. He comes home late, and even when he says it's nothing, you feel like you have done something that makes him mad or that he loves you less. So you try to be better, clean the apartment more often, cook what he loves, and try not to be too clingy around him.

"It smells beautiful," he says, kissing your neck softly.

You lean into his touch, smiling, while you finish the dinner. His hands are trailing up and down your sides, and you feel the goosebumps erupting all over your body. You love his soft, warm touches, his kiss all over your neck, and the way his breath hits your soft skin.

"There is something in the oven," you say, and Bucky takes a step back to walk to the oven. "You can just take a seat; dinner is almost done."

Bucky looks slightly confused. Usually, you wouldn't mind his help, but for a few days, you don't ask or let him help you with food and dishes anymore. You cook a lot of what he loves, and the meals are almost royalty meals. He doesn't mind eating your food because he loves what you do, but he wonders why you suddenly act like you did when he first met you. He walks around the table and takes his seat. He looks at you with a soft smile, but he still doesn't understand why you put so much effort into cleaning and cooking.

"How come you cook such royal meals?" He asks softly but sees you flinch.

You constantly feel like you have done something wrong; maybe that's not what Bucky likes? Maybe you shouldn't have cooked that? Bucky wants, probably, a pizza. You feel the tears building in your eyes, and when you turn around, you see Bucky's smile fading away. He looks with a worried expression at you while he gets up and walks closer to you. You shake your head, walking backwards and crashing into the kitchen counter behind you.

"Doll, can I please come closer? I can stand here when you feel comfortable, but please let me come closer," he says, and you hesitate a moment.

Bucky stands a few meters away from you, waiting for you to allow him to come closer. When you nod slightly, Bucky steps closer and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible against him. Your head rests against his broad chest, and your tears are soaking his t-shirt while he holds you tightly.

"B—Bucky I'm sorry. I didn't want to make the wrong food. I cleaned the house today; please don't be mad for not cleaning enough," you say quietly.

"Shhh. Doll, you didn't do anything wrong; why do you think that?"

"B—Because you look so distant. Don't you love me anymore? Am I too ugly or too fat? I—I can do a diet."

Bucky's eyes widen, and he slides his hands down to your thighs and picks you up. He shoves the pots away from the cooker. He then turns around and carries you to the bedroom of the two of you. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you try to wipe the tears away when he places you on the bed. Bucky stands in front of you and smirks softly, then he gets on his knees in front of you. His hands slide up and down your thighs until he reaches the hem of your shirt.

"I love you. I love you so much. And the missions with Sam were really exhausting, especially because John is always trying to tell us what we have to do. But I love you so much, and you are beautiful exactly the way you are. You're not fat or ugly; you're perfect the way you are," Bucky tells you. He then pushes you down and towers over you with a wide smile on his lips.

Bucky captures your lips with his soft and plumb ones, his hands sliding along your sides, and you sigh softly into the kiss. Bucky deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping through your barely parted lips, and he groans when you place your hands in his soft hair and tug at them softly.

You've never had sex with Bucky; he didn't pressure you since you were uncomfortable with it because of your ex-boyfriend. But right now, it feels perfect — the way Bucky has his lips on yours and his hands all over your body. You feel a heat in your lower stomach, which makes its way between your legs, and you can't help but moan about the feeling. When Bucky pulls slightly away, your eyes widen but are filled with lust, the pleasure written on in your expression, and Bucky smiles about it. He kisses down your jawline and to your neck, biting softly and licking over your soft skin.

"Bucky, please," you whimper.

He smirks, kissing your lips once again, before he plays with the hem of your shirt and pushes it up. You sit up, letting him remove the fabric from your body, and he groans about the way you look underneath him with lust in your eyes. Bucky kisses your collarbone, down to your breasts, and unclasps your bra so you can take it off as well. His big hands capture your breasts, palming them softly, and he earns soft moans from you. Bucky licks a strap down to one of your nipples; he kisses it softly before he takes it into his mouth, his tongue twirling around your nipple. You arch your back, pressing yourself more against your boyfriend, who chuckles.

"You're beautiful, doll," he mumbles, nibbling at the soft skin of your breast.

You blush and hide your face with your hands, giggling softly. Bucky looks at you, grasping your hands and pulling them away from your face. He leans closer to kiss your lips softly.

"Don't hide that pretty face of yours. You’re so beautiful; I wanna see you, please," Bucky says, pouting, and you smirk.

