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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 2 days ago

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The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader (NSFW) - part2

Summary: New house, new life, new feelings

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

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

A/N: There's the second part :) Apologies for the mix up - we have SMUT here so, yeah ;)

Words for the chapter: 25 035 (even bigger oopsies)

Part 1

On your first morning at the house, you arrived armed with food—breakfast sandwiches, packed lunches, and a box of pastries. You remembered Bucky mentioning in passing that neither he nor Steve had much talent in the kitchen, and you figured feeding them was the least you could do.

When you walked through the door, the smell of coffee and eggs wafting in with you, both men lit up like kids on Christmas morning.

“This smells amazing,” Steve said, his eyes wide as he peeked into the bags.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Bucky said, though the grateful smile on his face said otherwise.

“Consider it fuel for the day,” you said with a laugh. “And if you’re nice, I might even teach you how to make some of this stuff yourselves.”

Steve grinned, already unwrapping a sandwich. “You’d be doing humanity a favor. Bucky burns toast.”

“I do not,” Bucky protested, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

After breakfast, Steve clapped Bucky on the back and gave you a small wave. “Alright, I’m leaving you two to it. This is your project, Buck. Don’t mess it up.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

As Steve left, munching on a chocolate chip cookie you’d packed, Bucky turned to you, his expression somewhere between excitement and uncertainty.

“Alright,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let me show you around.”

You took his hand without hesitation, the gesture feeling as natural as breathing.

---

Bucky’s plans for the house were detailed and thoughtful, and as he walked you through each room, his enthusiasm was infectious.

“I want to keep the brick,” he said, running his hand along the living room wall. “It’s part of what makes this place feel like home. But the floors… those need replacing.”

“That makes sense,” you said, nodding. “What about your room?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his whole face. “I’m thinking I’ll keep it mostly the same. Just a new coat of paint, maybe some better lighting.”

As he spoke, his voice grew steadier, more confident. It was clear he’d been thinking about this for a while, and the fact that he trusted you enough to share it all made your chest ache with warmth.

“And the kitchen,” he continued, pulling you into the next room. “It needs a lot of work, but I think I can—”

“Hold on,” you interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You’re doing this all yourself?”

Bucky shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Steve offered to help, but… I want to do as much of it as I can. This place is mine. It’s my responsibility.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “Well, I’m here now. So if you need an extra set of hands—two left ones, mind you—I’m your girl.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, and it was the happiest you’d ever seen him.

---

Later that afternoon, the two of you sat on the living room floor, eating sandwiches from the bag you’d brought. The sun poured through the dusty windows, painting the room in golden light.

Bucky pulled out a small stack of old photos from a box he’d found in the corner.

“These survived the move?” you asked, surprised as you sifted through the images.

“Not all of them,” he said softly. “But a few. Steve kept some, too. He said they were part of my past, and he couldn’t let them go.”

One photo in particular caught your eye—a sketch of a young Bucky, done in soft, careful lines.

“Steve did this?” you asked, your voice filled with awe.

Bucky nodded, chuckling. “Yeah, back when he thought he was gonna be an artist. I was more of the fixer, though—wiring, mechanics, stuff like that. His drawings were always better than mine.”

“You’re kidding, right?” you said, holding up a different sketch Bucky had done of a car. “My dad would’ve loved this. He used to tinker with cars all the time.”

Bucky laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He sounds like a good guy.”

“He is,” you said, smiling fondly.

---

By the time the day wound down, the two of you stood in the front yard, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting the house in soft, amber hues.

“Thank you for today,” Bucky said, his voice low and steady. His hand rested lightly on your elbow, grounding you in the moment.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, smiling up at him. “I’m just happy to see you like this. Happy.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on yours. Then, with a soft, deliberate motion, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice warm.

As you drove home, your hand brushed the spot where his lips had been, and you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. You felt like the luckiest person in the world.

---

The days that followed were filled with laughter, lighthearted teasing, and steady progress. You might not have been the most skilled handyman, but you’d never felt more content.

And every time Bucky smiled at you—those soft, unguarded smiles that made your heart stutter—you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were helping rebuild more than just a house.

---

The week had been a whirlwind of rebuilding, sanding, painting, and—if you were honest with yourself—Bucky trying very hard to keep you from hurting yourself.

“You weren’t kidding about those two left hands,” he teased one morning, watching as you struggled to keep a nail steady with the hammer. “Are you trying to hit your thumb?”

You huffed, glaring at him as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, that mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “I’m just getting the hang of it,” you grumbled.

Bucky chuckled, stepping forward and gently taking the hammer from your hand. “No offense, doll, but I think we’ll keep you away from sharp tools and anything with too much weight. I’d like to get through this project without a trip to the ER.”

You pouted for the rest of the morning, folding your arms dramatically every time he looked your way. But your resolve didn’t last long.

Later that day, as you were reorganizing paint samples on the table, he approached you, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “Hey, uh… I was wondering. Would you want to plan the kitchen?”

You blinked, turning to him in surprise. “Me? Really?”

He nodded, his gaze shy but steady. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with it, and… I trust you. You’ve got good taste, and I think you’d make it feel like home.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and before you knew it, tears were welling up in your eyes.

“Whoa, hey,” Bucky said, his brows knitting together in concern. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing softly as you wiped at your cheeks. “It’s just… you trust me. That means more to me than I can put into words.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, brushing a thumb gently across your cheek. “Of course I trust you,” he murmured. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

You’d noticed it more and more lately—how it was always him who reached for your hand, him who initiated those little touches. It was as if he was finally letting himself believe he deserved that closeness, that warmth. And you were more than happy to give it to him.

---

The week had been smooth, almost idyllic. Days of working on the house blurred into a rhythm of shared laughs, small victories, and the comforting sound of progress. It felt like you and Bucky had carved out a world of your own—a pocket of peace that existed solely within the walls of that house.

But peace is fragile, and the world outside has a way of creeping in.

The errand was supposed to be simple—a quick trip to the hardware store to pick up extra nails and browse paint colors for the kitchen. Bucky had seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, even leaving his cap behind. His bare head caught the sunlight as you walked side by side, his shoulders loose and his posture easy.

“I think we should go with something light for the walls,” you said as you pulled open the door to the hardware store. “Maybe a soft blue or cream? Something bright to—”

The words froze in your throat the moment you stepped inside.

The shop owner, a man in his sixties with a stern expression and deep lines etched into his face, had been wiping down the counter. His gaze lifted as the bell above the door chimed, and his eyes locked onto Bucky.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then the man’s face twisted into something ugly.

“You,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like the crack of a whip. “Get out.”

Bucky froze beside you, his body going rigid. The relaxed man who had walked in just moments ago was gone, replaced by someone you barely recognized. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, controlled, but there was an edge to it that sent a chill down your spine.

“I said, get out,” the man repeated, louder this time. His voice carried across the store, drawing the attention of a few customers browsing nearby. “I’m not selling anything to a murderer.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, cold and cutting. For a second, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what had just been said.

But then you looked at Bucky—at the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, at the way he dropped his gaze to the floor—and something inside you snapped.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, putting yourself between Bucky and the shop owner.

“You listen to me,” you said sharply, your voice trembling with rage. “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

The man’s scowl deepened, but you pressed on, your words gaining momentum like a freight train.

“This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, your voice rising with each word. “He’s a national hero. A victim of war. A man who was tortured, brainwashed, and used as a weapon against his will. He has spent every day since then trying to atone for things he wasn’t even responsible for. So don’t you dare stand there and call him a murderer.”

The man blinked, but you weren’t done.

“What the hell do you know about war?” you demanded, your words trembling with fury. “About what it’s like to have your choices ripped away from you? To lose yourself and still have the strength to fight your way back?”

“Ma’am, I—”

“No,” you snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get to justify this. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know the first damn thing about the kind of person he is. He’s a survivor. He’s a good man. A better man than you’ll ever be.”

The shop had gone eerily quiet. Customers had stopped what they were doing to watch, their curious and wary gazes bouncing between you and the shop owner.

“You’re just a bitter, ignorant old man,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “And honestly? I feel sorry for you. Because you’ll never know what it’s like to stand beside someone like him—someone who’s been through hell and still finds a way to be kind. Someone who’s—”

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice was soft, his hand light on your arm, but it was enough to stop you mid-sentence.

You turned to him, your breath coming in uneven gasps, your eyes still blazing with anger. “What?”

“Let’s go,” he said gently. His voice was calm, but his eyes—the deep blue-gray of a stormy sea—held a quiet resolve that cut through your rage.

“But he—”

“Please,” Bucky murmured. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet weariness that made your heart ache.

The fight drained out of you in an instant. Your shoulders slumped as you let out a shaky breath, and with one last glare at the shop owner, you turned and followed Bucky out of the store

---

The walk back to the house was heavy with silence. The usual rhythm of your steps, once comfortable and in sync, felt disjointed. Bucky’s shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he stared down at the sidewalk. His jaw was set, but the tension around his eyes betrayed him.

You wanted to say something—anything—to break the quiet, to ease the weight that had fallen between you since leaving the hardware store. But every time you opened your mouth, the memory of the shop owner’s words slammed into you like a wall.

By the time you reached the house, your anger was boiling over again.

“Unbelievable,” you snapped as you stormed through the door. “The nerve of that guy. To say something like that to you! Who does he think he is?”

Bucky followed you inside, his steps deliberate but unhurried, and leaned against the wall. He watched quietly as you paced back and forth, gesturing animatedly as you vented.

“He doesn’t even know you,” you continued, your voice rising as the anger clawed its way out of your chest. “And he thinks he can just… just—ugh! What an absolute—”

Bucky called your name softly, but you were too worked up to notice.

“And another thing,” you went on, throwing your hands up in frustration. “If I ever see him again—”

Two long strides, and Bucky was in front of you. His hands came up, cupping your face with a gentleness that caught you off guard, and before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on yours.

The world tilted.

Your anger dissolved in an instant, melting into the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth moving against yours. Time seemed to stretch, the pounding of your heart filling the silence as his thumbs brushed lightly against your skin.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His lips quirked into a small, lopsided smile that made your chest ache.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet gratitude.

“For what?” you managed to ask, still breathless.

“For standing up for me,” he said. “For… being you.”

Your chest tightened, a wave of emotion crashing over you. “Always,” you whispered, reaching up to rest your hands over his.

He kissed you again, slower this time, as though savoring the moment. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, grounding. It felt like an anchor, steadying both of you.

---

The kiss didn’t happen again. Not the next day, or the one after that.

You hadn’t realized how much you would miss it—the warmth of his lips, the quiet intensity of the moment—but you told yourself it was fine.

Because nothing had changed between you.

Bucky was still Bucky, still teasing you about your clumsiness one moment and thanking you softly the next. He still held your hand when you walked through the house together, still kissed your forehead like it was second nature.

And as much as you wanted more, as much as you missed the feel of his lips on yours, you decided you could survive. As long as he was happy, so were you.

---

Two days after he’d asked you to plan the kitchen, you approached him nervously with a set of technical drawings. They weren’t perfect—lines overlapped in places, smudges from an eraser dotted the corners—but you’d poured your heart into them.

“Hey,” you began, holding out the papers as you stepped into the living room where Bucky was sanding down an old chair. “I, uh, have something for you.”

He looked up, brushing sawdust from his hands before taking the drawings. “What’s this?”

“Kitchen plans,” you said, your voice a little too high-pitched. “I, um, asked my dad for help. He’s the one who actually drew them—I just told him what I had in mind. I didn’t tell him who it was for, though,” you added quickly, biting your lip. “I just wanted to make sure it looked good.”

Bucky studied the papers in silence, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the details. You watched him anxiously, your heart pounding in your chest.

When he finally looked up, his expression softened. A small, warm smile tugged at his lips.

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

“I wanted to,” you replied, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal even though your cheeks burned under his gaze. “I didn’t want to mess it up. So… yeah.”

Bucky shook his head fondly, stepping closer. He set the drawings aside and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Warmth flooded through you, the gesture as tender as it was unexpected. You smiled shyly, looking down at your feet to hide the blush spreading across your face.

“You’re amazing,” he added, his voice soft.

You glanced up at him, your breath catching at the sincerity in his eyes. “So are you,” you whispered.

The moment lingered, charged with an unspoken connection that neither of you seemed ready to break.

---

Later that evening, as you sat on the porch with Bucky, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The day’s work had left your hands sore and your muscles aching, but you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a rare look of contentment on his face as he gazed out at the street.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He turned to you, his expression curious.

