#Sebastian Stan gif

[shortnspidey]

I apologize in advance on who I am gonna become when this movie comes out. Bucky Barnes is back, baby!!

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES in Thunderbolts* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

[jobean12-blog]

Lovestruck

Pairing: Javier Peña x female reader

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: Little do you know, after being in the wrong place at the wrong time- that you've gotten yourself on the radar of some very bad men. Thankfully, you now have the protection of one very good man (and Steve, also good) but when Javi first lays eyes on you he knows he wants so much more than just to protect you.

Author's Note: Again, I apologize for deleting this post a second time. The tags are just not cooperating. I really hope things work this time! Thank you again to those who gave me notes, hope you can enjoy again! No reason for more Javi other than I can't seem to get over him and I don't want to so yay! He's been on my mind extra lately. Wishing you all a very happy New Year filled with love, health and happiness! Thank you for all the support and much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of tension and flirting, some soft sweetness too, Javi is forward but not in a bad way, he saves the day in more ways than one and might be in a little over his head (which he's not used to), fingering, smut (unprotected p in v- but just for fanfic folks lol)

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

“Keep staring like that and you’re gonna blow our cover man.”

Steve’s comment goes unnoticed as Javi continues to do just that. Stare.

You’re standing against the bar, drink in hand and talking with your friend, unaware of the pair of dark chocolate eyes glued to you.

“Hey,” Steve says again.

Javi tears his eyes away from you and pins Steve with a glare.

“What?”

Steve gives him an exasperated look. “You’re not supposed to fuck her. Just protect her.”

Javi grunts before finishing off his drink, his eyes sliding back to you as you saunter over to the juke box.

He’s been watching you for days now, his infatuation only growing the more he learns the little nuances of your body and the brightness of your smile. Barely conscious of his feet moving and Steve’s disgruntled objections, he starts toward you, unsure of his intention but at this point, unable to stop himself.

You shuffle through the songs on the screen, chewing your lip with indecision. His teeth sink into his own bottom lip in response, wishing it were yours. As he gets closer, your startled gaze flies up to meet his.

Lightning rockets through his system. If he thought you were beautiful in the photos and from across the room, it’s nothing compared to what he sees standing in front of him now.

He takes a step closer. Talking to women is like second nature to him, yet he finds himself stranded in silence, second-guessing everything that pops into his head.

And if he doesn’t speak soon, his closeness will begin to alarm you. Exactly the opposite of what he should be doing.

“I can’t let you do that,” he blurts out.

“Can’t let me do what, exactly?” you retort, turning to face him with a raised brow.

Your voice slides like silk across his skin and it takes him a minute to recapture his train of thought. He tilts his head toward the song on the screen of the juke box.

“Not that song.”

You smirk. “Elaborate.”

“Everyone picks that song. Aren’t you tired of it?”

You peek up at him, a laugh flirting around the edges of your mouth.

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Of course,” he replies. He tries not to stare at your lips. “I like to dance so for me, something like…”

He leans in and starts to scroll through the song list, his warmth and scent sweeping over you in a magnetic wave.

He stops on a song you don’t recognize but when it begins to play the beat is lively and makes you want to move.

Your eyes meet his once more, humor lurking in their depths. “I like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod and with a sultry smile over your shoulder you head back toward the bar and your friend, an extra sway to your hips that matches the music.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Steve says when Javi returns with a smug grin. “You could blow our cover.”

“How?” Javi asks before he motions for the bartender.

“I’m surprised you let a woman get to you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Are you just going to answer all my questions with more questions?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts with his last string of words and he waits as Javi just looks at him blankly.

When the song ends Javi turns his attention back to you and he finds you watching him. Without a second thought he walks over.

He smiles at your friend then asks you, “what did you think?”  

“I liked it,” you tell him. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“I should definitely play another one then. And you should dance with me.”

He catches your sharp intake of breath and realizes you might be waiting for a significant other. He feels a sharp jolt of jealousy that surprises him.

“Are you here with someone?” he asks.

Your brow quirks at his growled-out question, but you answer anyway.

“Just my friend here,” and you motion to Samantha.

Relief washes over his expression.

“So why not dance with me?”

“I’m here to spend time with Sam,” you explain, even though you can tell she wants you to go dance with him.

“She can hang out with Steve,” Javi says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in Steve’s direction. “He’s loads of fun.”

“He’s cute,” Sam chimes in, giving Steve a little wave.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Javi says, earning a chuckle from both you and Sam.

“So, is that a yes?”

You look incredulous. “No. The only thing I know about you is that you like to dance.”

“What would you like to know about me?” he shoots back as he leans against the bar, looking more than comfortable.

“Nothing. I’m not dancing with you. In fact, how do I know you’re not some creep trying to abduct me.”

At your unintentionally keen words Javi gives up the battle with a smile. “I’ll get you dancing sweetheart.”

“We’ll see about that…”

“Javi,” he finishes and holds out his hand. “Javier Peña”

You hesitate a moment but then hold out your hand and give him your name-even though he already knows it.

“Pleasure,” he croons as he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

Warmth tingles up your arm and down your spine, rendering you speechless for a moment. Samantha pulls you from your stupor when she nudges you in the side.

“Enjoy your night ladies,” he says but not before looking you straight in the eye and adding, “I’ll be seeing you again.”

When Javi is back at Steve’s side he sighs.

“What happened? She tell you to fuck off?”

Javi practically rolls his eyes. “Not exactly.”

“Well, hope you didn’t freak her out too much because we have a job to do.”

As the night goes on you catch Javi looking your way more than once and you find it hard not to look back. He doesn’t approach you again though and the disappointment you feel is unexpected.

By eleven pm Sam is ready to go so you say goodbye and go to use the restroom before heading out. The night air is damp with impending rain, and you jog quickly to your car, hopping in and setting your bag down on the seat.

You put the key in the ignition and turn it. Nothing happens. No lights. No sound. Nothing.

“SHIT!” you shout and hit the steering wheel. Is it your battery? A faulty starter?

You’re just about to dial Sam when you hear a light rap at your window. You jump but quickly see that it’s Javi and let out a relieved breath.

You press the button to roll down the window.

“Problem?” he asks with a sideways smile.

“My car won’t start,” you sigh.

His lips turn downward. “Shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I can try to jump it if you want,” Javi offers.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Javi pulls his car up close and starts to fiddle around in the trunk for the cables. Once he has everything ready you meet him by the hood.

“How come you were out here anyway?” you ask, watching as his long fingers make easy work of the clamps and wires.

“Just a feeling,” he says nonchalantly.

After following his directions and trying to start your car again you realize it must be more than the battery and let out a string of curses.

“Sorry sweetheart,” Javi says. “I’ll give you a ride home and you can deal with in the daylight.”

“I can just call Samantha.”