You lean closer and peck at his lips, just as softly as he did. Bucky moves his lips down your collarbone and to your other breast, kissing around your nipple before he takes it in his mouth as well. Suckling softly and scratching his teeth over the sensitive skin. You moan, tugging at his hair and pulling him even closer. Bucky slides his hands from your breasts down your stomach, kissing the way down and giving every inch of your soft skin attention.

“Do you want it? If not, we can wait until you’re ready to have sex with me,” Bucky says, his fingers playing with the waistband of your pants.

“I want it, please, Bucky. I need you,” you mumble, blushing once again.

“You’re cute when you blush,” he chuckles.

Bucky opens your pants, trailing his fingers along your skin while he pushes your pants down. He then kisses the way back to your belly and smirks when you wiggle in anticipation. He pushes himself up, removing his shirt as well as his pants, before he leans over you again. You can see his growing bulge in his boxers, and the outline of his cock is visible. A little wet spot forms where his tip is, and you reach out your hand to touch his cock.

“Wanna touch it, babydoll?” He asks, and you nod, your eyes focused on his covered cock.

Bucky grins, getting up the bed once again, and pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free and slaps against his stomach; the red tip is leaking with pre-cum, and you see the vein running along the underside of his shaft. Bucky gets on the bed next to you. You sit up, looking directly into his eyes, while he smiles at you. You slide your fingers over his abs and to the base of his cock. Bucky looks at your fingers, his hand wrapping around yours, and he brings both of your hands to his shaft.

“It’s oke, doll. I won’t do anything unless you want me to,” he says, leaning closer to kiss you before he wraps your hand around his shaft.

You smile when you feel the softness of his length. He is huge, but with Bucky, you feel safe, and you know he wouldn’t do anything when you say you don’t want him to do so. His hand lets go of yours.

For a moment, you just look at his cock in your hand and the way his pre-cum is leaking down his tip. It’s glistening softly, and you swipe your thumb over his slit, smearing the cum all over his tip. Bucky groans softly, smiling when you slowly move your hand up and down his shaft.

“Do you like that?”

“It feels wonderful, babydoll.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb a few more times about his tip until Bucky can’t hold back and thrusts forward into your hand. His eyes widen, and he looks at you, but there is no discomfort, so he relaxes and lets you continue to massage his dick.

“C—Can I touch your balls?” You ask, cheeks heating up.

Bucky nods, and you look at his balls before you use your other hand to bring it to his balls, taking them into your hand. They are soft, and you roll them in your palm, causing Bucky to groan.

“Babydoll, you’re doing so well for me. But when you continue, I won’t last long,” Bucky says.

You grin, moving your hand faster and wrapping it tighter around his shaft. Your other hand is massaging his balls, and when you swipe your thumb once again over his tip, Bucky grasps the sheets and thrusts his hips forward.

“Doll,” he says, looking deeply into your eyes.

The blue lights up when he smirks; they are slightly darkened because of the lust, but they show you nothing but love. When you stroke his cock a few more times, Bucky throws his head back and comes into your hand. He breathes heavily, and sweat is covering his forehead. His seeds are covering his tip and your hand, and for a moment he is worried that you could feel uncomfortable with it. But you just stroke him until he comes down from his high, and then you look at your hand, his cum slowly dropping from it, and you move it to your mouth, so you lick a bit of it away, moaning softly at its salty taste.

“It tastes good,” you smirk, tapping his cock again, and Bucky moans.

When Bucky catches his breath, he pushes you back down so you lay next to him. He spreads your thighs and slides his fingers up and down your thighs further until he reaches your panties. Your face is turned toward him, and he’s focused on your expression, making sure you’re oke. When you nod softly, Bucky guides his hand over your panties and caresses your fold through the fabric. You moan softly; he knows how to touch a woman to make her feel good; he immediately hits your clit and you buck your hips. He then slides his fingers further down, feeling your panties damp, and he smirks.

“Can I take your panties off?” He asks, and you nod, but place your hands on his cheek and press your lips on his.

Bucky moves his lips perfectly against yours; he’s deepening the kiss before he kisses your neck and collarbone before his focus is back on your panties. His fingers circle your clit through the fabric, and you moan quietly, arching your back. Bucky takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers and pulls them down, revealing your pussy. He rolls himself on top of you before he pushes you further down in the bed by your hips. He is then lying between your thighs and smirking at you.

“You’re so wet and so beautiful,” he says, placing a kiss on your pussy.