“I just wanted to say…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’ve been through so much, and I know it’s not easy. But I’m proud of you. For everything. For trying. For rebuilding. For… letting me be part of it.”

His gaze softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

“You’re part of it because you matter,” he said simply.

The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and grounding.

And as the night wrapped around you, you realized that whatever came next—whatever challenges or triumphs lay ahead—you wouldn’t trade this for anything. Because here, in this moment, with him by your side, you felt like you’d found something you hadn’t known you were searching for.

Home.

---

You spent the next hour going over the plans together, seated side by side at the dining table with the house’s blueprints spread out in front of you. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting golden light across the room and bathing Bucky’s face in warmth.

“I think this setup should have everything you need for cooking,” you said, tapping your pen against the placement of the appliances. “The oven and stovetop here, fridge there—it keeps everything within reach. And since Tony’s footing the bill, you should absolutely go for top-of-the-line equipment.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You’re really trying to turn me into a chef, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you teased, grinning at him. “I promised, didn’t I? And trust me, once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it. Cooking can be… therapeutic.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but amused. “Therapeutic, huh? We’ll see about that. But alright, doll, I’m holding you to it.”

You laughed, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Good. We’ll start simple—no soufflés or flambéed anything until you’ve mastered scrambled eggs.”

As the conversation went on, Bucky’s posture shifted, his body leaning closer as he grew more engaged. His eyes softened as he listened to your ideas, and every so often, he’d chime in with a small adjustment or suggestion. You could feel the weight of his attention, the quiet steadiness of him beside you, and it sent a warmth blooming in your chest.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Bucky stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He held out a hand toward you, his expression thoughtful.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and steady.

You blinked up at him, surprised. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer right away, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “Just trust me.”

Without hesitation, you slid your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip was firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he led you upstairs.

He stopped outside a room you hadn’t paid much attention to before—a smaller space tucked toward the back of the house. He pushed the door open, revealing a cozy room with soft light spilling in through a single window that overlooked the backyard. The walls were bare, the wooden floor scuffed in places, and a faint scent of dust lingered in the air.

Bucky stepped inside, his movements slower now, as though he were treading carefully through the weight of his thoughts. He turned to face you, his hand still holding yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when you finish your articles,” he began, his voice quiet but steady, his gaze unwavering. “But for me… you’ve become someone so important. So precious.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs as his words settled into the quiet of the room.

“And I was thinking,” he continued, glancing around the room before meeting your gaze again, “if you’re okay with it… I’d like you to have this room. A place that’s yours. A place in my house.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your lips parting in surprise.

“It’s not much,” he added quickly, a hint of nervousness creeping into his tone. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture you’d come to recognize as one he made when he wasn’t sure of himself. “But… I want you to feel like this is your home, too. If you want it to be.”

The tears came before you could stop them, welling up and spilling down your cheeks as you clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, his brows knitting together in concern as he stepped closer. His hand came up, his thumb brushing under your eye to catch the tears. “What’s wrong? Did I say something—”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing shakily as you lowered your hand. “No, it’s just… you have this habit of making me cry happy tears, you know that?”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You nodded, blinking back more tears. Your voice trembled as you said, “It’s perfect, Bucky. I’d love to make this my room.”

He let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted. “Good,” he said simply, the word carrying more emotion than you thought possible.

Before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet certainty that made you feel like nothing in the world could touch you. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of him, your own arms circling his waist.

As he held you, the room seemed to shift. It wasn’t just an empty space anymore. It wasn’t just walls and floors waiting to be filled. It was a promise.

And as you closed your eyes, you realized that this wasn’t just his house or his project. It wasn’t just a place to rebuild his past.

It was home. For both of you.

---

Two weeks in, the house had begun its metamorphosis. Once a husk of memories and neglect, it now breathed new life with every passing day. Fresh paint imbued the walls with a crisp brightness, floors gleamed after hours of sanding and polishing, and furniture, though sparse, stood proud in its newfound home. The air smelled of sawdust and paint, a strange mix of effort and hope.

The to-do list was still long, but you were ahead of schedule—thanks mostly to Bucky’s tireless determination. He had a knack for wrangling stubborn beams into place, coaxing even the most unwilling pieces of wood and stone to bend to his will. You admired that about him. Of course, admiration came with its own challenges.

Working with Bucky wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It wasn’t his teasing, though he was infuriatingly good at it. Nor was it his occasional bossiness, which, if you were being honest, was often justified. No, the real problem was simpler. It was him. Just... him.

Bucky Barnes was handsome—ridiculously so. You’d always known that. But knowing and enduring it on a daily basis were two very different things. Spending every waking moment with him, watching the way his muscles flexed under strain, the easy confidence in his movements—it was maddening. And then there was his arm.

You hadn’t been prepared for how mesmerizing that sleek vibranium arm would be, how the sunlight glinted off it like molten silver. It moved with such precision, every motion fluid and deliberate, as if it were an extension of his will. Your mind betrayed you far too often, conjuring scenarios you had no business entertaining: the feel of that arm pinning you to a wall, the chill of the metal against your skin, the impossible strength that could pull you closer with a single motion.

You scolded yourself endlessly. But no amount of internal reprimands could keep your traitorous gaze from wandering. Especially not today.

The weather had turned. The suffocating heat clung to the air, thick and relentless. Naturally, Bucky decided this was the perfect day to forego his usual work shirt in favor of a gray tank top. It clung to him in ways that felt unfair, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the way his biceps flexed with every movement. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, tracing lines down his neck and arms, and it was impossible to look away.

You tried to focus. You really did. But the more you sanded, painted, or hammered, the more your gaze drifted, stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You were wrong.

---

It started innocently enough—or so you told yourself. You were sanding the edges of a wooden shelf, the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of your hands lulling you into a daze. Bucky was across the room, lifting a heavy plank of wood onto his shoulder. The play of muscle beneath his skin was mesmerizing, a symphony of strength and precision that left you momentarily breathless.

You didn’t realize you were staring until you caught the smirk tugging at his lips.

“See something you like?” His voice was low, rich with amusement, and it jolted you back to reality.

Your cheeks burned as you scrambled for a response. “What? No! I—I wasn’t—”

“Sure, doll,” he drawled, the smirk widening into a grin. “Whatever you say.”

You ducked your head, returning your focus to the shelf as if it held the answers to the universe. Maybe if you worked hard enough, he’d let it go.

He didn’t.

---

The teasing only escalated.

The next day, you were handing him tools while he worked on the kitchen counter. It should’ve been a simple task, but every time he flexed his biceps or leaned forward, your brain short-circuited. You could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of sawdust and sweat, and it was all too distracting.

“You okay over there?” he asked, his tone casual, though the hint of a grin betrayed him.

“Fine,” you replied, too quickly, snapping your gaze away.

“You sure?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, his grin maddeningly smug. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Not distracted by anything, are you?”

Your scowl was immediate. You shoved a wrench into his hand with a bit more force than necessary. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, chuckling softly as he turned back to his work. “If you say so.”

---

And then there was the moment that nearly broke you.

He’d been crouched near the floor, adjusting something beneath the kitchen cabinets. You weren’t even sure what he was doing; all you could focus on was the way his jeans hugged his hips, the way his muscles shifted as he moved. Your gaze lingered just a second too long.

“You know,” he said without turning, his tone casual but tinged with mischief, “if you want a better look, you could just ask.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

Bucky stood slowly, brushing off his hands as he turned to face you. His grin was wicked, the kind that spelled trouble. “Caught you staring again, doll.”

“I wasn’t staring!” you protested, the heat rising to your face faster than you could contain it.

“Oh, you definitely were.” He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “First my arms, now my ass. What’s next?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his laughter warm and infuriating. Gently, he pulled your hands away from your face, his touch firm but careful. His gaze softened, a playful tilt to his head as he studied you. “Admit it—you like what you see.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

His smirk returned, though it was lighter now, almost teasingly affectionate. “Alright, fine. I’ll leave you alone—for now. But if you keep looking at me like that, doll, I might start to think you’ve got a crush.”

You sputtered, torn between laughing and crying, as he stepped back and returned to his work, his chuckle echoing through the room.

“You’re insufferable,” you called after him, though your voice lacked the bite you intended.

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he shot back, his grin audible in his voice.

You hated how much you liked it.

---

For the rest of the day, Bucky cranked up his 1940s charm to a level that was equal parts infuriating and intoxicating. He leaned into his words with a slow, deliberate drawl, his confidence radiating in a way that made your stomach flip—and your patience fray.

"Careful with that hammer, sweetheart," he teased as you struggled with a stubborn nail. The board beneath your hands refused to cooperate, and every tap of the hammer only worsened your frustration. Bucky’s voice, rich with amusement, drifted over your shoulder. "Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Not that I’d mind takin’ care of you."

Your hands stilled, the hammer dangling precariously from your grip as you whipped your head around to glare at him. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his smile smug and infuriatingly attractive.

“You’re lucky I like you, Barnes,” you snapped, though your voice held none of the heat you intended.

His grin widened. "Like me, huh?" He straightened, taking a step closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Is that why you’ve been staring at me all week?"

You fumbled for a retort, your face heating under his gaze. “I hate you,” you muttered instead, but the treacherous smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you.

"Sure you do," he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he returned to his work.

---

By the time the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the room in hues of amber and gold, you were a flustered mess. Every teasing comment, every smug grin, every subtle brush of his hand had worn you down. And Bucky? He looked like he was having the time of his life, his laughter ringing out every time he managed to get a rise out of you.

As you packed up your tools, your mind was racing. You shoved nails and screws into a box with unnecessary force, pointedly avoiding the tall, broad figure moving toward you. But he wasn’t one to be ignored.

“Good work today,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of the table, his tone so smug it made your teeth clench.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, not bothering to look up.

Bucky chuckled, and the sound was warm, a little too soft, and far too dangerous. Before you could move away, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your temple as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” His voice was lower now, quieter, and the change made your pulse quicken.

You froze, your breath catching as your eyes darted up to meet his. His gaze was steady, warm, and just a little too intense. And then, before you could say or do anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“See you tomorrow, doll,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he pulled away.

You stood there, your heart pounding and your cheeks burning, watching as he walked away with a confident swagger that made you want to scream.

And yet, despite the smugness and the teasing and the way he drove you absolutely insane, you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face.

Because, damn it, you did like him.

---

James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Son and Brother

There’s something that shifts in James Buchanan Barnes when he talks about his family.

The stoicism he wears like armor—the careful wall that keeps the world at arm’s length—melts away. His sharp features soften, his eyes taking on a warmth that reminds you of a fire burning low on a winter’s night. It’s as though, for a moment, the weight of his past slips away, and he becomes someone else entirely: a boy from Brooklyn, proud and full of love.

When he talks about his mother, his tone is reverent, tender in a way that’s rare for him. “She was the heart of everything,” he says, his voice tinged with quiet nostalgia. His lips curve into a faint smile, as though recalling a memory so vivid he can almost touch it. “She ran the house like clockwork. Always knew exactly what we needed—even when we didn’t.”

His eyes light up as he talks about her cooking. “Best roast chicken in Brooklyn, no contest. And her pies? God, she made this apple pie that’d make you weep.” He chuckles, his voice thick with affection. “She’d always sneak me an extra slice when she thought no one was lookin’. Said I needed it to keep up my strength.”

When the conversation shifts to his father, there’s a quiet respect in his tone, steady and unshakable. “My dad wasn’t a man of many words,” he says, his gaze growing distant. “But when he spoke, you listened. He worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Always made sure we had enough, even if it meant he went without.”

His smile grows softer as he talks about his sisters, the faintest edge of brotherly exasperation coloring his words. “Winnie was the quiet one—always had her nose buried in a book. But she was sharp. Smarter than I’ll ever be.” He pauses, shaking his head fondly. “And Rebecca? She was a menace. She’d steal my hat just to see me chase her around the house. She drove me crazy, but I loved her to pieces. Still do.”

When he talks about holidays at the Barnes house, his voice takes on a wistful note. “Ma went all out for Christmas,” he says, his expression softening further. “The whole house smelled like cinnamon and pine. Winnie and Rebecca would string popcorn for the tree, and I’d help Dad chop firewood for the stove. It wasn’t much, but it was home. And it was perfect.”

In these moments, you see the man behind the soldier—the boy who once laughed and loved and dreamed in a small house in Brooklyn. You see the brother, the son, the protector.