“You can, but it’s after midnight,” Javi says, looking at his watch. “I’m already here.”

You study him. His strong jaw, the dark hair that falls boyishly over his forehead, and the way the open collar of his shirt frames his long neck, the tempting hint of collarbone peeking out just enough to make you want to kiss it.

“Ok,” you say without further thought.

He opens your door and helps you out then waits for you to lock it before he opens the passenger door to his car.

“What about Steve?” you ask suddenly.

“Steve?” Javi repeats. “Oh, yeah. He’s fine. Has his own car.”

When he pulls up to your building he frowns when you don’t wait for him to open your door. You ride up the elevator in silence, the atmosphere between you feels charged.

You’d been more than willing to go up to your apartment yourself, but Javi insisted on walking you.

So, when the elevator opens you breeze out and past him, taking quick steps to your door.

“This is me,” you say without turning around.

You unlock the door and open it, stepping inside and setting your bag down. When you turn, Javi is filling the doorway, one hand on his hip and the other casually resting above his head on the frame like he owns the place.

“I don’t live far. If you need anything…” He holds out a card, his name and number printed on it under the Police Department symbol.

“You’re a cop? You could have told me this earlier. I would have been less worried about you murdering me.”

“DEA agent,” he corrects. “And that was never my intention.”

Your eyes meet and you feel a frisson of heat at the intensity there.

“Well, thank you for the ride.”

“Anytime sweetheart. I’ll see you around.”

He throws you a wink and pushes away from the doorframe, his long legs taking him easily down the hall before he rounds the corner and disappears.

The next morning you drag yourself out of bed and get ready to go about your day. Your thoughts are mostly occupied by Javi, and you’re almost done with your coffee before your brain registers the rest of the night and how your car failed to start.

“Shit,” you grit out. “Ughhhh.”

You think about calling Javi and asking him to take you back to the bar to get your car but then you think it might be asking too much after what he did last night. Instead, you call Sam, who is happy to come get you.

Your car is just where you left it and so is an unmarked cop car, parked right next to yours.

Javi steps out into the sunshine, a sleek pair of aviators perched on his nose and a smile on his face.

“There you are sunshine. I was wondering when you’d be back to get your car.”

He walks close and nods a greeting to Samantha.

You stand there like a fish out of water, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“What are you doing here?” you finally ask.

He shrugs with a devious grin. “Working.”

“The bar is closed.”

Ignoring your comment he continues with, “you have someone to fix this?”

“You mean like a mechanic?”

“Yeah sweetheart.”

“I was just going to call the closest shop.”

He shakes his head, clearly not liking your idea. “I got a guy. Come on.”                 

Samantha leaves you with Javi and he takes you to the shop, helping you settle everything and getting you a good price.

“I hope it doesn’t take too long to fix,” you sigh. “But thank you for helping me out.”

“Anytime gorgeous…now how about that dance?”

“You’re still hung up on that?”

He raises his brows with a tilt of his head, his smile devious.

“Fine, but how am I getting back to the bar tonight. No car. Remember.”

“I’ll pick you up. Seven.”

With that he pulls up to your place and practically jumps out of the car before it stops, rushing around the hood to get your door before you can open it.

You step out and he reaches over you to shut it, trapping you against the car.

“Thanks again,” you whisper as you lean into him.

He dips his head, but you can’t see his eyes, so you reach up to pull the sunglasses off his face. He smiles, lifting his eyes from your mouth to meet your gaze.

You hang them on his shirt, the collar open like it always seems to be, and smooth your hand down his chest. He watches you intently, one hand sliding off the car to settle on your waist. He tugs you forward, lining your body up with his using his other hand to cup your cheek and brush a calloused thumb across your soft skin.

“I told you sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Anytime.”

With one final glance at your lips he slowly moves away and you’re thankful for the strong metal of the car at your back, keeping you upright.

With a steadying breath you peel yourself away and head toward your building, looking over your shoulder to find him leaning against the car, long legs crossed at the ankle and his arms crossed along his chest.

His glasses are still hanging from his shirt, and his hair is slightly messy from the breeze. Your eyes linger and he smiles, pointing his long finger in your direction when he says, “you’re mine tonight.”

The knock at your door makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Be right there,” you shout.

You open the door and his hot gaze sweeps over you from head to toe.

“Hi Javi…”

Before the words are completely out of your mouth, he has you spun around and backed against the wall.

“Did you get all dressed up for me sweetheart?”

Biting your lip, you nod, loving the way your answer makes his eyelids lower; his breath quicken.

He dips his head and runs his nose along your neck with a deep inhale, then places a soft kiss just under your ear. His lips move across your cheek and stop just above your mouth.

“Ready to dance?”

Your knees nearly buckle underneath you, but his weight keeps you upright and you manage a nod.

The bar is crowded but you and Javi find yourself an open space at the bar and order drinks. He stays close. A hand always at your back or on your waist and when he sits on the stool, placing his feet on the bottom bar, he pulls you between his spread legs.

Your hands land on his thighs and you dig your nails in.

He growls into your ear and smooths his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck to drag your face closer.

Right when you think he’s going to kiss you, he stands and pulls you toward the juke box, scrolling through the songs until he finds the one he wants. He presses play and holds his hand out.

You place your fingers in his palm, and he closes his hand around yours. With an ease that steals your breath he tucks you against him as the music starts, slow and sultry. The way he moves his hips so sensually borders on inappropriate, but you can’t find it in you to care.

Instead, you lose yourself in the way he moves and the way he feels. It’s the best kind of foreplay and when the song ends you cling to him, wishing the music could go on forever.

You tuck your head against his chest, but he presses two fingers under your chin, lifting your face to his. He’s grinning, and the way it exaggerates the lines around his eyes and softens the angles of his face makes a flutter erupt in your stomach.

A haze of electricity settles around you and you’re unable to look away. His eyes drop to your mouth and his warm breath fans your cheek as he bends, brushing his lips lightly across yours.

His moustache is soft but still tickles your skin and you want nothing more than to feel it along every inch of your body. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, and you whisper his name just before your lips meet.

But then his mouth is gone, and a rush of cool air fills the space between your bodies.

“Steve,” you say with confusion.

Steve stands next to you with a tight grip on Javi’s arm.

“We have to go. Now,” Steve says.

“Javi?” Your stomach is fluttering for a whole different reason now, nervousness and fear taking over.

“I’m sorry sunshine,” he says, wrapping you up in his arms. “I need you to go home. Right now.”

“But…” you start, clinging to him.

“Please,” he begs. “Just trust me. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

“I don’t have a car,” you sputter out.

“Here,” he says and reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his keys before dropping them into your hand. “Right home ok?”

“Ok,” you say while nodding your head vigorously. “But I don’t understand…”

“I know,” he says, grabbing your face with his hands. “I promise I’ll explain later.”