Bucky’s eyes are focused on your pussy, his fingers trialing through your folds, and he parts them slightly. Using his tongue to lick along them to your clit. Circling around your sensitive spot before he sucks at it softly, making you gasp. You have never felt so much pleasure during sex, and Bucky hasn’t really touched you yet. His fingers trail back down to your soaked entrance. He pushes his digit against it, smirking at the way you push yourself more against his finger.

“You’re cute when you’re desperate for more, doll,” he says, placing his lips once again on your clit.

One of your hands finds its way to his hair, tugging at it and pulling Bucky closer to your cunt. He chuckles against your pussy, causing vibration, and you whine. He slowly pushes one of his fingers into you while his other hand holds you down by your hips. You only then know that he used his metal hand to push inside of you. The sudden cold of his finger feels great compared to the heat in your pussy. Bucky thrusts his finger in and out of you, smirking about the way your pussy is clenching around his digit and sucking him inside. His mouth doesn’t let go of your clit while he does so, enjoying the sounds that are leaving your lips. They are like music, and he could listen to your soft moans all day.

“Bucky— please. It feels so good.”

“You’re tasting so sweet, doll. Can’t get enough of your pussy.”

You smirk, throwing your head back when he adds another finger and pushes them as much as he can into your tight hole. You’re soaking his fingers, and when he curls them, he finds your sweet spot. The moan that leaves your lips is erotic, and you look at him with shock in your eyes about that sound.

“Don’t worry, doll. Just found your sweet spot,” Bucky chuckles, licking down your folds to your entrance.

His tongue joins your fingers, and his lapping at your entrance swallows all your juice. His fingers curl inside of you, hitting always your sweet spot, and you feel the knot in your stomach growing. You haven’t felt a pleasure like that in years, but Bucky is so soft with you; he never says anything bad about you or your body. Bucky loves you; he loves your body; and he shows you that, every day, he makes sure you know how much you’re loved by him and that you’re the most beautiful woman for him.

“I feel soy squeezing my fingers; if you wanna come, then do it. Come all over my fingers, doll,” he says, placing his mouth back at your entrance.

His words, the way his tongue is working over your folds, and the way his fingers are always hitting your sweet spot make you come. Your cum is floating out of you, but Bucky doesn’t dare to miss a bit of it and takes it all. Eating you out like it’s the most delicious meal he's ever had. And he fucks you with his fingers and his tongue through your orgasm; your breath hitches whenever his tongue slides over your folds. Your pussy feels so sensitive, but Bucky is so soft. He earns more soft moans until he pulls his fingers out of you and kisses your clit once more before he places his chin on your lower stomach and smirks at you.

“How are you feeling, pretty girl?”

“Great, thank you. And you?”

Bucky chuckles, you’re always so nice. Even when it’s all about you, you always make sure that he is fine too. That both of you feel comfortable.

“I’m good too. Do you want to have my dick now?” He asks, grinning.

You nod, running your fingers through his soft hair. Bucky kisses your stomach, pushing his elf up until he kneels between your legs. His big hands are caressing your thighs. Bucky’s cock is hard again, and the tip is touching your pussy when he moves closer to you.

“Could you give me a condom? It’s in the drawer from the bedside table.”

You turn yourself a bit around, reaching for the drawer, and open it. You grab a condom and give it to Bucky, then you close the drawer and lay down more comfortably again. Bucky opens the package of the condom, taking it out and throwing the package away. Your boyfriend grasps the base of his cock and pulls the condom over his dick.

You’re spreading your legs further apart when Bucky settles himself between them, his cock still in his hand, and he taps the tip a few times against your clit. He smirks at you, sliding his dick through your folds, and covers his cock with your arousal. You moan softly when he reaches your entrance, pushing his tip softly against it. You whimper softly when Bucky slides his cock once more through your folds. He loves the way you look through your lashes at him; your lips are slightly parted, so desperate for his cock.

"Bucky, please," you say quietly, pushing your hips toward him.

Bucky lines himself up with your entrance and pushes slowly inside of you; his cock is huge, and he stretches you like no one has before. He gives you a moment to adjust to his size before he pushes further into you. Your back arches, but he doesn't hurt you; the pleasure is breathtaking, and you grasp the sheets. Bucky chuckles, pushing balls deep into you; he then leans closer and captures your lips with his. His cock is filling you perfectly, and you clench around him, causing him to groan into your mouth.

"You're so tight, warming my cock so perfectly," he groans.