James Barnes isn’t just the Winter Soldier. He isn’t just a man haunted by shadows and ghosts.

He’s James Buchanan Barnes, and he’s extraordinary.

---

When you handed the article to Bucky, his reaction was immediate. His lips quirked into a soft smile as he read the first few lines, his blue eyes scanning the page with quiet intensity. You watched him carefully, your heart thudding in your chest. There was something about seeing him so focused, the way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his thumb brushed absently against the edge of the paper, that made it impossible to look away.

By the time he finished, his expression had shifted into something deeper, more contemplative. He set the pages down gently, almost reverently, as if they were something precious.

“This is… really good,” he said finally, his voice low and sincere.

Relief flooded through you, and you leaned back against the table, your shoulders relaxing. “I’m glad you think so. I was a little nervous about this one.”

His brows knit together slightly as he tilted his head. “Why?”

You shrugged, feeling the weight of your own words before you spoke them. “It’s personal. I wanted to do it justice.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze meeting yours, steady and unwavering. “You did,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made your chest tighten.

There was a pause, a moment that stretched between you like a taut thread. Then his expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “But you’ve been working on these articles nonstop,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Helping me with the house all day, then staying up late to write… You’re going to burn yourself out.”

You waved him off with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m fine, Bucky. Really. I write when I feel like it—it’s not as bad as you think.”

He didn’t look convinced. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than they should have. But he let it go. For now.

---

That evening, you lost track of time.

The house had gone quiet, the sounds of hammering and sanding replaced by the hum of cicadas outside the window. The soft golden glow of the desk lamp illuminated the pages scattered in front of you, and you worked in a steady rhythm, the scratching of your pen the only sound in the room.

When you finally glanced at the clock, the numbers seemed to blur in front of your tired eyes. You groaned, leaning back in your chair and rubbing the back of your neck. The ache in your shoulders reminded you of how long you’d been sitting there, hunched over your work.

“I guess I should head home,” you murmured, more to yourself than to anyone else, as you began to gather your things. But when your gaze flicked to the window and you saw just how dark it was outside, you hesitated. The shadows were deep, the kind that made the quiet countryside feel a little too still, a little too lonely.

“Actually…” you said, trailing off as you glanced over at Bucky. He was across the room, carefully organizing the tools you’d both been using earlier, his broad shoulders silhouetted by the faint glow of the kitchen light. “It’s kind of late. Maybe I’ll just stay here tonight.”

He froze, his movements halting for just a fraction of a second before he straightened and turned to look at you. “You, uh… you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, your tone casual even as your heart began to pick up speed. “It’s not like I haven’t crashed here before.”

“Right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting to the floor. “It’s just… there’s only one bed right now. The other beds and couches don’t come until the end of the week. We threw the old ones out, remember?”

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a freight train. “Oh.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offered quickly, his words tumbling out like they’d been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“No way,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “This is your house. If anyone’s sleeping on the floor, it’s me.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he said, his voice taking on that low, commanding tone that always made your breath catch.

“Well, neither are you,” you shot back, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

The two of you stood there, locked in a silent standoff. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing his next move. Finally, you sighed, rolling your eyes. “We’re both adults, right? We can share the bed. It’s not a big deal.”

Bucky looked like he was about to argue, his mouth opening slightly before he shut it again. He hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the door to the bedroom. Then, to your utter disbelief, the corner of his mouth quirked up into a crooked grin.

“You sure you’ll be able to keep your hands off me, doll?” he teased, though there was a faint edge of uncertainty in his voice that made your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes, determined not to let him see the heat rising to your cheeks. “Get over yourself, Barnes. Let’s go.”

---

The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the thin curtains and casting silver shadows across the walls. The bed—just a simple mattress on a sturdy frame—sat in the center of the room, looking both impossibly large and far too small at the same time.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders tense. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable in the faint light.

“You take the left side,” you said, breaking the silence as you dropped your bag onto the floor. “I’m a right-side sleeper anyway.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he settled on his side, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of breaking something. You slid in on the other side, keeping a respectful distance between you, though the proximity still felt electric.

The room fell silent, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound: the rustle of the sheets, the soft inhale and exhale of breath, the faint creak of the floorboards as the house settled around you.

“You comfortable?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and rough, the sound of it cutting through the stillness like a blade.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your heart was racing in your chest.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You stared up at the ceiling, the faint outline of the beams above blending into the shadows, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quite pin down.

And then, just as your eyes began to grow heavy, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for… y’know. Everything. The article, the house… putting up with me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the outline of his profile in the moonlight. There was something vulnerable about the way he lay there, his face turned toward the ceiling, his expression open in a way you rarely saw.

“You don’t have to thank me, Bucky,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then he turned his head, his gaze meeting yours, and the weight of it made your breath catch.

“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

And as you lay there, the warmth of him just a few inches away, you couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind losing a little sleep tonight.

---

You fell asleep quickly, the exhaustion of the long day pulling you under like a heavy tide. The bed was warm, and Bucky’s steady breathing beside you was oddly comforting, a quiet rhythm that soothed the tension in your muscles. But sometime in the night, a faint sound stirred you from sleep.

It started as a murmur, low and unintelligible, growing into fragmented whispers and uneven breaths. You blinked into the darkness, the moonlight casting faint silver shadows across the room. Turning your head, you saw him.

Bucky was restless, his brow furrowed, his lips moving soundlessly. His fists clenched the sheets, the vibranium arm flexing with a metallic whir as his body jerked suddenly, a soft, strangled sound escaping his throat.

“Bucky,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively to shake his shoulder. “Bucky, wake up.”

Before you could process what was happening, his body moved on instinct. His hand shot out, pinning you to the bed with a grip that was firm but not painful. The weight of him hovered over you, his metal hand curling around your throat—not tight, but enough to send a shiver of fear and adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“Bucky,” you said again, louder this time, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused, his chest heaving as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. For a moment, he didn’t seem to see you, his grip faltering as panic overtook him. Then recognition dawned, and he scrambled away from you, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Oh God,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed himself against the far wall. His hands trembled, one flesh, one metal, both visibly shaking as he looked at you in horror. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I would never—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted softly, sitting up and rubbing your neck where his hand had rested. There was no pain, only the lingering ghost of his touch. You moved toward him cautiously, like approaching a frightened animal. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“It’s not okay,” he said, his voice sharp and raw. His shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for a blow, and his eyes were glassy with shame. “I could’ve hurt you. I—”

“You didn’t,” you said firmly, cutting him off before he could spiral further. Crawling across the bed, you reached for him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

His head shook, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. “You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “I could’ve killed you. In my sleep. Like it was nothing. I—”

“Stop,” you said, your voice soft but commanding. Carefully, you slid your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffened at first, but you didn’t let go, pressing your cheek against his shoulder and squeezing just a little tighter. “You didn’t. You won’t. Do you know why?”

He didn’t respond, his body still rigid beneath your touch.

“Because you’re a good man, Bucky Barnes,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his shoulder. “Even in your worst nightmares, you didn’t hurt me. That’s who you are.”

For a moment, he was silent, his breathing slowing just enough to let you know he was listening. Then, without thinking, you pressed a kiss to the cool vibranium of his arm, tracing the etched lines with your fingers. The metal was cold against your skin, but somehow, it felt warm beneath your touch.

“Honestly,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out before you could stop them, “it was kind of hot.”

His head jerked up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. And then, to your utter shock, he laughed—a soft, breathless sound that was almost foreign coming from him. It was rough, unpracticed, like he hadn’t done it in years, but it was real.

“You’re something else,” he said finally, shaking his head as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, and then, in one smooth motion, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft, tender, full of unspoken apologies and quiet gratitude. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and for the first time that night, you saw something like peace in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Instead, you pulled him back to bed, wrapping your arms around him as he rested his head on your shoulder. His body was still tense, but as the minutes passed, he began to relax, his breathing evening out until it matched yours.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky slept through the night.

---

When morning came, something was different.

Bucky wasn’t distant, exactly, but the teasing remarks, the soft smiles, the casual touches—all of it was gone. He worked in silence, his shoulders hunched as though carrying an invisible weight. His eyes, usually so sharp and alert, were distant, staring past you to something only he could see.

You tried everything to bring him back. You cracked jokes, deliberately messed up measurements just to hear him scold you in that exasperated tone, and even ordered pizza from that questionable hole-in-the-wall place he loved. The grease-stained box sat untouched on the table, and the half-hearted smile he gave you didn’t reach his eyes.

By evening, your patience had worn thin.

When Steve stopped by to check on the house, you pulled him aside, your voice low and urgent. “Steve, what do you do when Bucky gets like this?”

Steve’s expression softened, a familiar sadness flashing across his face. “I leave him alone,” he said quietly. “Sometimes he just needs space to work through it.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “That’s it? You just let him sit there and brood until he feels better?”

“It’s not about letting him brood,” Steve said gently. “It’s about giving him time. He’s been through more than anyone should ever have to endure. Sometimes space is the best thing you can give him.”

You nodded reluctantly, though the answer didn’t sit right with you. Giving him space might work for Steve, but it wasn’t going to work for you. You cared too much to sit idly by.

---

That evening, an idea struck you. It was impulsive, maybe even a little absurd, but you didn’t care. Pulling out your phone, you made a quick call, cashing in a favor with a contact from your journalism days.

A private cinema room. Short notice. But it was perfect.

By the time you had everything set—junk food packed into a bag, drinks shoved into a cooler—you found Bucky sitting on the porch, his arms resting on his knees as he stared at the horizon. The fading light painted his face in soft oranges and golds, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story.

“Come with me,” you said, holding out your hand.

He looked up at you, his brow furrowing. “Where?”

You smiled, refusing to let him shut himself off again. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a soft sigh, he stood, slipping his hands into his pockets as he followed you to the car.

---

Bucky didn’t say much during the drive. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed out the window as the twilight deepened into night, the city lights painting faint streaks of gold and white across his face. Every so often, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to piece together where you were taking him, but he didn’t ask.

Still, you could feel his curiosity growing the closer you got to your destination. When you finally pulled up outside the private cinema, his head tilted slightly, his lips parting in faint confusion.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing the bag of snacks from the backseat and gesturing for him to follow.

The small building was unassuming from the outside, but as you led him through the door, the cozy warmth of the space unfolded. Soft, ambient lighting illuminated the intimate room, which held just a handful of plush seats and a screen that stretched across the far wall. The faint smell of popcorn lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of countless movie nights past.

A staff member greeted you quietly, handing over a sleek remote for the projector before slipping away, leaving the two of you alone in the private space.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room. His confusion melted into something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“You did this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” you said, setting the bag of snacks on the small table near the seats. “You’ve been a little… off today, and I thought this might cheer you up.”

He blinked, his expression unreadable at first. But then, slowly, the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips—the first real one you’d seen all day. “What movie?”

“One from your list,” you replied, grinning as you sank into one of the seats and patted the spot beside you. “It wasn’t easy to track down, but thankfully, they had it.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the back of the nearest chair as he stared at you. Finally, he sat down beside you, his posture stiff at first but gradually relaxing as the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life.

When the opening credits began to roll, something shifted. He leaned back into his seat, his shoulders losing some of their tension as his gaze fixed on the screen.

---

Halfway through the movie, the quiet settled comfortably around you, broken only by the occasional sound of a chip crunching or a faint laugh from the film. It was nice, easy in a way you hadn’t felt all day.

But then Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low and raw.

“Last night scared me.”

The words were soft, almost hesitant, but they struck like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the calm. You turned to him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability etched into his face.

“I was so close to hurting you,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the screen but unfocused, as if he were looking straight through it. “So close to losing you. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop… going over it in my head.”

“Bucky,” you said gently, reaching out to touch his arm. His vibranium fingers twitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” he said, his voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You shouldn’t have to wake up wondering if I’m going to—”

“Hey,” you interrupted firmly, squeezing his arm to draw his attention. His head turned toward you, and the anguish in his eyes made your heart ache. “You didn’t hurt me. Even in the middle of a nightmare, you didn’t hurt me. Do you know what that says about you?”

He shook his head, his jaw tight as if he were trying to hold something back. His fists clenched on his lap, the metal hand gleaming faintly in the light from the screen.

“It says you’re an incredible man,” you continued, your voice steady and sure. “A man who’s been through hell and still manages to be kind and thoughtful and good. You’re allowed to have nightmares, Bucky. Everyone does. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, heavy and full of unspoken words. Then, slowly, his hands relaxed, his fingers uncurling as his breathing evened out.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you left,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost fragile. “You make everything feel… normal. Easy. And I don’t deserve that.”