He stares at you, clearly torn between wanting to kiss you and having to leave. You make the decision for him and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering long enough that when you pull away his eyes are still closed.

“Be careful,” you whisper.

“You too,” he says before jogging off with Steve, but not without looking back one last time.

Back at your apartment you wait and pace the floor. There isn’t much more you can do and it’s driving you nuts.

By the time you hear the knock on your door it’s past midnight and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. You wake with a start and stand on shaky legs. Thankfully, you have enough sense to check the peephole before opening the door.

On the other side stands Javi. His leather jacket hangs open and his hair is messy and hanging loosely in front of his forehead. He looks tired but otherwise ok.

“It’s me sweetheart,” he says quietly.

Your door flies open, and you throw yourself at him. He catches you and lets out a huffed laugh that quickly dies off when you slide down his body and move back, a clear invitation.

 His eyes rake down your body, lingering on the way your dress is rumpled and sitting high on your hips, exposing the soft skin of your legs. With an audible swallow he takes a step inside, and you shut the door with a definitive slam.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

You can’t blink away from his steady gaze and your blood seems to vibrate. After a calming breath you point to the couch.

“I want to know what’s going on.”

He moves past you and takes your hand in his, tugging you toward the couch before he sits. You stand at the edge, waiting.

His head drops and he presses the palm of his hand to his forehead.

“I…you already know I’m a DEA agent.”

You nod.

“And Steve and I work together…we’ve been trying to bust this drug trafficking group for a while now and somehow you got on their list…”

“List?” you repeat, feeling your palms sweat.

He stands again and takes a tentative step closer.

“Yeah, wrong place wrong time type of thing and it got you on their radar. We got tipped off from one of our informants and Steve and I were put in place for protection.”

“So, all the flirting, the dancing…you’re only here because you’re protecting me? Not because…”

He holds up a hand to stop you.

“No sweetheart,” he says. “Well, I mean yes initially that’s all it was but then I saw you and like a dick couldn’t stay away and…I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

He looks up at you with pleading brown eyes.

“Actually, that’s a lie. I wanted to take you home from the moment I first saw you and it took everything in me not to.”

You can see he’s starting to ramble, and you soften at the way he seems desperate to make you understand.

“I promise this has nothing to do with work…I want to be here…”

“Javi.”

“And you’re safe. I promise that too. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Javi.”

He opens his mouth to speak again but you press a firm finger to his lips. He goes silent and with your gentle push falls to the couch again.

Slowly, you climb over him, settling in his lap on top of his thighs. He stares at you, eyes shadowed, and adjusts his posture to set two large hands on your waist, warm and strong.

You lean in but he meets you halfway, crashing his lips to yours. His mouth is soft but commanding and he tilts his head, coming at you better somehow, and deeper, his lips parting, one hand wrapping around your hip to pull you flush against him, the other sliding up your neck, cupping your face.

You’re undone by the way his breath shakes against your lips and the quiet groans he strangles down when you sweep your tongue across his.

You roll your hips against him, but instead of bringing relief it only makes you wilder. His mouth chases your kiss, swallowing the sound you make when he rocks up, the thick line of his cock pressing exactly where you need him.

His hand roams up your back, around your ribs, cupping your breast while the other drags you down again, pinning you to his body. You’re rewarded with another groan, and another when you grind against him.

He doesn’t stop you as you reach for his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders before going for his shirt, one by one undoing the buttons until you feel the warmth of his skin along your palms.

His mouth is on your neck, his fingers curling around the strap of your dress, dragging it down your shoulder and lower, until your bra goes with it, and you’re bare to his mouth. He sucks and kisses and your fingers find purchase in his soft hair, pulling and tugging when he continues and his lips close around your nipple in a delicate bite.

With soft grunts into your skin, he encourages you to pull harder, moving with the gesture to where you want him. Rough and desperate hands sneak under your dress to slide your panties down.

“Sweetheart?” he asks into your neck, and you nod, because frankly, he has permission to do whatever he wants.

Long fingers wrap imposingly around your thighs and his palm slides back up, teasingly slow, his kiss still rough, and then his fingertips graze over you, slippery and hot for him. His mouth goes soft and overcome against yours before he pulls away a fraction, watching your face as he fucks you with one finger, and then two, achingly slow.

And you stare at his mouth, the way it shapes the groaned curses and then tilts upward in a smug grin when he presses a thumb to your clit, and you let out a low moan.

Under your impatient fingers, his pants are soon loose and down his hips and you slide yourself over him, coating him and teasing you both until you’re a fevered mess, kisses sloppy and biting, the head of him pressing into you.

It’s a slow, perfect torture. His focus is on your expression and the sounds you’re making. But then it goes from careful to starving the second he’s all the way inside you. His grip on you is bruising, the sharp, rhythmic gasps he makes making you feel out of control.

He stares down between your bodies, slowing to watch, moving to touch you, his thumb stroking.

“That’s it gorgeous,” he murmurs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You want to hold back, make it last forever, but it’s too good. The pleasure hits you in a wave, his name falling from your parted lips and your body clenching around him until he captures your mouth and finishes with a lewd groan, slowing and holding you against his chest.

Your face falls to his sweaty neck and your fingers curl around his open shirt. After catching your breath, he gently brings your face to his, pressing his lips softly to the corner of your mouth and then running the pad of his thumb across your lower lip.

He lifts you off him, reaching for the tissues on the side table and helping you clean up. His actions are careful and gentle and once you’re settled he takes the blanket off the couch and drapes it over you before he wraps you in his arms and lays down.

You tuck yourself closer and kiss his neck.

“Javi?” you whisper.

“Yeah sunshine.”

“Will you stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, kissing your cheek.

His lips tease along your jaw and you shift to give him better access, feeling his cock stir against your stomach. When his mouth reaches your ear he tugs on the soft flesh, running a hand along the curve of your spine to pull you closer and whisper, “I didn’t even get to use my tongue on you. I hate not knowing how you taste.”

Your little gasp makes him smile and his kisses continue.

“But lucky for me,” he murmurs with a brush of his lips, “we have all night.”

[yourbuckies]

[sarahowritesostucky]

I'd let him eat my lower leg for two kids, marriage and a house (he wouldn't be sleeping with the product though, no sir-ee. He'd be gettin' everything he wants and needs at home)

SEBASTIAN STAN as STEVE KEMP in FRESH (2022) • dir. Mimi Cave

[sweetiebarnes]

BUCKY BARNES - CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Bucky realizes just how dirty minded reader is after playing Cards Against Humanity with their friends, and realizes how to use it his advantage.