"You're so deep," you moan when he pulls slightly out to push back into you.

You both chuckle, and Bucky takes one of your hands, brings it to your stomach, and places it on your lower abdomen. He then thrusts his cock into you, letting you feel him through your skin and causing you to moan even louder. Feeling his cock that way turns you on beyond belief. He moves his cock in a slow but steady rhythmus inside of you. Your walls are squeezing him, sucking him deeper into the warmth of your pussy.

Bucky's balls hit your ass whenever he pushes his dick balls deep into you. His dick is glistening with your arousal, and Bucky looks the whole time into your eyes.

You're beautiful when you lay underneath him like that. Your other hand makes its way to his back, and you try to ground yourself while Bucky holds your other hand, still pressed on your stomach. With every thrust you feel him against your hand, he cock is hitting all the right spots, and he smirks when he hits your sweet spot harder than before.

"That's what you like?" He asks.

"Scared that I will break when you're thrusting harder into me?"

He shakes his head, laughing while he speeds up his thrusts. Your mouth drops open when he causes a pleasure inside of you that you have never felt before. It grows in your stomach and makes its way down to your pussy. Your eyes widen while you breathe heavily, but you still push your hips more against Bucky to show him to fuck you harder. And he does; he pulls almost completely out of you to thrust back inside of you. His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes when you squeeze him harder.

"I won't last long when you squeeze me like that, doll," he says, pressing his lips to yours.

You smirk, clenching your walls on purpose to make him groan against your lips. His tongue slips into your mouth, and his thrusts become harder and faster while you're not far away from the edge anymore. The pleasure in your stomach is growing, and Bucky growls. When he hits your sweet spot a few more times, he feels your orgasm just as close as his own, speeding his thrusts up. Bucky doesn't want to come before you do — or at least when you do.

"B—Bucky, I'm so close."

"I know, me too. Come with me, doll," he mumbles softly.

He pushes his cock into you; you feel every inch of him inside of you; his lips are slightly parted like yours; and his breath hits your soft skin. The feeling of him feeling you completely inside of you causes you to come all over his cock. You moan his name and its music to his ears, hearing you moan his name while he is buried balls deep into your pussy. You're squirting all over his cock, and Bucky grins while he comes as well. He comes in the condom, still thrusting into you while you both calm down from your high. Bucky lets go of your hand, sliding it over your stomach and your sides, caressing your skin. He places kisses all over your neck while you catch your breath and run your fingers through his soft hair.

"Are you oke?" He asks, his blue eyes slightly worried that he could have been too rough.

"I'm— it was perfect."

His expression softens, and he pulls slowly out of you. You hiss about the sudden emptiness and grasp his muscular arms to pull him back. Bucky chuckles, placing his fingers at your pussy and strokes your folds softly. You're clenching around nothing, while Bucky admires the way your cum is dripping out of you.

He then sits up and helps you sit up as well. Bucky removes the condom and gets up from the bed, making his way to the bathroom to throw the condom away. You're looking at him, smirking. He is adorable, sweet, and caring. He never tells you that you're ugly because of your scars; he just kisses them when you struggle because of them and tells you how beautiful you are. And you're doing the same; whenever he has nightmares or suffers from his past or scars, you know exactly how to cheer him up. A lot of kisses and cuddles always help that soft, big man, and with the way his eyes are shining, his lips curl up to the softest and most adorable smile.

You rest your back against the headboard of the bed, waiting for Bucky. He throws the condom away and runs warm water into the bath; he buts your favourite bubble bath into it as well, before he makes his way back to you. He smirks, picking you up with no effort and getting back into the bathroom. Before you can say something, you're sitting in the bathtub, surrounded by a lot of bubbles and your favourite scent. You squirm softly when you feel the warm water on your sensitive pussy. Bucky gets into the bathtub behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you as close as possible.

"I love you," he mumbles, taking some of the foam and putting it on your hair.

You giggle when it rolls down your hair and tickles your skin softly. Bucky rubs his hands softly over your stomach, drawing small circles on it while you lean back, resting your head against his broad chest. Bucky plays with the foam, placing them everywhere on your body, and chuckles then.

"You did so well for me, babydoll. Your pussy's feeling so good around my cock," Bucky says, kissing your neck softly. "Made for my cock."

You chuckle, sliding your hands over his legs. But he is right; it was perfect, and he was so soft that you weren't scared when he pushed in; you felt safe, and you knew he wouldn't do it when you didn't want it.