The pain in his voice made your throat tighten, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you.

“You deserve all of it, Bucky,” you said firmly. “And more.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours for something you weren’t sure he even knew he was looking for. Then, as if a dam had broken, he leaned in, his hand lifting to cradle the back of your head.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t soft or tentative like before. It was fierce, desperate, full of all the emotions he couldn’t put into words. His fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand settling on your waist as he pulled you closer, as if afraid you might slip away.

You kissed him back just as fervently, your hands sliding into his hair, your heart pounding as the rest of the world faded into nothing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile—the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

You smiled back, threading your fingers through his. “Come on. Let’s finish the movie.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, as he leaned back in his seat. His hand stayed in yours, his fingers laced with yours as the movie continued to play.

And as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at the faint, contented smile on his face. The weight that had pressed on him all day seemed lighter now, the shadows in his eyes not quite as dark.

In that moment, you made a silent promise to yourself. Whatever it took—whatever he needed—you would do it.

Because seeing him like this, peaceful and at ease, was worth everything.

---

The Heart of a Soldier

James Buchanan Barnes is a man of contrasts.

He is strength and vulnerability woven together into something impossibly complex. A ghost of the past, trying to carve a future out of the rubble. A man who carries more pain than most of us could imagine, yet still somehow puts others before himself, time and time again.

When you first meet him, you see the strength. It’s impossible not to. The broad shoulders, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the vibranium arm that gleams like a badge of survival and sacrifice. He moves with a deliberate grace, each step purposeful, every motion controlled. Even when he says nothing, his presence commands the room.

But if you spend enough time with him, you’ll start to notice the cracks. The subtle moments that betray the weight he carries. The slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for his morning coffee. The way his jaw tightens at the mention of the Winter Soldier, like the very name wraps around his throat and squeezes. The distant look in his eyes when the room gets too quiet, too still—when the ghosts of his past come creeping in to haunt him.

James Barnes is a man haunted. By memories that feel stolen. By faces he can never forget. By a ledger he believes can never be wiped clean, no matter how many lives he saves or how much good he does.

And yet, despite everything, he cares.

He cares with a fierceness that is both breathtaking and heartbreaking.

I’ve seen it in the way his blue-gray eyes scan a room, always vigilant, always watching for potential dangers that no one else has even considered. I’ve seen it in the way he talks about his past—not with bitterness, but with guilt so heavy it weighs down his every word, as if the things done to him were somehow his fault. And I’ve seen it in the way he puts everyone else before himself, even when he’s quietly falling apart.

There’s a fragility to James Barnes, but it’s not the kind born of weakness. It’s the fragility of a man who has been shattered and pieced back together more times than he can count. It’s the fragility of someone who knows exactly how easily those cracks can form again.

But there’s also a resilience in him that takes your breath away.

Because no matter how many times he’s been broken, no matter how often he’s been knocked down, he gets back up. He keeps fighting—not just for himself, but for everyone who needs him. For his friends. For the world. For people who will never know his name or what he’s sacrificed for them.

James Barnes doesn’t see himself the way others do. He doesn’t see the incredible strength it takes to wake up every morning and choose to keep going. He doesn’t see the courage it takes to face a world that has judged him unfairly and still stand tall.

But I see it.

I see it in the way he carries his pain like a shield, always trying to protect the people he loves from the weight of it. I see it in the way he clings to his humanity, even when the world tried to rip it away from him. I see it in the way he cares—so deeply, so unconditionally—even when he believes he doesn’t deserve to.

James Barnes is not perfect. He’s messy, flawed, and so deeply, painfully human. But that’s what makes him extraordinary.

He is proof that even in the face of unimaginable pain, there is still room for love. For kindness. For hope.

And that is the heart of James Barnes—the soldier, the survivor, the man who refuses to give up.

---

The next morning, you handed the article to Bucky, your heart pounding as he took the carefully printed pages from your hands.

He didn’t say anything at first. His blue-gray eyes moved steadily over the words, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. You watched him carefully, noting the way his brow furrowed, then smoothed, then furrowed again. The faint twitch of his lips hinted at something—whether a smile or a grimace, you couldn’t tell.

When he finally set the paper down, his hand lingered on it for a moment, his thumb brushing against the edge as though he wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

“This is…” he began, his voice low and a little unsteady. “It’s beautiful. But…”

“But you’re not ready for it to be out there,” you finished for him, your voice calm and understanding.

Bucky nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t think I ever will be. Not with this one.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to place your hand over his. The warmth of his touch felt steady, grounding. “What I said the first day still stands, Bucky. You’re in control of this. If you want me to burn it, I’ll burn it. If you want to keep it for yourself, I’ll hand it over, and the world will never know.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he reached for the pages again, folding them carefully with the precision of someone handling something precious. Without a word, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting the fabric lightly as if to reassure himself they were safe.

“I think I’ll keep it,” he said quietly. “At least for now.”

“Take all the time you need,” you said gently, your smile never faltering.

His eyes lifted to meet yours then, and the weight of his gaze made your breath catch. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite name—gratitude, certainly, but something deeper too. Affection? Trust? Whatever it was, it made your chest ache in the best way.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” you replied.

And as the morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft golden glow across the room, you felt the weight of his trust settle over you like a promise. It was fragile and precious, something you would protect with everything you had.

Because James Buchanan Barnes deserved that. And so much more.

---

Bucky Barnes was a tease.

Not the innocent kind, either. No, this man had decades of charm sharpened by a 1940s sense of confidence and an uncanny ability to get under your skin. And the more comfortable he got around you, the more his teasing side seemed to flourish.

It started subtly—offhand comments, little smirks whenever he caught you staring too long. But lately, it had escalated to a level you could only describe as weaponized flirtation.

And you were not okay.

The sweltering summer heat wasn’t helping. On the hottest days, Bucky had taken to ditching his shirts altogether while he worked on the house renovations. He’d claim it was a practical choice, muttering something about how it was “too damn hot for anything else,” but the smug look he wore every time he caught you sneaking a glance told a very different story.

“Enjoying the view, doll?” he’d ask, his voice dripping with amusement, lips curling into that maddeningly perfect smirk.

You’d roll your eyes, muttering something about how he needed to get over himself. But the truth was, you were enjoying the view. How could you not? The man looked like he belonged in a sculpture gallery, every muscle flexing with purpose as he lifted beams, sanded down furniture, or hammered nails into place.

And Bucky knew it.

It wasn’t just the shirtlessness, either. Oh no, he liked to test your patience in other, more creative ways.

One afternoon, you were in the makeshift kitchen—a chaotic but functional space you’d thrown together while waiting for the new appliances to arrive—stirring a pot of sauce. Bucky sauntered in, his presence so effortless it sent a ripple of awareness through you.

“Excuse me, doll,” he murmured, leaning over you to grab something from the shelf above your head.

His chest brushed against your back, the cool vibranium of his arm resting lightly on the counter for balance.

Your breath hitched. You froze, spoon suspended mid-stir, as his warmth pressed against you. “You, uh… you need something?”

“Just the pepper,” he said, his voice casual as he reached for the container and stepped back.

When you turned, his grin was positively wicked.

“You’re insufferable,” you grumbled, glaring at him as the heat rose to your cheeks.

“And you’re adorable when you blush,” he shot back, winking before strolling out of the kitchen like he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. The man was going to be the death of you.

---

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of work, you decided you both deserved a break. The house renovations had consumed your lives for weeks, and the weariness clung to your body like an old coat you couldn’t shake off. On your way over to the house, you grabbed a bottle of wine, figuring it would be the perfect way to unwind and steal back a moment of normalcy.

“I brought reinforcements,” you announced as you stepped through the door, holding up the bottle with a triumphant grin.

Bucky looked up from where he was crouched on the living room floor, fiddling with the legs of a coffee table he’d been assembling. His hair was tousled, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead, and his hands were smudged with wood stain. When his eyes landed on the bottle, one brow arched in curiosity.

“Wine, huh?” he said, rising to his full height and wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s the occasion?”

“Surviving another week,” you quipped, kicking off your shoes. “And I don’t feel like writing tonight, so I figured we could celebrate.”

His lips curved into that warm, easy smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. He tossed the rag onto a nearby chair and walked toward you, his movements unhurried but deliberate.

“You know what?” he said, his voice softening. “I like the way you think.”

---

A few minutes later, you were both settled on the worn but comfortable couch, two glasses of wine in hand, a classic movie flickering on the new TV in the background. The first glass went down smoothly, the wine melting the tension from your shoulders and loosening the knots in your mind. Conversation flowed easily between you, punctuated by bursts of laughter and playful jabs as you recounted the day’s mishaps.

It was the second glass, however, that emboldened you.

You weren’t sure exactly when it started—maybe it was the way his arm brushed against yours as he reached for his glass, the heat of his skin lingering longer than it should have. Or maybe it was the way his smile lingered too, his gaze dipping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. Whatever it was, the subtle shift in the air between you was impossible to ignore.

Your hand drifted to his thigh, resting there lightly as you turned to ask him a question about the movie. The warmth of his leg seeped into your palm, grounding you, and though he didn’t say a word, you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he glanced down at your hand. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn’t move to stop you.

A few minutes later, you found yourself leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder. The scent of him—wood shavings, a hint of sweat, and something that was purely Bucky—filled your senses, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

“You comfortable there, doll?” he teased, though his voice had softened, the usual edge replaced with something gentler, more affectionate.

“Very,” you replied, your fingers absently tracing small, lazy circles on his thigh.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but the tension in his body shifted, a subtle crackling like static electricity sparking in the air between you.

When he turned his head to look at you, his blue-gray eyes were darker than usual, the light from the TV casting soft shadows across his face. His gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back up to meet yours.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft, tentative, testing the fragile line between friendship and something far deeper. But the moment he responded—his hand sliding to your waist, his lips pressing more firmly against yours—the kiss deepened, unraveling every ounce of restraint you’d been holding onto.

His vibranium hand found the back of your neck, the coolness of the metal a sharp contrast to the heat of the moment. You shifted, straddling his hips without even realizing you’d done it, your hands moving to his chest, trailing slowly downward as your mind blurred with the feel of him beneath you.

But just as your fingers began to wander lower, he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and a little breathless.

You blinked at him, your cheeks flushing as you realized what you’d been doing. “Sorry, I—”

He shook his head, a soft smile spreading across his face as he cupped your cheek. “Don’t apologize. Trust me, it’s not that I don’t want to…”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m still a gentleman,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again, this time slower, sweeter, his lips lingering against yours. “And if we’re going to do this, I’d like to take you out first. A proper date.”

His words sent your heart tumbling into a freefall, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and you felt the sincerity in his words settle warmly in your chest. “What do you say?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

His chuckle was soft, almost disbelieving, as though he hadn’t entirely expected you to agree so quickly. He pulled you into another kiss, this one unhurried and tender, the kind that made your toes curl and your pulse race.

When you finally pulled back, you rested against him, your head on his chest as the sound of his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as the movie played on, its faint dialogue a distant murmur neither of you paid attention to.

His fingers found yours, lacing them together with a quiet intimacy that made your chest ache in the best way.

And as you lay there, wrapped in his warmth, you couldn’t help but think that this was the start of something wonderful. Something neither of you had planned for but both of you had been waiting for.

Because with Bucky, everything felt right.

---

Bucky couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

He’d faced Hydra assassins, alien armies, and the demons of his own past. He’d stared death in the face more times than he cared to count. But somehow, planning a date—one simple evening—felt like the most terrifying thing he’d ever done.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. He did. More than he wanted to admit, even to himself. It was just that he had no clue where to start. The world had changed so much since the last time he’d done anything remotely romantic. What did people even do on dates these days?

Dinner and a movie? Too cliché. A trendy rooftop bar? That didn’t feel like him at all. A fancy restaurant? Too formal, too stiff, and way too far outside his comfort zone.

He spent an entire morning agonizing over it, pacing back and forth across the freshly polished floor of the house like a man on trial. By the time lunch rolled around, he admitted defeat: he needed help.

Unfortunately, his options were… limited.

Tony? Absolutely not. The man would never let him live it down. Steve? He considered it for half a second before dismissing the idea. Steve’s idea of romance was still stuck somewhere in 1943, and while the simplicity of “dancing to some old tunes” was charming, it wasn’t the vibe Bucky was going for. Clint? Off the grid with his family, and his only response to Bucky’s text had been: "Figure it out, Barnes. I’m on vacation." Natasha? The thought of asking her for advice was enough to make him shudder. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

That left… Sam.