Dirty Mind » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky finds out how much of a dirty mind you have during game night with your friends and uses it to his advantage.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, fingering, vibranium arm kink, praise kink, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵 also, I’ve never played Cards of Humanity so this is based off of what I Googled and looked up on Pinterest

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

You managed to convince Bucky to go to game night at your friend’s house tonight. Actually, you promised him that you would buy him plums if he would go with you. In other words, you bribed a Super Soldier with plums.

Anyway, now here you two are. You guys are in the middle of playing of Cards Against Humanity. Bucky isn’t playing, because he doesn’t understand the game so he’s just watching. He’s also looking at your cards, which are pretty graphic to him, but he’s not complaining.

Bucky watched you put a card down after your friends did. He leaned forward to read it. His eyes went wide when he read it. That’s when he realized how dirty minded you are. He leaned back against the couch and smirked to himself, thinking of how he can use your dirty mind to his advantage.

You decided to stay the night at Bucky’s apartment after leaving your friend’s house. As soon as you closed the door, Bucky pinned you against it, catching you by surprise.

“Who knew that you had such a dirty mind, doll.” Bucky says in almost a whisper.

You bit your bottom lip and giggled, looking up at him.

“I thought I was making it pretty damn obvious all along, Bucky.” You say seductively, rubbing your hands against his strong chest.

“I’m sure you were, doll face. I just didn’t realize it until now what a dirty fucking girl you are.” He says lowly.

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to your cleavage, getting a clear view of it in the shirt you’re wearing. He bit his bottom lip when he got an idea. He nudged his leg in between yours to move them apart. You gasped when you felt his thigh touch your panty covered pussy. “Good thing I wore a skirt today.” You thought to yourself.

“Are you going to be a good girl and take everything I give you, babydoll?” He asks.

“Yes, Bucky.” You answered submissively.

“Good girl.” He praises.

Bucky’s vibranium hand disappears underneath your skirt, finding its way to your wet panties. His vibranium fingers rubbed your clit through your panties before moving them to the side. A shiver went through your body when you felt the cool feeling of his vibranium fingers touching your pussy. His fingers rubbed against your folds, smearing your slick around. You couldn’t help but look down at his vibranium hand in between your legs.

“Looks like I have a dirty girl on my hands.” Bucky whispers in your ear.

Literally.

“I bet I can get you to cum so fast with my vibranium fingers.” He said softly in your ear. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at it.” He says with a smirk.

“Bucky, please!” You whined.

“What do you want, babydoll? Tell me what you want.” He says, kissing your neck.

“I want you to- fuck… I want you to fuck me with your vibranium fingers.” You tell him through a moan.

You felt the tips of Bucky’s vibranium fingers circling your entrance before sliding two fingers in your pussy. A soft moan left your lips at the feeling of the cool vibranium in and against your pussy.

Bucky watched the expressions on your face change each time he thrusted his vibranium fingers in and out of your pussy. Your eyes fluttered shut and you leaned your head against the door. He took the opportunity to kiss along the column of your throat. His teeth nipped at your skin.

“Bucky…” You moaned breathless.

“I love the way you moan my name, doll.” Bucky murmurs softly.

Bucky sped his fingers up, curling them and hitting your sweet spot perfectly. You bucked your hips against his vibranium hand and moaned loudly.

“Did I find your little spot?” He coos.

You moaned and nodded. Bucky curled his fingers every now and then as his fingers continued to fuck you. He curled his fingers against your sweet spot again, making your knees buckle. Bucky wrapped his free arm around your waist to keep you from falling.

“Your legs getting weak already, babydoll?” Bucky asks in soft voice.

Your hands held onto his chest and you nodded your head yes.

“Tell me, doll…” He begins, kissing just below your ear. “What else do you have on that dirty little mind of yours?” He asks curiously.

“I- oh fuck…” You paused to moaned. “I want you to fuck me in every position you can think of all over this fucking apartment.” You admitted. “I want you to spank me and choke me too.” You added.

“Fuck…” He growls, feeling his cock become uncomfortably hard in his jeans. “I’ll fuck you all you want as soon as you cum on my fingers.” He says.

Bucky sped his fingers up. His thumb applied pressure to your clit as he rubbed it. Your hands clutched the fabric of his t-shirt. Your orgasm was building up fast. It felt like you were going to fall apart on his vibranium fingers any second.

“Oh fuck! Bucky!” You moaned loudly, throwing your head back against the door.

“I know you’re close. Cum for me, doll.” He says lowly.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and a pornographic moan left your lips when you came. Bucky’s vibranium fingers fucked you through your orgasm. His fingers came to a stop and his thumb gave your clit one last rub before he took his fingers out of your pussy.

You lifted your head at the same time Bucky licked your cum off his vibranium fingers, moaning at your taste. You felt a new wave of wetness while watching him do that.

“You taste incredible.” Bucky said. “I hope you’re ready, because you’re in for a long night, babydoll.” He says lowly with a smirk plastered on his face.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[wolvietxt]

𝓑UTTERFLIES, PART TWO.

pairing : bucky barnes x fem!reader warnings : fluff, kiss, that’s literally it i think summary : after much deliberation, bucky finally acts on his feelings for you wc : 1.2k a/n : part two to this fic💕

bucky had been avoiding the common areas of the tower for the past few days, ever since his conversation with wanda. her teasing words about him having a crush had burrowed deep into his mind, and every time he thought about seeing you, his heart raced and his palms grew clammy. but he couldn’t avoid you forever, not when you’d become such an integral part of his days.

so, when he found himself in the kitchen one morning, staring blankly at the coffee machine, he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear your voice behind him.

“good morning,” your cheerful tone was always comforting.

he turned, offering you a small smile. “morning,” he mumbled.

“you look like you could use some coffee,” you teased, gesturing to the empty mug in his hand.

“yeah, guess i’m not fully awake yet,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “what about you? you’re always so… chipper.”

“it’s caffeine,” you joked, flashing him a grin. “and maybe a little bit of just liking mornings.”

he couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him. “guess i’ll have to take your word for it.”

as the two of you stood there, the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from your latest mission to the strange quirks of living in a tower full of superheroes. bucky found himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing as you laughed at one of his rare jokes.

“you’re funny, you know that?” you said, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

“not sure anyone’s ever called me that before,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“well, i’m saying it now,” you said with a firm nod, your smile still beaming. “and i don’t lie about these things.”

bucky’s heart did a little flip at the sincerity in your voice. he wasn’t used to compliments, let alone ones that felt so genuine. 

from that day on, your interactions became more frequent. whether it was a shared meal in the kitchen or a brief exchange in the hallways, you always seemed to find a way to brighten his day. bucky, in turn, began to seek you out, drawn to the warmth you radiated.

one evening, you found yourselves in the common room again, this time watching a movie with the rest of the team. bucky had taken a seat on the far end of the couch, but you’d plopped down right next to him, a blanket draped over your lap.