"My pretty doll, I'm so in love with you. How about I prepare some popcorn and pizza after the bath while you decide which movie we're going to watch?"

"Sounds like a good idea," you say, turning around to kiss him.

Bucky washes your hair, trying to avoid letting shampoo come into your eyes, and he manages to do so. When you turn your whole body around, you're washing his hair. When you put the shampoo in his soft brown hair, you give him some fresh hair styles. Laughing about the way he is pouting when you giggle about his hair. You kiss his pout away, causing him to pout again to get more kisses.

When the both of you are finished, you get out of the bathtub, and Bucky holds a towel to wrap around you, kissing your forehead softly when he walks to the bedroom and dresses himself, giving you panties and a t-shirt of his. You smirk, dress yourself, and comb your hair. Bucky makes his way to the kitchen, preparing the popcorn and the pizza. When you're finished in the bathroom, you walk into the living room, placing all the pillows and blankets on the couch and letting yourself fall into them. When Bucky came with the food and drinks into the living room, he burst out laughing. Only your arms and legs are visible from underneath the pillows. He places the food and drinks on the small table and lifts the pillow on top of you, smirking.

"Does the pillow eat you?" He asks, and you chuckle.

"No, I just like to cuddle."

You sit up, moving a bit to make some space for Bucky. He lets himself fall down next to you and wraps his arm around you, then he takes the popcorn and hands it to you before he places the pizza in his lap. With a smirk, you look at the pizza and then into his blue eyes.

"Needy boy," you mumble into his ear.

You slide your hand over his chest to his stomach until you almost reach his cock, but then you take a slice of pizza and bite into it with a grin. You turn on a movie, Bucky, and you like that your head rests on his shoulder while he has his hand around your waist and pulls you as close as possible.

"Just as needy as I'm," he says, making both of you chuckle.

Bucky takes some popcorn from the bowl, which is standing between your legs, so he has to grasp between your legs like you do when you take a slice of pizza from him.

"Bucky?"

"Mhm?" He asks, half asleep, and pulls you even closer against him.

You smile softly and run your fingers through his soft hair. You move some strands out of his face and lean closer to kiss him. Bucky growls and makes you lie on top of him, his arms holding you tightly pressed against him. His fingers draw small circles on your soft skin, and he hides his face in the crock of your neck.

"Y-You know about my things, which are still at Alex's house, right?" You ask carefully; you don't want to upset Bucky.

He hums in response and looks at you, his blue eyes as soft as always. He leans closer and captures your lips for a passionate kiss, showing you that you don't have to worry about telling him about your ex-boyfriend. Bucky knows you love him just as much as he loves you. And he understands that you want to get your personal stuff from your ex-boyfriend.

"A—And I wanted to ask if— could you maybe come with me to him?"

Bucky immediately nods, rolling both of you over so you're underneath him, and he smirks at you. His soft lips grace over yours and along your jawline to your neck, where he bits softly into your skin. His hands move smoothly over your sides, caressing your skin and causing goosebumps all over your body. You sigh softly and enjoy the warmth and softness of Bucky's touches. He is always so soft and careful with you, like you could break into his hands when he doesn't pay attention. But you don't complain; Bucky is everything for you — the love of your life and your best friend.

After a lot of kisses, cuddles, and a good breakfast, you're ready to go to your ex-boyfriend and get your personal stuff. Your hands are sweating, and you dry them on your pants. Your body is slightly shaking. Bucky recognises that; he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you flat against his broad chest. Your head rests on his chest, and you listen to his heartbeat.

"He won't hurt you again, babydoll. I'm taking care of you; I'll protect you, and he won't do anything when you don't want it." Bucky mumbles and pushes you softly away.

He presses his lips against your forehead, which helps calm down your nerves. Bucky opens the door for you, holding your hands tight in his while you two walk along the street to the apartment you used to live in a few months ago. When you see the entrance of it already, you panic, stay still, and inhale deeply. Bucky turns toward you and places his hand on your cheek, sliding his thumb over it.

"Doll, you're stronger than you ever were. This man never broke you, and he never will. He can't harm you; I love you, and I won't let him touch you again," Bucky says softly.

He knows how hard it can be to accept a trauma you're carrying in your soul. Wounds that turn into scars, but it needs more time as a cut on the skin. Bucky knows how much you suffered because of your ex-boyfriend, but he also sees the strong woman behind all that pain. He loves you for the person you are, not for the person he wants you to be. When you nod, he leads you further to Alex's apartment. He knocks with a strength you're not used to at the door, and then the door is opened by a man you feel like you don't know.