Bucky grimaced as he picked up his phone. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Sam answered on the second ring, and the teasing began almost immediately.

“You’re asking me for dating advice?” Sam’s grin was audible through the phone. “Man, this is too good. Hold on, let me get my phone. Gotta record this for posterity.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Bucky growled, his tone low and threatening.

“Alright, alright,” Sam said, still laughing. “Look, here’s my advice: don’t overthink it. She likes you, Barnes. You don’t need to impress her with some big, elaborate plan. Just keep it simple, keep it natural.”

“Simple,” Bucky repeated, nodding slowly.

“And don’t forget the flowers,” Sam added, clearly still enjoying himself. “Ladies love flowers. You’re welcome.”

Before Bucky could respond, Sam hung up, leaving him standing there with the distinct feeling that he’d just walked into a trap.

---

Armed with Sam’s advice and a determination to make the evening perfect, Bucky got to work.

The newly finished living room became the centerpiece of his plan. He strung up soft, twinkling lights around the ceiling beams, their golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance over the room. He wasn’t exactly an expert decorator, but he knew enough to keep it simple. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center of the coffee table—elegant and understated, just like you. Around the vase, he placed a few flickering candles, their soft light dancing across the surface of the polished wood.

He ordered food from a place he knew you loved, something comforting and familiar but still special enough for the occasion. The kind of meal that didn’t scream “fancy” but felt meaningful, thoughtful. There was wine, of course, and though Bucky wasn’t much of a drinker, he figured it would help set the mood.

When he stepped back to survey the room, he felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension. It wasn’t perfect—he’d never been one for frills or extravagance—but it felt like him. Honest. Simple. And, more importantly, it felt like you.

---

By the time you arrived, Bucky was a bundle of nerves, though he did his best to hide it.

The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, pausing for half a second to take a steadying breath before opening it.

You stood there, smiling, holding a small box of pastries in your hands. “I brought dessert,” you said cheerfully, your eyes lighting up as you looked at him.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile back, his nerves easing just a little. “Good,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “I’ve got the rest covered.”

When you stepped into the living room, your eyes widened slightly as you took in the scene. The twinkling lights, the candles, the flowers—it wasn’t over-the-top, but it was thoughtful, intimate. Perfect.

“Bucky…” you said softly, turning to look at him. “You did all this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah. I, uh… wanted to do something nice. For us.”

Your smile widened, and he felt the last of his nerves melt away.

“It’s perfect,” you said, setting the pastries down on the table and stepping closer to him. “You’re perfect.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” you said, your voice warm and sincere.

The evening unfolded like a dream. You shared the meal on the couch, the plates balanced on your laps as you laughed and talked, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. The soft glow of the candles bathed the room in warmth, and the tension of the day melted away with every stolen glance, every shared smile.

At some point, the food was forgotten, and the two of you were curled up together on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder as his arm draped loosely around your waist. The warmth of his body against yours felt grounding, steadying, like coming home after a long journey.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. “Thank you for saying yes,” he replied, his voice low and rough with emotion.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. Slowly, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft and unhurried, a promise wrapped in tenderness.

When you pulled back, your smile was radiant, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin in return.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing, “Sam was right about the flowers.”

You laughed, the sound light and musical, and pressed another kiss to his lips.

And as the evening stretched on, the two of you tangled together on the couch, the twinkling lights casting shadows that danced across the walls, Bucky felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time.

---

You felt nervous. It wasn’t the kind of nervousness born from inexperience—you weren’t a virgin, and this wasn’t your first time exploring intimacy. But something about this—about being with Bucky—felt so different, so intense, that it left you momentarily paralyzed.

Your heart raced as you sat curled up against him on the couch, the movie on the screen now nothing more than a blur of colors and sound. It had been forgotten long ago. All of your focus had shifted to him—to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him—woodsy, clean, and entirely Bucky. The way his arm rested lightly around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, sent sparks down your spine.

You wanted more.

You wanted to hear his voice, soft and low, saying your name. You wanted to see him lose that careful restraint he always carried. You wanted to feel him—his warmth, his strength, the raw intensity you knew he was holding back.

So lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize your hands had a life of their own.

Your eyes remained blankly fixed on the screen, but your hand drifted downward, almost instinctively. It started small, innocent, just a gentle graze against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. But the sensation sent a thrill through you, and you didn’t stop there. Slowly, tenderly, your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing against the bare skin of his abdomen.

His skin was warm, firm, the muscles beneath taut and solid. You let your fingertips trace the faint ridges of his abs, moving lower to the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. Your touch grew bolder, more deliberate, your movements both curious and deliberate.

You felt his breathing shift before you heard it—a quickened inhale, soft but unmistakable.

Bucky froze for half a second, his chest rising and falling just a bit faster now. At first, it seemed like he was surprised by your touch, caught off guard. But when realization dawned on him, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed still, letting you explore, letting your hands roam freely.

He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stay calm, to not ruin the moment. He wanted this—God, he wanted this—but he was terrified of moving too fast, of scaring you off. So he stayed quiet, curious and eager to see what you would do next.

But you didn’t know that.

When he didn’t react right away, you hesitated, your confidence faltering slightly. Was he not enjoying this? Did he not want you like you wanted him? The thought made a flicker of doubt creep into your mind, and without thinking, you let your nails rake softly across the skin of his stomach, testing his reaction.

The quiet hiss that escaped his lips was all the answer you needed.

A rush of boldness surged through you. You raised your head and kissed the side of his neck, your lips brushing against his skin in soft, feather-light touches. His scent overwhelmed your senses, and you felt a shiver run through him as you trailed your kisses downward.

When you reached his collarbone, you nipped at the sensitive skin there, your teeth grazing just hard enough to leave a faint mark.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a jolt of heat through your body. “You’ll leave a mark.”

You smirked against his skin, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Good,” you whispered, your voice low and sultry. “They’ll know you’re mine.”

Your words sent a chill down his spine, a spark of something primal and unrestrained roaring to life within him. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant, the careful control he always held snapping like a rubber band.

Before you could react, he turned, his movements swift and fluid as he pushed you down against the couch. The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as you found yourself beneath him, his body hovering over yours, his hands braced on either side of your head.

Your eyes widened, your pulse racing as you stared up at him. His breathing was heavy now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch.

They were darker than you’d ever seen them, a storm of want and need swirling within their depths. He looked at you like you were his entire world, like nothing else existed except for you in this moment. And there was something else there too, something primal and possessive that sent a thrill through you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat pooling low in your belly, the unmistakable ache building between your thighs. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but not afraid. No, fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

What you felt was something entirely different.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze flicked to your lips, and for a moment, he hesitated, his breath hitching as if he were holding himself back. But then his resolve broke, and he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.

It was hungry, desperate, and full of a passion he could no longer contain. His hand cupped your cheek, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing closer to yours.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your touch. His weight pinned you to the couch, grounding you, anchoring you to him as your kisses grew more heated, more frantic.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged as he struggled to regain control. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch soft and reverent in stark contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, your fingers trailing up his arm to rest against the cool vibranium of his shoulder. “Good,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his in a teasing kiss.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “You don’t know what you’ve started, doll.”

“Then show me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

And with that, Bucky’s control shattered completely.

With a strong yet tender motion, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, fitting perfectly against him as though you belonged nowhere else.

“Don’t you dare let me go,” you whispered, your voice soft with laughter, though your words carried a quiet plea.

He kissed your neck, the brush of his lips sending a shiver down your spine. His chuckle was warm, rich, and laced with something deeper. “I’m never letting you go,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears, like a sacred promise.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, revealing the sanctuary within—a simple space, bare but comforting. The bed, the only real bed in the house now, beckoned like a haven. He lowered you both onto the soft mattress, his movements careful, as if afraid to break the moment. His metal arm supported him as he leaned over you, the faint gleam catching the dim light. His long hair fell in a cascade around you, strands tickling your face like a silken veil.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or ravenous. It was soft, achingly tender, and filled with so much love that your chest tightened, the emotions welling up in your throat. You’d never been kissed like this before, as if every touch of his lips were a vow. His hands began to explore your body, slow and reverent, as if learning every curve by heart.

“Can I?” His voice was hushed, his fingers grazing the edges of your dress, a question lingering in the air. Between his gentle hands and the feather-light kisses he pressed against your throat and lips, you felt utterly unraveled.

Words escaped you, but you managed a nod, giving him the silent permission he craved. Yet that wasn’t enough for him. “I need to hear you say it, sweetheart,” he whispered, his teeth grazing your neck in a way that stole your breath and sent sparks dancing along your skin.

“And who’s leaving marks now?” you teased, your voice breathy as you tugged lightly at his hair.

His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “I only return what’s given,” he replied, his fingers tracing the hem of your dress, teasing and testing.

“You can, Bucky,” you said, your voice steady despite the rush of heat coursing through you. “You can do anything to me.”

For a moment, he stilled, the weight of your words sinking in. He swallowed hard, his dark eyes softening as if the trust you’d given him meant more than he could express. Then, a slow, confident smirk tugged at his lips.

He kissed you again—brief, a teasing peck that left you wanting. Sitting up slightly, you reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. It fell to the floor, forgotten. You were left in nothing but your underwear—a dark blue set you’d picked on a whim, something prettier than your usual, though you’d never guessed it would matter so much tonight.

His gaze swept over you, lingering, darkening with desire. His nearly black eyes burned as if memorizing every inch of you. The slight hitch in his breath was all the confirmation you needed.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe, his eyes tracing the contours of your body as though committing you to memory. The way he looked at you made you feel like more than beautiful—it made you feel like art, something to be cherished and admired.

His lips traveled down your neck, their warmth leaving a trail of fire that seeped into your skin. Gentle, reverent, and yet charged with an intensity that set your nerves alight, his kisses carried a heat that no blanket could rival. Despite the sweltering summer air pressing against the room, you craved this heat, welcomed it, especially when it came from him.

His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every touch. One hand cupped your breast, the other tracing lazy circles along your ribs before his lips replaced his fingers. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch. Pleasure bloomed under his care, sharp and exquisite, like the first taste of forbidden fruit.

With a deft motion, he pushed the fabric of your bra aside, baring your breast to his hungry gaze. His lips descended, soft yet searing, as his tongue flicked over your nipple, exploring and tasting like a man starved. The sensation sent a shiver through you, your body responding with a quiet moan when his teeth grazed the sensitive peak.

His free hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as if proximity alone could express what words could not. In a swift, practiced motion, he unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, his movements fluid and precise. On any other night, you might have teased him for his efficiency, but now, all you could do was revel in the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good,” you breathed, the words tumbling from your lips unbidden. His skilled tongue danced across your nipple, teasing and biting, while his hand lavished attention on your other breast, kneading it with gentle care. The contrast between the sharpness of his teeth and the softness of his touch created a perfect harmony, leaving you gasping.

“I’m not planning to stop,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough with promise. His hand began its descent, trailing down your body with an almost worshipful attention. He didn’t rush, savoring every curve, every hollow, as if memorizing the map of you. His fingers lingered on your waist, your hips, your stomach, their touch igniting sparks that made you squirm beneath him.

As his lips followed the path his hand had taken, his tongue left a scorching trail across your skin. Every kiss, every caress, unraveled you further, leaving you whimpering and gasping for breath. The sounds that escaped you were raw and unfamiliar, born of a pleasure so intense it was almost terrifying—and yet, you craved more.

Your hands found his arms, the corded strength beneath your fingers grounding you even as you floated in a haze of sensation. When you opened your eyes, a pout formed on your lips as you realized he was still fully clothed.

“This feels unfair,” you murmured, pushing him gently away with a playful shove. With a burst of determination, you straddled him, reversing your positions. His brow arched at the shift, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he allowed you to take control.

“It feels unfair to see you still dressed,” you continued, your voice sultry as you tugged at the hem of his shirt.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as his hands moved to help. But you swatted them away, shaking your head. “That’s my job,” you said, your words teasing but firm.

Slowly, you began unbuttoning his shirt, taking your time with each one. The deliberate pace wasn’t for efficiency—it was for the sheer joy of revealing him inch by inch, watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. His skin was warm, taut, and irresistible.

As you worked your way down, you leaned in, pressing soft kisses along his neck, down his collarbone, and across his chest. He let you guide him, his head tilting back, his lips parting in a quiet exhale of pleasure. When the last button was undone, you pushed the fabric aside, baring him completely to you.