“didn’t take you for a movie night kind of guy,” you whispered, leaning closer so only he could hear.

“i’m not, usually,” he admitted, his voice low. “but… this seemed like a good idea.”

“well, i’m glad you’re here,” you said, your smile soft and genuine.

as the movie played on, bucky found it harder to focus on the screen. his attention kept drifting to you - the way you laughed at the funny parts, the way your expression softened during the emotional scenes, tears brimming at your waterline. at one point, your hand accidentally brushed against his, and though you quickly pulled away with an apologetic smile, the brief contact sent his heart racing.

when the movie ended, you turned to him, your eyes bright. “what did you think?”

“it was… good,” he said, though he couldn’t have recalled a single plot point if his life depended on it.

“you’re such a liar,” you teased, nudging him lightly. “but that’s okay. next time, i’ll pick something you’ll actually like.”

next time. the words lingered in his mind long after you’d gone to bed. he wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, you’d become the highlight of his days. and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

over the next few weeks, bucky found himself growing more comfortable around you. your conversations became longer, your laughter more frequent. you had a way of drawing him out of his shell, of making him feel like the version of himself he’d almost forgotten.

one afternoon, the two of you were sitting on the tower’s balcony, a light breeze rustling through the air. you’d brought out a deck of cards, insisting on teaching him a game he’d never heard of.

“okay, so the goal is to get rid of all your cards,” you explained, shuffling the deck with practiced ease. “it’s kind of like uno, but with regular cards.”

“sounds complicated,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“nah, you’ll get the hang of it,” you assured him. “and if not, i’ll just keep winning.”

he smirked. “we’ll see about that.”

the game quickly devolved into playful banter, with you teasing him every time he made a mistake and him firing back with his own dry humor. by the time you’d declared yourself the winner for the third round in a row, you were both laughing so hard your sides hurt.

“okay, okay, you’re officially banned from shuffling,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “you’re too good at stacking the deck.”

“hey, don’t hate the player,” he replied, his grin widening.

as the laughter subsided, a comfortable silence settled over you. bucky found himself watching you, the way the sunlight caught in your hair, the way your lips curved into a soft smile even when you weren’t talking. his chest tightened with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling.

“you know,” he said quietly, “you make this place a lot more bearable.”

you looked up, your eyes meeting his. “that’s funny,” you said, your voice just as soft. “i was going to say the same thing about you.”

the words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. bucky’s heart pounded in his chest as he searched your face for any sign of hesitation. but all he saw was warmth, an openness that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could take the leap.

“would it be okay if i…?” he trailed off, his gaze flickering to your lips.

you didn’t answer right away, but the way you leaned in, the way your breath hitched ever so slightly, was all the encouragement he needed. 

when his lips met yours, it was like the world fell away. the kiss was soft, tentative, as if he were afraid of breaking the moment. but as you responded, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek, he felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

when you finally pulled back, your eyes searched his, a shy smile playing on your lips. “so,” you said shyly, your voice barely above a whisper. “was that as scary as you thought it’d be?”

he chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. “not even close.”

“good,” you said, your fingers brushing lightly against his. “because i’ve been wanting you to do that for a while.”

“me too,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “i just didn’t know how.”

“well, you figured it out,” you said, your smile widening. “and for the record, you’re pretty good at this whole talking thing when you try.”

he laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that felt foreign yet wonderful. “guess i’ll have to keep practicing, then.”

“i’ll hold you to that,” you said, leaning in for another kiss.

this time, he didn’t hesitate. because for the first time in a long time, bucky felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

ᰔ bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially, @hhiggs, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd, @superlegend216

@withasideofmeg, @pvndomi, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @bbittenapples, @hazydespair

@aoi_targaryen, @person-005, @corvuscattus

more tags : @vicmc624, @starsmoonn, @daddyyy88, @illusionaryjourneys

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[marvel-spidey]

We’ve Still Got Time

Summary: After receiving some life-altering news, you try to make Bucky understand that it's time to let the past go. Inspired by the song “Falling Slowly” (in my mind it was written just for Bucky ok 🥺) Pairing: Bucky x reader Word count: 3.1k Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, lots of tears, extreme fluff. A/n: English is not my first language, so sorry in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Enjoy! also, happy 2025 for us bucky girlies!!! our man is coming back soon! ✨

Bucky woke up to the sound of running water and a toothbrush being used. The white light from the bathroom spilled into the bedroom you both shared. The clock on his nightstand read 4:07 a.m. He slowly opened his eyes and turned to the side, realizing your side of the bed was empty. Furrowing his eyebrows, he wondered why you were up at this hour brushing your teeth. Unable to think of a reason fast enough, he decided to get up and check on you.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in a confused tone, his hoarse voice carrying the weight of sleep. His hair was a little messy, and his metal arm reflected the soft light from the bathroom. He was shirtless, and his gray sweatpants hung just above his hips.

“I’m sorry I woke you, Buck,” you replied, drying your face with a small towel. “I don’t know. I think I must have eaten something that didn’t sit well with my stomach. I just woke up feeling really nauseous. I threw up, but at least I feel a little better now.”

Bucky closed the distance between you, moving toward you slowly and giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. His expression was serious, his lips almost forming a pout.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I feel bad knowing you were sick all by yourself.”

He held your face softly, and you looked up at him, scanning his features and silently admiring how concerned he always was for you. You couldn’t understand how someone so caring could think such terrible things about himself and carry so much guilt when this was the man he really was: calm, reliable, attentive. You prayed he could see it someday, too.

“I wouldn’t wake you,” you replied, caressing his cheek gently. “I know those nightmares have been coming back these past few weeks, haven’t they?”

He looked down, ashamed he hadn’t been able to hide them from you. You always knew.

He sighed and nodded, reluctantly admitting the unpleasant truth. His nightmares came in phases. Sometimes, they haunted him almost every night with terrible flashes from his past – people he had killed, accidents he had caused, futures he had destroyed. Or worse, scenarios in which you would get hurt. Sometimes, by him. Those were the worst ones. Other times they would come less frequently, almost letting him believe that he was making progress in his “healing journey”, as you liked to call it. But they eventually came back. To him, they were proof he would never truly be at peace, never able to leave the past behind.

“Yes, as usual,” he admitted. “But it’s okay. You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied, already recognizing his habit of downplaying things and subtly pushing you away, retreating into his world of self-loathing. “I’ll always worry. I just wish you would have talked to me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said while engulfing you in a warm hug. He had a defeated expression in his features that made you even more worried. God knows what kind of thoughts he was having about himself. You wish you could take them away.