Alex has messy hair; his beard isn't shaved like he used to, and he has dark shadows underneath his red eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept for a while, but when he sees you, he smiles. A smile you had only seen on his lips when you first met. The one you fell in love with. But when Alex sees Bucky standing next to you and holding your hand in his, his smile drops.

"Hi, I—I would like to get my stuff, please," you mumble.

Surprisingly, Alex nods and takes a step to the side, letting you and Bucky walk into the apartment. When you look around, everything looks similar to the day he threw you out of the apartment. The only difference is that there are clothes and trash on the ground. Bucky lets go of your hand, staying next to you to make sure Alex isn't doing anything. You're walking through the apartment and picking up your things, putting them in a bag you brought.

"Can we talk, please?" He asks when you walk back to the floor, where he is still standing.

You nod carefully, and Bucky kisses your cheek before he walks a step to the side to let the two of you talk. Alex runs his fingers through his hair and his hands over his face, and then he inhales deeply.

"I'm sorry, I—I Baby—“

"Alex, please. We're not together anymore."

"I never wanted to hurt you. I love you. I haven't had a girl since you moved out. Please, I love you. Give me one more chance to show you that I love you. I will be a better boyfriend this time," he says, and you see the tears falling down your cheeks.

You shake your head. And his eyes widen. Realism hits him when he sees that you don't feel the same for him anymore. He sees in your eyes that you moved on, not only in your eyes; you look in general different from the time you were together with him.

"I'm sorry, but I moved on, and you should do the same," you say with such strength in your voice. You never thought you would talk to him like that without fear.

"Please, you— I love you."

"You were strong, and I was not. And you used it — you used it against me. When all is done, there is nothing to say. You have gone, and so effortlessly, you have won. You can go ahead and tell them. You can tell your friends now what you want; you can tell the girls you fuck now how shitty I am and how bad I'm in bed. I never did what you wanted or the way you wanted. Tell them all; I know now that you fucked them all without feeling ashamed to cheat on the girl you have at home, the one who loved you and expected to be treated like you did. To be abused by her boyfriend while still loving him. Shout it from the rooftops; write it on the skyline; all we had is gone now. Tell them I was happy even though my heart was broken. All my scars were open, but I found someone who doesn't mind them and helps to heal them, someone who loves all the scars you caused."

Bucky smirks when he hears your words, and his eyes light up when he hears you tell your ex-boyfriend what was inside of you for so long. And you were finally able to tell him how you felt and how you now feel.

"I know I made mistakes. But I love you."

"Everyone does, but you betrayed me. And falling out of love is hard, but falling for betrayal is worse. And you betrayed me so often. Broken trust and broken hearts — you broke both our hearts; you broke mine when we were together, and yours broke because I moved on. And thinking all you need is there, building faith on love and words, only empty promises will wear. Alex, I loved you, but I moved on, and you should do the same," you say and nod before you walk to Bucky.

He smiles widely at you, his eyes shining in the most beautiful way you have ever seen. You place your hand in his, and he takes the bag before you two make your way to the door and get out of the apartment. When you close the door behind you, you breathe shakily, and you feel like all the pain and fear are fading away. You walk a few steps, but Bucky just can't hold back anymore and stays still, turning around and wrapping his arms around your waist.

"I'm so proud of you, doll. I love you so much. I would tell the whole world; I just do it. I will tell the world how much I love you," Bucky says with a grin, and twirling the two of you around, he then leans closer. "I love you so much, and I'm proud of you. I don't even have words for that; you're the most beautiful woman, and you belong to me; you're mine just as much as I'm yours," he whispers into your ear.

"Thank you. I love you too, Bucky," you giggle, then you smirk playfully. "So, where do you want to go to tell the world that you love me?"

"I already did. When I whispered in your ear that I love you. Because you're my world, my perfect world," Bucky says, kissing you softly.

You feel some tears of joy rolling down your face when you realise his words. No one ever said more meaningful words than Bucky does. He is definitely everything for you, and you are grateful to have such a wonderful and loving man as your boyfriend. One who sees you as the only and most wonderful woman, someone who doesn't even look at other women, and one who tries to make you laugh as often as he can. Bucky is the love of your life, and you're grateful that destiny brought the two of you together and that the two of you discover every day another thing you love about one another.

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