For a moment, you just looked at him, marveling at the way he seemed both strong and vulnerable beneath you. And then you leaned down, letting your lips explore his skin, savoring the salt and warmth of him as your fingers traced the hard lines of his body.

Quickly, he shrugged off his shirt, tossing it carelessly in the same direction as your discarded dress and bra. The fabric landed somewhere forgotten, but the man before you was anything but. Though you’d seen him shirtless before, this time it was different. This time, you didn’t have to avert your eyes, pretending you weren’t staring when you were. Now, you could let your gaze roam freely, drinking him in the same way he devoured the sight of you, his eyes lingering on your bare chest.

And there was so much to take in.

He was shaped like a god—broad shoulders that seemed built to bear the weight of the world, a tapered waist most would envy, and muscles that moved beneath his skin like poetry in motion. But it was the scars that captured you. They told a story, a painful testament to everything he had endured. They marked him, not as broken, but as someone who had survived battles most could never comprehend.

Your expression softened as your eyes traveled over him, and you leaned in, pressing your lips gently to the first scar you saw—a smaller one near his collarbone. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sound raw and unguarded, as if no one had ever dared to touch him there, let alone kiss him. He didn’t even remember how he’d gotten that particular scar.

You moved slowly, reverently, your lips tracing each jagged mark, each uneven line etched into his skin. With every soft kiss, you felt the tension in his body begin to melt away. At first, he seemed unsure, his muscles taut beneath your touch, but as you continued, he relaxed bit by bit, surrendering to the tenderness you offered so freely.

To him, those scars had always been grotesque reminders of his past—of pain, loss, and things he’d rather forget. But here, now, with you lavishing them with love, they felt different. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel ugly or ashamed. He felt... cherished.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He didn’t care if you saw it, because he knew—he knew—you wouldn’t judge him. You’d only love him. You’d love him the same way you always had, patiently, quietly, steadfastly.

And you did.

You hadn’t said the words yet; they felt too monumental for this fragile, burgeoning moment. You understood that Bucky needed to take things one step at a time, and you were okay with that. Because even without the words, he showed you how he felt. In the way he always thought of you, the little things he did. How he ordered from restaurants he didn’t particularly like just because you loved them. How he listened to you ramble about your day or sing off-key to your favorite songs without complaint. How he sat through the “essential” 21st-century movies you made him watch, even the ones he found ridiculous.

Bucky wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of actions.

When your lips found that scar where flesh gave way to metal, his breath hitched again. This scar was different. It was rawer, harsher—a jagged edge where his humanity ended, and the cold, unyielding metal began. It was a scar he hated, one that still ached on bad days, a reminder of what he had lost.

But you kissed it as if it was no different from the rest of him, as if it was just another part of his story, of him. Your lips lingered, pressing warmth into the unfeeling metal, and he closed his eyes. More tears slipped free, unbidden, but they weren’t just tears of sadness. They were something more profound.

It wasn’t just love he felt from you; it was acceptance. Complete, unconditional acceptance. Of who he had been. Of who he was now. And most importantly, of who he was becoming.

“Let me take care of you, James.”

The sound of his given name on your lips made his eyes snap open. The way you said it—softly, reverently, as though it was the only name that mattered—set something off inside him. When he looked at you, he saw the universe in your eyes. No one had ever looked at him like this before, like he was everything. Like he was your everything.

And he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He pulled you to him, his hands firm but trembling with restraint, and kissed you as though the world were ending. As though you were the only thing worth saving in the wreckage. His lips claimed yours with an intensity that spoke of hunger, of longing, of love so raw it scared him. He kissed you like you were the best damn thing to ever happen to him—because you were.

When he finally pulled back, his chest rising and falling heavily, he gave you a smile that nearly undid you. It was soft and full of a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. His eyes, deep pools of love and trust, held you captive, saying more than words ever could.

That look was all you needed before leaning down, starting your slow, deliberate journey down his body.

Your hands trailed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles and scars with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. You scratched lightly around his ribs, your nails dragging in a way that sent shivers through him. Your tongue flicked playfully at his nipple, teasing him with a warm, wet touch before nipping it lightly with your teeth.

He groaned, his body shifting on the bed, a mix of surprise and pleasure flashing across his face. He looked down at you, a half-hearted glare in his darkened eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Deep down, he didn’t want you to stop. The sharp sting of your bite was a pleasure he hadn’t known he could enjoy, because he knew it came from you. And with you, he trusted completely.

His eyes fluttered closed as your hands drifted lower, deftly undoing his belt. Slowly, deliberately, you opened it, savoring the moment while your tongue continued its exploration of his chest, down his stomach, tracing every ridge and hollow. You took your time, drinking him in like a work of art, tasting him as though he were your favorite flavor.

When his hips lifted to help you slide his pants down, your breath caught in your throat. The sight of him, bare and ready for you, made your mouth water. You didn’t bother hiding your hunger. You’d thought about savoring the moment, teasing him, but tonight your patience was nowhere to be found.

“Can I taste you, Sergeant?”

Your voice was sultry, and the smirk that curled your lips was wicked. You watched his cock twitch at the sound of his rank on your tongue, and it thrilled you. His eyes snapped to yours, darker than you’d ever seen them, devoid of the usual gentle blue hues. There was no innocence left in his gaze—just unbridled desire.

“Can I suck this beautiful cock?” you purred, your voice dripping with want.

His breath hitched, and just when he thought you couldn’t surprise him more, you reached for his left arm—the metal one. The arm that had brought so much fear to others and yet made you look at him with awe. Gently, you guided it over your head, locking his gaze.

“Will you show me how you like it?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky Barnes was speechless. You, with your teasing smirk and bold confidence, had rendered him completely at a loss for words. He stared at you, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Finally, he nodded.

But you weren’t going to let him off that easy. Smirking, you mimicked his earlier words, tilting your head. “I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your belly. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just hard enough to remind you that while you were in control for the moment, he could take it back whenever he wanted. The hold was firm but careful, his touch a perfect blend of dominance and care, leaving you breathless.

When a moan slipped from your lips at the pressure, he nearly lost it. The sound of your pleasure, the sight of you beneath him, drove him to the edge. He swallowed hard, his voice rasping when he finally spoke.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want with me, doll,” he breathed, his words like a prayer offered to a goddess.

Then he pulled you into a kiss—rough, passionate, claiming. His teeth caught your lower lip, biting down just enough to draw a groan from you, the sound vibrating against his mouth.

You pulled away from him, your hands firm but teasing as you pushed him back onto the bed. His body yielded to you easily, his left hand still tangled in your hair, the grip soft and almost reverent now. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, stayed locked on yours, watching your every move as if he couldn’t bear to look away.

Settling yourself on the bed between his legs, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the taut muscles of his stomach. Slowly, deliberately, your tongue traced a path downward, tasting the salt of his skin. When you reached his navel, you circled it lazily, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you.

Your hand came to rest on his thigh, steadying yourself as you lowered your head further, your lips skimming along the base of his hardening length. Without breaking eye contact, you nipped at the sensitive skin just beneath his base, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His hand twitched in your hair, his grip tightening ever so slightly, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t pull you away.

He wouldn’t stop you.

He wouldn’t dare.

When you pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock, he twitched again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about the ways he might die, but now he was certain of one thing: it would be your tongue that would end him. Definitely your tongue.

That very tongue was now dragging along his length, from tip to base and back again, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch. He was growing harder under your touch, and you relished the way his breath grew ragged with each lick, each kiss. When you lapped up the bead of pre-cum at his tip, you hummed softly, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

“I can’t wait to taste you for real,” you murmured, your voice thick with promise.

He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever words he’d planned to say vanished the moment you lowered your head and took him fully into your mouth. The guttural moan that escaped him sent heat pooling between your thighs, your body responding to the raw, sinful sound of his pleasure. You could have come undone just from his voice alone.

At first, your movements were slow, your head bobbing gently as you adjusted to the weight and feel of him. Your tongue flattened against the underside of his cock, teasing the sensitive ridge as you hollowed your cheeks. His hands tightened in your hair, guiding you without forcing, but when you spoke again, your words set something alight in him.

“I want you to show me, Sergeant,” you said, your voice sultry and daring. “Use me however you want.”

His eyes widened, the dark blue of his irises nearly swallowed by black. The sultry tone of your command, paired with the sheer want in your gaze, made something snap in him. He didn’t need to be told twice.

“Good girl,” he breathed, his voice rough as his hands guided your movements, his fingers tightening their hold in your hair. You moaned around him at the praise, and the vibration sent a shudder through his entire body.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, his words spilling out between breaths. His head fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving. “Such a good girl for me.”

You whined softly at his praise, the sound muffled but unmistakable. His lips curved into a grin, even as his body betrayed how tightly he was holding onto his control. “Look at that,” he said, his tone both teasing and affectionate. “Someone’s kinky.”

Your hum of affirmation sent another jolt of sensation through him, pulling a ragged moan from his throat. His hips bucked slightly, but he restrained himself, letting you keep the pace. For now.

But as your movements quickened, your enthusiasm matched only by the need burning in your eyes, he realized he wasn’t going to last much longer.

&&&&&&&

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last much longer,” he murmured, voice husky and strained. His head fell back against the pillow, lips parting to say more, but the words died on his tongue when your pace quickened, your determination unwavering. The heat of your mouth, the soft press of your lips, and the way your hand cupped and squeezed him—it was all too much.

A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, holding you as though letting go would shatter him entirely. His hips lifted instinctively, his body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure as he spilled into your mouth. "Oh, god, right there, baby," he groaned, the sound rough and unfiltered, pure bliss etched into every syllable.

When the waves of release finally ebbed, his grip lingered in your hair, unaware until your gentle touch coaxed his hand free. "Sorry," he whispered, voice hoarse and apologetic as his fingers brushed over your scalp soothingly.

You leaned up to kiss him, your lips warm and soft against his. But his response surprised you—hungry, fervent, as if tasting you wasn’t enough, as if he needed you closer, deeper. He pulled you into his arms, his hold reverent yet possessive, and the kiss left you breathless.

“You are the most amazing woman ever,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t help but laugh, settling yourself over his stomach, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You’d tell that to any woman who’d suck you off,” you teased, your smile playful.

His hand cupped your cheek gently, halting your laughter. The tenderness in his eyes was staggering, like he could see through every wall you’d ever built.

“No,” he said, voice low and steady, each word sinking deep into your soul. “I care for you more than I thought I had it in me to care about someone. You’ve become so important to me, so fast, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. Because I can’t imagine my world without you.” His thumb stroked your cheek, his touch grounding. “So, no, doll,” he added, the nickname a soft caress on his lips. “I wouldn’t say that to anyone else. There’s no one but you.”

His kiss was sweet this time, unhurried, filled with a quiet kind of passion that made your heart ache in the best way. But as your hips shifted against him, you felt him stir beneath you, his body reacting with a swiftness that sent heat pooling in your belly.

A moan escaped you when you felt his growing arousal press against your core, his readiness unmistakable. His hands moved to your hips, grounding you as his fingers curled into the waistband of your underwear. You lifted just enough for him to slip the delicate fabric down, tossing it aside without a second thought.

“Today’s about you, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his in a feather-light kiss. “I want to show you how amazing you are, how you make me feel, and how much I…” You faltered for a moment, your vulnerability catching up to you. Swallowing, you smiled softly. “How much I care for you.”

Before he could respond, you guided him to your entrance, the heat of him against you making your breath hitch. Slowly, you sank down onto him, a shared moan escaping as he stretched and filled you completely.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips firmly, though not harshly. His gaze was locked on you, watching the way you moved, the way your body welcomed him. “So perfect. Such a good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver through you, your walls fluttering around him in response. “Bucky,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest. “You’re so big… feels so good!”

He grinned, a wicked edge to his smile, and thrust up into you with a controlled strength that stole the air from your lungs. “I’m not stopping, doll,” he rasped, his voice laced with promise.

Before you could fully comprehend, he shifted you effortlessly, rolling you onto your back. Now he towered over you, his body a protective shield, his movements precise and powerful. His lips brushed your ear as his hand trailed down your stomach, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“There she is,” he murmured with a chuckle, his fingers teasing your clit just enough to make your toes curl.

The combination of his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you and the delicious friction of his fingers had you seeing stars. Your cries filled the room, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his movements unrelenting, yet careful in a way that spoke of his care for you. “So perfect for me. God, I could do this forever.”