“Let’s just go back to sleep, so you’re rested and feeling better in the morning. Deal?” You smiled weakly and decided to let the matter go, for now. “Deal,” you agreed, letting him take your hand and guide you back to bed. For the next few weeks, you continued to have moments where you felt unwell.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but your body started to feel different. Your stomach was more sensitive than usual, leaving you with the now-familiar waves of nausea. You felt sleepier at random moments during the day, and your stamina during training sessions at the compound suddenly diminished. You felt more out of breath during workouts and sparring. And food began to smell and taste different. One morning, the pancakes Bucky made you almost daily for breakfast smelled “eggier” than usual—you could smell the eggs in the batter from what felt like miles away.

After weeks of feeling like this, you thought it was probably due to low vitamin levels and decided you should schedule a routine doctor’s appointment soon.

But in one of your weekly sparring sessions with Natasha, you started to feel a slight dizziness, so you asked her for a time-out.

“Are you okay?” she asked, raising one of her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I just—I don’t know. I’ve been feeling kind of weak for a while now,” you admitted, closing your eyes and resting a hand on your forehead in an attempt to steady yourself. “I think I just need to get some blood work done. It’s been a while since my last check-up.” “Weak how, exactly?”

“I feel like I’m always tired lately. More worn out. And my appetite is all over the place.”

Natasha looked at you with a suspicious expression before asking an unexpected question.

“Hmm, feeling weak, huh? Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

Your eyes shot open, and you stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. “What?”

“Yes, have you?” Nat repeated, crossing her arms and leaning into one hip with a slight smirk as if she knew something you didn’t.

“I- No, I- I didn’t… My period is only two days late, which is sort of normal for me. Do you think I should?” you questioned her, not knowing if you were talking more to yourself or to her.

“(Y/n) yes, you should! Have you talked to Barnes about it?”

“Not really. I didn’t pay much attention to this. I didn’t have time to.”

The truth was, you and the whole team had been preparing for an important mission in a few months, one that had been weighing heavily on Bucky’s mind especially, since it involved Hydra. The team was set to infiltrate a secret Hydra base in Hungary in order to retrieve intel on potential undercover Hydra agents within S.H.I.E.L.D.

You were almost sure this was the reason Bucky’s nightmares had gotten worse. He tensed up every time you or someone else mentioned the mission, or during training, probably dreading the feeling of going back to a place so connected to everything that he wanted to forget. He tried so hard to hide it but for you, it was so easy to sense his anxiety. The way his blue eyes grew distant, drifting to the floor as if trying to escape his own thoughts. Or how his fists clenched, fingers pressing into his palms almost to the point of pain, while he tried to take deep breaths every time Steve went over the mission details with the group.

“Then take the test,” Natasha urged, stepping closer and putting a reassuring hand on yours when she noticed the frightened look on your face. “If you’re pregnant, you need to know before the mission. And you need to tell Barnes. You both need to decide if going on this mission is still an option.”

“But Nat” you began, squeezing her hand, feeling so scared and unprepared for the scenario she just mentioned.  “I- I don’t know if Bucky is in a good headspace for this now. He’s been so off lately. The Hydra stuff has been really getting to him.”

Natasha offered you a comforting smile, her confidence and support unwavering.

“You’ll both be fine. I’m here if you need me. And Steve is, too.” Later that same day, you found yourself in a situation you never imagined you’d be in right now.

Trembling hands, tears streaming down your face, and your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. A white and blue pregnancy test sat on the marble counter of your bathroom. You stared at the word that appeared on the small screen.

+ Pregnant

You froze. You looked at yourself in the mirror and blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t dreaming. You weren’t. A wave of happiness washed over you. So much happiness. It was unexpected, yes, but you had always told Bucky he would be a wonderful dad. Yet every time you brought up the subject, he’d say he would like to be a father someday, but that it probably wasn’t a good idea. According to him, he could never be a good role model for a child.

Your first thought was running to Nat or Steve. You wanted to tell one of them and hear that everything would be alright, that Bucky would be alright with all of this. But it was already kind of late. They’re probably asleep by now, you thought to yourself. At the same time, you knew the person who really needed to know about this was in the living room, watching a random reality TV show with Sam.

You couldn’t bear to be alone another minute. The anxiety was overwhelming.

You decided to text Bucky and ask him to come to your room. If you went to the living room, there was no way Sam wouldn’t notice something was up, and you didn’t need another situation right now.

“Can you please come to our room, it’s urgent.” You texted and hoped he would check his phone as soon as possible.

Not even five minutes later you heard the door of your room open, followed by anxious footsteps entering the room.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? I just got your text.” Bucky asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Hi, love” you said, stepping out of the bathroom and faking a half smile, searching for his hand and guiding him to the bed. You were terrified but at the same time you didn’t wanna scare him. “Come with me, I need to talk to you.”

“What happened?” Bucky questioned, his eyes quickly searching your face for any clues of what might have happened. You could see the worry creeping into his expression.

You sat next to him on the bed and held his hands tightly. The cold touch of his metal hand on yours offered a brief distraction from what you were about to tell him. You took a deep breath, still unsure how to begin. You decided that starting with some context might be easier.

“So, basically, for the past few weeks, I’ve started to feel a little… off. Do you remember the night you woke up because I felt sick in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I do” Bucky answered calmly, trying to figure out where you were going with this.

“Well, besides that, I’ve been feeling different. My stomach has been constantly upset, my appetite has been strange, I’ve been feeling more tired than usual, and I–”

“(Y/n), are you sick?” Bucky interrupted, already imagining all the worst scenarios in his head.

“Buck, no” you replied quickly, closing your eyes and trying to breathe to calm yourself down. “Listen. As I was saying, I talked about these symptoms with Nat today and she… she asked... if I had already taken a pregnancy test.”

You paused, watching his face closely for a reaction. He seemed to freeze, taking a few seconds to process your words. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath – a breath that felt heavy with sadness. It broke your heart.

He opened his eyes again and they were glistening with tears. His eyes looked even more blue than they already were.

For a moment, you considered not saying anything more, but you knew he needed to hear it – all of it.

“So, I… I took a test just now,” you continued, your voice trembling as tears began to run down your face. “And it’s… it’s positive.” You wiped your nose with the sleeve of your sweater, struggling to keep your composure.

“I’m sorry” you said crying, heartbroken because this was the reaction you had been dreading. You felt like you had ruined his life.

Now, he was the one silently crying. He still held your hands, his thumb softly tracing circles over your palm, his gaze fixed on your intertwined fingers.

“Please, say something, Bucky,” you pleaded, the silence only giving your mind space to imagine horrible possibilities.

“No, I’m the one who should be saying sorry, (Y/n),” he finally said, his voice breaking as tears slowly streamed down his face. “This baby deserves someone better. You deserve someone better.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, reaching out to hold his cheek, your heart breaking at the words that he had just spoken. “What do you mean, ‘we deserve someone better’?”

“Yes! Yes, you do!” he exclaimed, his voice rising as he finally let the storm inside him surface. “How is this baby going to grow up knowing all the awful things I’ve done?”

He got up from the bed, putting some distance between the two of you. He was still crying quietly, and it felt like he had been keeping this inside for so long. His body was facing the window. He couldn’t even look at you.

“You didn’t do those things, Buck. The Winter Soldier did,” you spoke clearly, hoping that he would somehow believe it.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I still did it.”

“Of course it matters! You didn’t have a choice!” you raised your voice, frustrated at how he could still blame himself so much.

“Everyone tells me that, but it doesn’t help, you know?” he replied, turning his body back toward you. His voice was low. “When I lie down to sleep, I keep seeing their faces. I can still hear their cries, begging for help, for mercy.”

“Buck, I—I’m so sorry,” you told him, holding your tears back again. You’d give anything to take his sadness away.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be free from what they did to me,” he stated, his face showing a defeated expression. “I know Ayo got the Hydra programming out of my mind in Wakanda, but still… it’s all here,” he said, pressing his index finger to his temple. “I remember all of them, and I always will.”

You got up and decided to close the distance between you. You raised both of your hands to his cheeks and held his face gently, making him look at you. You needed him to hear every word you were about to say.

“Honey, look at me,” you began, your voice serious but soft. “I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel. And I want you to know I’d do anything – anything – if I could to make this suffering go away. It breaks my heart to see you in so much pain and not be able to do anything-”

“No, sweetheart, but you do,” he interrupted you, wiping the tears from your face. “You have no idea how many ways you’ve saved me.”

He closed his eyes and kissed your forehead. Both of you were crying again, and you could feel all his gratitude in that one kiss.

“You save me every day. It would be impossible for me to survive those nightmares if I didn’t have your face to look at every time I wake from one of them.” He gave you a sad smile while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand resting on your cheek afterward.

You leaned into his metal hand and kissed his palm. Your eyes were once again glistening with tears.

“Do you see this, James?” you asked, hoping that he would understand what you were trying to show him.

“This is you,” you continued, placing one hand on his heart. “This is Bucky Barnes. The man who has a metal arm and touches me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. The man who makes pancakes for me every morning. The man who’s afraid of punching me too hard in our sparring sessions, even though he knows I’m a kick-ass agent.”

“That you are,” he agreed, both of you crying and laughing at the same time. You quickly wiped his tears away.

“The man who watches trashy reality TV shows with his friend on a Thursday night. This is you. And this is the man who is going to be the father of my child,” you finished, placing his flesh hand on your belly.

He continued to cry. You just prayed that your words would finally make their way into his heart.

“So tell me, how could you say I deserve better? That this baby deserves better?”

He was still looking at his hand on your belly, trying to understand how he could still be worthy of having a family after he had destroyed so many others.

“Look at me, Buck,” you called, guiding his gaze back to you. “You suffered enough. More than enough. You’ve warred with yourself for so long. It’s time that you won.”

He closed his eyes and tried to absorb the words he had just heard. It was so hard for him to accept that he deserved happiness, but he was so grateful that you have never stopped trying.

“You made it. We’re here, and you made it. Now we’ve still got time. We’ve still got all the time in the world for you to finally live. Your life, how you want it,” you continued, kissing the palm of his metal hand again. It was your way of showing him that you loved all of him, even the part that brought him the most pain.

“This baby is so lucky to have you as a dad. And to be honest, this kid is going to brag so much to the other children about how his dad’s got a metal arm.” For the first time, you heard an honest laugh escape from his lips. The sound was wonderful.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but it must have been something really good,” he replied, finally pulling you close and giving you a warm kiss.

“I love you- we love you.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to… be a role model for someone.” You could see the worry in his eyes. He was genuinely scared.

“Bucky, yes, you do. You just have to be you. I don’t need you to be perfect,  I just need you to be here. Can you do that for us, Sergeant?”

He gave you a warm smile, filled with gratitude and hope - the hope you had just given him. He looked at your lips and kissed you once more, holding your belly delicately.

“Yes, I can, ma’am. Yes, I can.” he agreed easily “but.. speaking of sergeant, now there’s no way you’re going on that mission.”

“Excuse me? I’m still in the first few weeks of this pregnancy. And how about you? This baby will need both parents.”

“Okay okay, so we’ll let Uncle Steve decide who's going and who’s not. Deal?”

“Okay, sir. Deal.”

Well, you have suffered enough And warred with yourself It's time that you won Take this sinking boat and point it home We've still got time Raise your hopeful voice, you had a choice You've made it now ~~ Falling Slowly (from the musical Once)

Feedback is always welcome, feel free to comment, like and reblog! Hope you enjoyed 🤍

[heartandbow]

Midnight Blue

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER SMUT

summary: Bucky hated you in many different ways, and tonight was no exception. tw; smut, choking, dom!bucky.

Despite Bucky's reputation of being big, bad, and dangerous, there is yet to be a time he ever scared you. Even now, where he was in the very building somewhere to kill you, you knew his only weakness — he couldn't sneak around.

It's not surprising when you think about it. With his death stare and metallic arms, anybody would spot him coming from a mile away. You just have to make sure you're faster than him, which happened to be your specialty. Being a thief for the last few years taught you everything there is to know about blending in with the shadows.

Which was a shame, you thought, because I look nice today.

You did look nice. You were currently in a gala for some valiant cause or other, hosted by some rich businessman you hadn't bothered to catch the name of. You had on your midnight blue gown, embedded with pearls that reflected off the champagne glasses and Rolex watches.

"Excuse me," one of the attendees said, tapping your shoulder. "Are you Miss Malley?"

"No," you smiled broadly, knowing the guy was about to hit on you any second.

"Oh, my mistake." He had a sheepish grin. "I'm Shane. Can I buy you a drink?"

"The drinks are free," you said, grinning right back.

"I know."

"Aren't you busy trying to find Miss Malley?"

"Who?" The smile hadn't worn off.

This particularly uninteresting conversation was cut short by sudden silence at the gala. The foolish sack of a man had diverted your attention just enough that you saw a metallic death stare at the end of the gala — a stare that seemed just for your particular demise.

Don't panic, you thought, staring right back. He wouldn't dare hurt you with this many people present. Even then, he was making his way towards you. You moved away, silent as a ghost.

With each turn of crowd, you realized you might quite possibly be stuck. Bucky had brought in reinforcement ranging from Natasha Romanoff to Captain America, all of them in regal formal attire and in different corners. No one except Bucky had spotted you, possibly because he was the only person who actually had a personal vendetta against you.

Get out, your brain said clearly. Get out before they bring you to Stark. You had enough beef with that man to last for a lifetime.

You grimaced, then looked for the exit. Not the one that the attendees use, no, that would be too easy. You headed for the staff exit, the one behind the kitchen.