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the intensity of it all—the connection, the pleasure, the raw intimacy. It wasn’t just sex; it was something deeper, something that felt like home.

As his pace quickened, you felt the tension building within you, every nerve ending alight. “Bucky,” you cried out, clutching at his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that felt like a vow. His voice was low, rough with emotion, as he whispered, “I need you to cum for me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, a soft, breathy "Bucky—" on your lips, but then his fingers found your clit again, moving in that maddeningly skilled way that turned your thoughts into static. The tension inside you unraveled with explosive force, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body trembled, your head falling back, and you felt like you were floating, like he’d untethered you from reality itself.

“God,” you managed to breathe, your eyes fluttering open as you tried to thank him. But before you could form the words, his hips surged forward, and he was moving inside you again, drawing a startled cry from your lips.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your own. “So perfect for me.” His mouth descended on yours, capturing your gasp in a kiss so deep it felt like he was stealing the air from your lungs.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, the praise falling from his lips like a benediction. The way your body responded to his words made him chuckle, a low, wicked sound that sent a thrill down your spine. “You like that, huh? You like being my good girl.”

Before you could reply, his pace quickened, his fingers expertly teasing your clit once more. His mouth traveled down, capturing your nipple between his lips, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to draw soft, helpless moans from you. The warmth of his mouth, the steady thrust of his hips, and the relentless circling of his fingers sent another wave of pleasure building within you.

“I’m close, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “But I need you to cum for me again. One more time, doll. Just one more.”

No man had ever made you feel the way Bucky did. No one had ever cared to learn your body like this, to make you feel so utterly cherished, so thoroughly undone. You shook your head weakly, overwhelmed. “I can’t, Bucky,” you gasped. “I’m still—”

“Yes, you can, babygirl,” he growled, cutting you off. His hands tightened on your hips, grounding you as he drove into you with a force that left you breathless. “I know you can. You’re my good girl, and you’re gonna cum for me.”

The commanding edge to his voice sent a thrill racing through you, and the coil of pleasure tightened in your belly once more. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Come for me. Now,” he ordered, his voice a low, gravelly demand that sent you spiraling over the edge.

You cried out his name, your body shuddering beneath him as your orgasm tore through you. Your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint, reddened trails, but if he felt the sting, he didn’t care. The moment your walls clenched around him, he let go, his movements turning erratic as he spilled into you with a deep, guttural groan.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were your labored breaths, the quiet hum of the world beyond forgotten in the aftermath of your shared release. Bucky’s body was warm against yours, his weight a comforting presence, though he somehow managed to hold himself up just enough not to crush you.

After a moment, he rolled to the side, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He turned to you, his eyes wide, his expression suddenly serious.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow. His reaction made your stomach twist, but before you could say more, he sat up abruptly, his gaze darting around the room nervously.

“I…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I came inside you.” His voice was laced with guilt, and he looked at you as though he’d committed some unforgivable sin. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

Realizing what he meant, you reached for him, your hand cupping his cheek gently. “Bucky, it’s okay,” you said, your voice soft and reassuring. You tilted your head toward the small scar on your hip, showing him the faint outline of your IUD. “I’m covered. You don’t need to worry.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, but his brow furrowed again. “Still, I should have asked. I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off with a kiss, tender and full of affection. “You’re the sweetest man ever,” you murmured, your fingers brushing against his cheek. Your smile was the one you always gave him when you wanted to chase away his doubts. “But you don’t need to worry. I wanted you to.”

His eyes softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he let out a shaky breath. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “In that case,” he said, a hint of his usual playfulness returning, “you were amazing, doll. Absolutely amazing.”

“So were you,” you replied with a grin.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “For going on that date with me.”

Your heart melted at the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in his world. Was it those old-fashioned 1940s charms, or was it just Bucky? Either way, it made your chest ache with something too big to name.

“The best date of my life,” you told him, meaning every word.

He smiled at that, his hand finding yours. “C’mon, doll,” he said, his tone soft but warm. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

And as he led you to the bathroom, his touch gentle and his eyes full of adoration, you couldn’t help but think that this—this connection, this feeling—was worth everything.

---

After the night you spent together, something shifted between you and Bucky.

It wasn’t dramatic or earth-shattering, but it was there—this quiet, unspoken understanding. It hung in the air between you like the faint scent of rain, subtle but impossible to ignore. You were together now, bound by something deeper, something that needed no words to define. Every teasing glance, every soft touch, every shared smile—they carried a gravity that hadn’t been there before, a kind of sacred weight that made your chest ache with warmth.

The house, too, seemed to reflect this change. In just three weeks, you and Bucky had breathed life into what had once been little more than a forgotten relic. Dusty floorboards now gleamed, rooms once choked with cobwebs now felt open and full of promise. Of course, most of that transformation was thanks to Bucky—his strong hands, his quiet determination, his uncanny ability to make even the most daunting task seem simple. But you liked to think you’d helped in your own way, even if it was just by being there—keeping him company, making sure he didn’t forget to eat, or distracting him with your clumsy attempts at “helping.”

One evening, as you stood in the doorway of the now-finished kitchen, you couldn’t help but marvel at what the two of you had accomplished. The counters sparkled in the golden light of sunset, the new appliances gleamed, and the faint, clean scent of fresh paint lingered in the air.

“This place looks incredible,” you said, your voice soft with awe.

“Not bad for three weeks,” Bucky replied, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His voice carried a note of pride, though his expression was as relaxed and easy as always.

“Not bad at all,” you agreed, smiling at him. But then you couldn’t resist adding, “Though I think I deserve at least half the credit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into that irresistible smirk that always made your knees feel just a little weaker. “Half? Doll, you almost took out the drywall with a hammer on day two.”

“Details,” you said with a wave of your hand. “I was the emotional support. That counts for something.”

His laugh was low and rich, the sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He crossed the room, his presence filling the space as he stopped in front of you. “Yeah, it does,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart stutter, and you barely had time to catch your breath before he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

---

As amazing as things felt between you, there was still a secretive edge to it all.

The decision to keep your relationship quiet had been mutual, though it wasn’t without its complications. It wasn’t shame or uncertainty that kept you silent—it was the weight of Bucky’s world. His life had always been lived under a microscope, every move dissected and analyzed by those who cared for him. His friends meant well, but they had a way of meddling, of poking and teasing and offering unsolicited advice. And so, for now, you both chose to hold this fragile, perfect thing close, safe from prying eyes.

One evening, as you sat together on the porch, the horizon blazed with the deep oranges and purples of a dying sun. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of pine, and the world felt perfectly still. You were leaning against him, your head resting on his shoulder, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice low and tinged with something heavy.

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised. “For what?”

“For not telling anyone,” he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as if he were bracing himself. “For asking you to keep this between us.”

“Bucky…” you began, your heart twisting at the guilt in his voice.

He shook his head, his blue eyes finally meeting yours, filled with a vulnerability that stole your breath. “You deserve better,” he said, the words raw and quiet. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to hide how they feel about you.”

Your fingers found his, threading together as you held his gaze. “I’m not hiding,” you said softly. “I’m just waiting. And I’m okay with waiting—for you.”

His breath caught, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. The air between you felt charged, every unsaid word passing through that space, heavy with meaning.

“Are you sure?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll tell them. Until then, I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension in his frame melted away, his shoulders sagging with relief. He pulled you close, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss that felt like a promise.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

“Always,” you replied, letting your eyes slip closed as you leaned into him. Together, you sat in silence, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded into twilight, the stars beginning to blink awake one by one.

In that quiet, sacred moment, you knew without a doubt that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. And that, more than anything, was enough.

---

Keeping your relationship with Bucky a secret had seemed like the right decision.

It wasn’t about hiding. It was about holding onto something precious, something new and fragile, just a little while longer. Bucky needed time to adjust—to let himself believe that happiness wasn’t fleeting, that this bond between you was real and wouldn’t be taken away. You understood that, so waiting felt like a small price to pay.

But there was one thing neither of you had accounted for: Sam Wilson.

Sam had an uncanny ability to read people. He wasn’t nosy, but once he noticed that Bucky had returned from your date with a rare, unguarded smile, the wheels in his head started turning. It was only a matter of time before he connected the dots—and naturally, he spilled the news to Steve Rogers. And the thing about Steve was that while he was the embodiment of loyalty and good intentions, he wasn’t exactly subtle.

---

The celebration started off perfectly.

The small party you and Bucky hosted to mark the near-completion of the house had everything: good food, warm laughter, and a sense of accomplishment that filled the air like the smell of fresh paint. The living room buzzed with chatter as your friends admired the transformation.

“It’s amazing,” Natasha said, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Didn’t think Barnes had it in him to pick out curtains.”

“Those were my contributions,” you replied with a grin, earning a small chuckle from her.

In the kitchen, you and Bucky worked together to set up the drinks. He was pouring whiskey into glasses with practiced ease while you arranged a platter of snacks, sneaking a glance at him every so often. The way the soft, golden light from the kitchen window played on his features made your chest tighten. This felt right—building something with him, being part of his life.

And then Sam walked in.

“Well, well, well,” he announced loudly, a grin splitting his face as he leaned against the doorframe. “Look at the happy couple!”

The room fell into a stunned silence, like a record scratching to a halt. For a beat, no one moved. Then, as if a dam had burst, the chatter shifted into excited whispers and laughter.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back with enough force to make him stagger slightly. “Knew you had it in you, pal,” he said, grinning like a proud older brother.

Tony, never one to miss an opportunity to stir the pot, raised his glass in a mock toast. “About damn time, Barnes. I thought you were going to let this one slip through your fingers.”

Natasha smirked from her spot in the corner, her knowing gaze flicking between you and Bucky like she’d figured it out long ago.

Bucky’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his body went rigid beside you. His jaw tightened, and his hand, which had been resting on the counter, curled into a fist. His expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his blue eyes as he turned to face Steve and Sam.

“You told them?” His voice was low, laced with simmering anger.

Steve raised his hands in defense, his wide-eyed expression betraying his guilt. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Bucky snapped, cutting him off. His words were sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Sam, ever the unapologetic instigator, shrugged with an infuriating grin. “Come on, man. It’s not like it was a big secret. We all saw it coming. We’re happy for you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning cold and cutting. “It wasn’t your story to tell. It’s my life. My choice.”

The hum of conversation that had begun to pick back up quickly died again, leaving an uncomfortable, heavy silence in its wake. All eyes turned toward Bucky, the tension in the room palpable.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your hand brushing against his arm, hoping to anchor him.

He glanced at you, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened. But the hurt and frustration in his eyes didn’t fade. “I need some air,” he muttered, his voice tight and clipped.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sound of the back door closing behind him echoing like a final note in an unfinished song.

You stood frozen for a moment, torn between following him and facing the room.

Your gaze landed on Sam and Steve, and a sharp wave of frustration surged through you. They looked guilty enough—Steve with his sheepish frown, Sam with his slightly deflated bravado—but that didn’t stop the words from spilling out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you demanded, your voice low but firm enough to cut through the awkward silence.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting on his hips. “We didn’t mean to upset him,” he said, his tone apologetic. “We’re just… happy for him. For both of you.”

“That’s not the point,” you snapped, your frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t about you. Do you have any idea how hard it was for him to let me in? To trust that this could be something real?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Look, we get it. He’s been through hell. But we’re his friends. We’re on his side.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to decide when he’s ready to share this with the world,” you shot back, your tone sharp. “You might think you were doing him a favor, but all you did was take away his choice.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged, guilt written all over his face. “We were out of line,” he admitted quietly. “We didn’t think about how much this would mean to him.”

“No, you didn’t,” you agreed, your voice softening just slightly. “He’s angry, and he has every right to be.”

Sam sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. We messed up. I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I’ll handle it. Just… give him some space.”

---

You found Bucky on the back porch.

He was leaning against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in soft shades of lavender and gold. His shoulders were tense, his hands gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles were white.

You stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against your skin as you closed the door behind you. “Hey,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He glanced at you, the tension in his face easing slightly. “You don’t have to be out here,” he muttered. “Go back inside.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said gently, stepping closer. “Bucky, I’m sorry. They shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault,” he interrupted, his voice rough. He turned to face you fully, his blue eyes filled with frustration and hurt. “I just… I wanted this to be ours for a little while longer.”

“It still is,” you said, reaching out to take his hand. “What we have doesn’t change just because they know.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his grip tightening slightly. “It feels like it does,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like it’s not just ours anymore.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Then let’s make them understand. This is your life, Bucky. No one else gets to decide how you live it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as he pulled you into his arms. “I’m lucky to have you,” he murmured into your hair.