---------------

Half an hour later, you were walking through the dark alley, your heels clinking against the pavement. You were exhausted from all the walk, but you were used to this dance by now. Move until the target is off your back. That's how it's always been.

You wondered if you'd ever get tired of the steps.

Someone whistled. You turned to see a man around his late 40s, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"How much for the night, sweetie?"

You squinted. He looked harmless enough. You kept on walking, ignoring his continuous calls behind your back.

"Don't be like that! What, I'm not young enough for you? I thought your kind took money from anyone with a dick!"

You had half a mind to punch him in the face with the hidden knife.

No, walk on. Last thing you need is a corpse on the street.

A second passed, then two. The man's immediate silence ticked off your senses. You turned around to see him on the floor, unconscious. Somehow, it did not look like it was the alcohol that took him out.

You were almost impressed when a knife appeared at your throat from behind.

"You're getting better at sneaking around," you said proudly. "You didn't have to knock him out though. Chap was not laying a hand on me."

"Shut the fuck up." Bucky's raspy voice sent a jolt of adrenaline down your spine. His anger was controlled, but you still could hear it.

"Your wish." You stepped on his shoes. He let out a pang of hurt, not expecting your heels to feel that sharp.

One moment of distraction, that's what cost him. You whipped your gun and faced him, smile on your face.

"How did you find me?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"That hardly matters." He put his hand out, grabbing the gun, or trying to anyways. You stepped out of the way just in time and he grunted.

"You need to loosen up. Like the night we did the Catherbury mission, remember?"

That only seemed to rile him up more. You didn't think he even cared that much about the fact that you were in Avengers a good deal of time before you sneaked into Stark's office, got his card, stole a great deal of gadgets and sold them off the black market. You didn't think he even cared you were the biggest thief in the city, one that fooled even the avengers.

His vendatta against you was personal, because he considered you his friend. The cold, cruel Bucky was duped for the world to see.

"I really think we should sit down and talk," you said, the gun still held high. "Everything I did was business Bucky, stop taking it so personally."

Bucky's face showed just a tinge of hurt, but then he hurled — no weapons, no hesitation. Just full-on punched on you, and your back hit the wall.

"If everything wasn't so fucking personal, shoot me," he practically spat out those words.

You realized you hadn't even thought of using the gun that lay hanging lifeless from your hands. You tried to grip it, but Bucky pushed his hand on top of it, bending the metal seamlessly in a way it was upside down. You let it go and tried to move.

Bucky clapped his hands on the wall on either side of your head. His eyes were smeared with charcoal and he smelt like musky cologne.

"Where's your disappearing act now?" he whispered, making you feel all sorts of things.

"Let me go," you said, gritting your teeth. God, he was standing too close.

He bent his head down and brought his lips near your ears.

"You've no clue how long I wanted to have you like this," he said, making your heart skip a beat. "Unescapable, vulnerable, scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You should be." He put his hand — the non-metallic one — over your throat. His touch was gentle, but the message was clear; he could kill you in a touch.

Though it didn't help that you liked it a little too much.

"How did you find me?" you asked again, calmly.

"Shane is my friend. He put a GPS tracker on you. I knew you'd run so all I had to do was wait."

You were impressed yet again.

"How did Shane find me? I was blending in the crowd well."

Bucky's eyes shone brighter. "You weren't going to blend in with a dress that beautiful," he stopped, removing his hand. It was as if he just realized how close he actually was to you. His eyes slid down to your lips just a second. His hands started lowering from the wall to your waist.

Then his lips were on yours, and you could have sworn he put all his anger into it. One kiss and he was prying your lips open, making out with you in that dark alley with a knocked out man five feet away.

"James," you whined between kisses, pulling him closer. The moans did things to his brain. He slid his hands through the slit of your dress, grabbing your thigh with a force that had you unnerved.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He closed your mouth with his other hand. "No, listen to me first. I want you to mean it. Completely. Because I don't know the things I'll do to you when you say yes."

In response, you took his hand from your thighs and slid them higher, right into your panties. You pressed your body against his and you could feel him being hard.

"I hate you," he said curtly, then picked you up with effortless strength. Two minutes and you were in a secluded part of the alley, and he was setting you down on an old bench. He bent down, keeping eye contact with you all the while.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, placing a kiss on your neck. You moaned, but didn't move. He dragged your lips from your collarbones to the edge of your neckline, and pulled the dress down.

Without waiting a beat, he took off your bra and kissed your nipples.

"Bucky," you whined, and all he did was bite down harder. He let his hand drag down and pushed two fingers right into your pussy. The pain was immediate and pleasurable. His pace was slow and you started grinding on his fingers for more friction.

"Shush," he said, taking off his fingers and setting you up straight. "Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?"

"Yes," you said, moving in for a kiss. He turned his head away.

"Beg."

"Fuck me Bucky, please." You moved your hand to his pants, and he looked like he might lose all control. A few seconds of unbuckling and he took you in his arms, pressing you down to the bench and spread your legs wide.

You were wet already, and the sight of his big, hard cock hadn't helped. You were dripping down your panties.

"Beg," he said again, taking off your panties and throwing them away.

"Please fuck me, James, fuck—" you gasped when he thrust his dick in you. A moment of holding onto his hand and he was fucking you like you were his. He leaned over and bit down on your neck. A kiss and a few sucking and you knew that was going to leave a mark.

You didn't care. You were being dicked out of your soul and you were taking every second of it.

Then it stopped. He pulled away from you, his dick still hard. You were confused to see that big smile on his face, even more so when he started zipping his pants.

"You left me three months ago," he said, straightening his hair. He leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Next time you think of me, I want you to think of me fucking you like you're my bitch. How having my hands on your throat was enough to make you wet."

Revenge. That's what it was?

"You wanted to fuck me to make me regret lying to you?" you asked breathlessly, feeling ashamed that it already worked.

Bucky smiled. "I wanted to fuck you for a whole lot reasons Y/N, but I also want you to knock on my door and apologize, preferably on your knees and begging. On all fours. I'd sacrifice the rest of the night to see that."

He pulled you up and put the dress on tidily. "Goodbye. And, you really do look beautiful."

Motherfucker, you thought to yourself as he left.

----------------------------------------

commissions info

kofi

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[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

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

[sarahowritesostucky]

My favorite bag o' dicks, Lance Tucker.

SEBASTIAN STAN starring as Lance Tucker THE BRONZE (2015) | dir. Bryan Buckley

[shykpop]

TAMAKI AMAJIKI & BUCKY BARNES icons, +like or reblog If you use

[unearthlydust]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES THUNDERBOLTS*

[bubbarnes]

🦾🧍🏻

[zanephillips]

Sebastian Stan and Nick Mathews Political Animals 1.02 "Second Time Around"