“You always will,” you replied, your voice steady and sure.

And in that moment, as the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, you knew you’d face whatever came next—together.

---

Title: Just James

James Buchanan Barnes is not an easy man to define.

For decades, the world has known him by his titles: The Winter Soldier. Hydra’s Ghost. The Soldier with a Shattered Mind. For a long time, those labels seemed to stick, as if they were the only things he’d ever been or could be.

But spend a little time with him, and you’ll find that James Barnes is so much more than his past.

When you meet him, the first thing you notice is his presence. It’s not the commanding kind—it’s quieter, steadier, like the deep roots of an old oak tree. He doesn’t need to say much to make an impression. It’s in the way he moves, the way he listens, the way he watches everything and everyone with a quiet intensity that speaks of someone who has seen too much but still manages to care.

Caring is, in fact, at the heart of who James Barnes is.

He is the kind of friend who will notice when you’re having a bad day and quietly make it better without ever drawing attention to himself. Maybe it’s a warm cup of coffee placed in front of you without a word, or a small fix to something broken that you didn’t even know he’d noticed. He doesn’t make grand gestures; he makes small, thoughtful ones that linger long after they’re done.

James Barnes is also a man who, despite everything, has a surprisingly sharp sense of humor. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it—a dry comment here, a teasing smirk there. He doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it’s the kind of laugh that makes the room feel warmer.

And then there’s the charm.

He’ll deny it if you ask, but there’s no mistaking the trace of 1940s Brooklyn ladies’ man still lingering in his DNA. It’s in the way he leans against a doorframe, arms crossed, with that faint, lopsided grin that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s in the way he says “doll” like it’s second nature, with a teasing edge that somehow feels both old-fashioned and timeless.

But beneath the charm, beneath the humor, lies a vulnerability that few people get to see. It’s in the way he sometimes hesitates before opening up, the way he gets quiet when the conversation drifts too close to old wounds. James Barnes is a man carrying more weight than most of us could imagine, but what makes him extraordinary is the way he still manages to move forward.

He doesn’t see himself as a hero, but in many ways, that’s exactly what he is.

James Barnes is the friend who will drop everything to help you. He’s the man who will put others’ needs above his own, even when he’s struggling. He’s the kind of person who makes you believe in second chances, not just for him, but for yourself, too.

He’s funny, and thoughtful, and maddeningly stubborn. He’ll tease you relentlessly, but if anyone else dares to so much as look at you wrong, they’ll regret it. He’ll hold your hand when you’re scared, fix things you didn’t know were broken, and somehow make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who truly matters.

James Barnes is not defined by his past. He is not the Winter Soldier. He is not a title or a label or a ghost of what once was.

He is a man. A man who deserves love, happiness, and everything good this world has to offer.

And for those lucky enough to know him, he’s so much more than that.

He’s James.

And that’s enough.

---

Title: A chance to live

James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

It’s not because he doesn’t want it or wouldn’t welcome it—it’s because he doesn’t believe he deserves it. For so long, the weight of his past has felt like a life sentence, something permanent and unchangeable. Every scar on his body, every memory forced into his mind, every name he can’t forget—they’ve all told him the same thing: that he is broken, irredeemable, and unworthy of anything good.

But James Barnes doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

What he asks for is something simpler, something quieter, something more human: a chance to live.

When you spend time with Bucky, you see the effort it takes for him to move through the world. The way he still flinches when someone approaches him from behind. The way his hands tremble just slightly when he’s surrounded by too many people. The way he avoids mirrors, as if afraid of who—or what—he might see staring back at him.

But you also see the will.

The will to keep going, even on the days when the past feels too heavy to bear. The will to change, to be better, to be someone he can look in the eye and not hate. The will to laugh, to connect, to open up—even when it scares him.

James Barnes doesn’t want to be a hero. He doesn’t want to be remembered for his deeds or honored for his sacrifices. He doesn’t want a statue or a medal or a parade.

He just wants what so many of us take for granted: a life of his own.

He wants to wake up in the morning and not dread the day ahead. He wants to walk down the street without feeling like a ghost. He wants to sit on the porch of his house—the house he’s worked so hard to rebuild—and feel the warmth of the sun on his face without worrying about what might be lurking in the shadows.

He wants to love and be loved in return.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t expect the world to forgive him. He doesn’t expect to erase the past or undo the harm that was done. But he hopes—quietly, desperately—that the world might let him try. That it might give him the space to rebuild himself, to find something worth holding onto, to create a future that isn’t defined by the horrors of his past.

And maybe, just maybe, if the world can give him that chance, he can begin to forgive himself.

Because beneath the layers of guilt and grief, beneath the scars and the shadows, is a man who wants nothing more than to live.

And James Barnes, for all that he’s been through, for all that he’s endured, deserves that chance.

He deserves to live.

---

The evening was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

The soft golden glow of a single lamp illuminated the room as you handed Bucky the articles. Your hands trembled slightly, though you tried to mask it, and your heart raced with a nervous anticipation that made your chest ache. He took the papers from you with a small, curious smile, his calloused fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Then, he sat down, the weight of the moment settling heavily in the air.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint rustling of the paper as he turned the pages. Each sound was magnified, echoing in your ears like the ticking of a clock. You watched him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes moved across the words, his expression flickering between concentration and something softer—something almost fragile.

These articles weren’t just words on a page. They were pieces of your heart laid bare, fragments of everything you saw in him: his strength, his resilience, his capacity for love, even after all the pain he had endured. They were a mirror, reflecting the man he had become, not the man he feared he was.

When he finally finished, he placed the papers down on the table with deliberate care. He didn’t look up immediately, and your stomach twisted with doubt. Had you said too much? Was it too personal? Too raw?

But then he looked at you, and the breath caught in your throat. His blue-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears, the kind he rarely let anyone see. The vulnerability in his gaze made your chest tighten, and you suddenly understood that this wasn’t just about the articles. This was about him confronting a version of himself he wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The silence felt like a taut string, ready to snap, and your heart pounded with every passing second.

Then, finally, he broke it.

“This… this is incredible,” he said, his voice low and steady, though it trembled slightly at the edges.

Your cheeks flushed, and you gave him a small, shy smile. “I’m glad you think so. I just… I wanted people to see you the way I see you.”

He stared at you as if he couldn’t quite believe the words you’d spoken. His expression was raw and unguarded, the kind of openness he rarely allowed himself.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “How you make me feel like this—like I’m more than what I’ve done. Like I’m worth something.”

“Because you are,” you said simply, your voice soft but firm. You reached out, taking his hand in yours.

The warmth of his touch, the way his fingers instinctively tightened around yours, felt like an unspoken promise. He held your gaze, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet glow of the room.

Then, he spoke again, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and beautiful. He said them as if he was testing their weight, as if he wasn’t entirely sure they would hold. But the way his hand tightened around yours, the way his eyes searched yours, told you he meant them.

“I love you,” he said again, more certain this time, his voice steady. “I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say that again. But I do. I love you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you leaned forward. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing lightly over the faint stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He pulled you into his arms then, his hold firm but gentle, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. His lips found yours, and the kiss was slow, tender, and filled with all the things he couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t just an expression of love—it was an affirmation, a quiet acknowledgment of everything you had built together.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hands stayed on your waist, anchoring you to him, as if he needed the physical connection to keep himself grounded.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft and sincere.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For giving me this,” he said simply. “For giving me a chance.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You gave yourself that chance, Bucky. I just helped you see it.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression shifting to something resolute, something stronger.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he said quietly. “But… I think I’m ready. If you want to publish this—if you think the world should see it—then let’s do it. Let’s tell them.”

Your heart swelled with pride and love, and you leaned forward to kiss him again, your hands still cradling his face. The kiss was softer this time, but no less meaningful.

When you pulled back, you searched his eyes for any hint of doubt, but all you saw was determination. “Are you sure?” you asked, your voice trembling with emotion.

He nodded, his expression steady and sure. “Yeah. I’m sure. I want them to know the truth—not just about what I was, but about who I am now. About the people who’ve helped me get here.”

A lump formed in your throat as you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over his skin. “Okay,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “We’ll do this together.”

He smiled then, a small but genuine smile that lit up his face in a way that made your heart ache. “Together,” he echoed, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.

And as you sat there, holding each other in the quiet glow of the room, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever storms you had to weather, you knew you’d face them side by side. Together, you were unstoppable.

---

Over the next week, your series of articles began to roll out, one by one, like chapters in a story that needed to be told.

Each piece was a love letter to James Buchanan Barnes—not just the man you loved, but the many versions of him that had existed before. Each article revealed a different facet of his life, weaving together a tapestry of pain, perseverance, and quiet triumph.

The first article painted a picture of a boy from Brooklyn, a boy who loved fiercely and laughed loudly. You wrote about the way Bucky had adored his mother’s homemade meals, the nights spent teasing his sisters, and the way his father’s old stories had sparked his sense of adventure.

The next article delved into his role as a best friend. You described the steadfast loyalty he’d shown Steve Rogers, the skinny kid from Brooklyn who had a fire too big for his frame. Bucky had been his anchor, his protector, and his brother in every way that mattered.

Then came the soldier. You recounted his bravery in the field, the unwavering courage with which he faced danger, not for glory but for the men standing beside him. But you didn’t shy away from the darkness. You wrote about his fall, the horrors inflicted upon him, and the years he spent as a ghost—a weapon, stripped of identity and choice.

Yet, you balanced the shadows with light.

You wrote about the man you knew now: the way his lips curved in a rare, genuine smile when he found a stray cat or fixed a squeaky hinge; the way he cared for his friends with an understated tenderness, always putting others first even when it cost him. You wrote about his quiet resilience, his determination to rebuild his life, and his courage in confronting his demons.

And above all, you wrote about his humanity—the small, everyday moments that revealed his heart. How he’d pick up your favorite snacks without being asked. How he could spend hours tinkering with a broken toaster just because it mattered to someone. How he was learning, slowly but surely, to let himself be loved in return.

---

The response was immediate and overwhelming.

Emails, comments, and messages poured in from readers around the world.

People who had felt unseen, misunderstood, or broken wrote to say they saw themselves in his story. Veterans shared their own struggles with identity and purpose, thanking him for his honesty. Survivors of trauma found hope in his resilience. And countless others simply marveled at the raw courage it took to lay his soul bare for the world to see.

One letter, in particular, stood out. It was from a young woman in Kansas who wrote:

"I’ve never known how to tell my family about my struggles, about the things that haunt me. But reading about Bucky—about how he faces his past with so much strength—it’s inspired me to try. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to keep trying even when it feels impossible."

You read her words aloud to Bucky one night as the two of you sat together in the quiet comfort of your living room. He listened in silence, his hand resting over yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“Do you see now?” you asked softly, your voice thick with emotion. “Do you see what you mean to people?”

He didn’t reply right away. His gaze was fixed on the letter in your hands, his expression a mix of wonder and disbelief.

---

For Bucky, the most profound response came from within.

Each evening, he would sit quietly and read your articles. At first, it was difficult. The words felt too raw, too vulnerable, like staring at an unflinching mirror. But as the week went on, something began to shift.

The boy who loved fiercely, the best friend who stood unwavering, the soldier who fought bravely, the man who was shattered and rebuilt piece by piece—they were all him. Not ghosts. Not shadows.

Him.

And for the first time in a long time, he began to believe it.

He no longer felt like a relic of the past, a man defined only by his mistakes and the damage done to him. He began to feel whole, as if the fragments of his life were finally coming together to form something stronger, something true.

One evening, as he finished the last article, he closed his laptop and turned to you. His blue-gray eyes were clear, steady, but there was a softness there too—a quiet peace you hadn’t seen before.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice filled with a sincerity that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “For what?”

“For showing me the parts of myself I couldn’t see,” he murmured, his arm wrapping around you. “For believing in me when I couldn’t. For reminding me that I’m more than what I’ve done.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you held them back, your voice steady. “You’ve always been more, Bucky. You just needed to see it for yourself.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there as if drawing strength from your presence. “I see it now,” he said quietly. “For the first time, I really see it.”

And in that moment, as the soft hum of the world outside faded into the background, you knew that he wasn’t just healing—he was becoming. Not the Winter Soldier. Not a hero or a villain. Just Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

A man who was no longer defined by his past but by the love and resilience that would carry him into the future.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he deserved it.

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