#james buchanan barnes x you

[blythesarchives]

To Where and Back Again. | B.B

summary: Bucky gets triggered to Winter Soldier mode, and his focus is on you.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | CW!Bucky & WS!Bucky | Fem!reader | Creepy robber | Attempted SA | Physical injuries | Tending to wounds | Some violence | Possessive behavior | Dom behavior | CNC because it's WS | Heavy petting | Love biting | Oral (M receiving)

a/n: This fic contains a brief scene of attempted SA. The scene will be marked by dividers. If you do not wish to read that bit, please skip the portions between the star dividers.

I'm not a huge fan of aggressive, 'dom!WS,' my perspective on him is completely different, but...I dunno. I figured I'd try the view that everyone seems to like more. My view on him as WS is extremely complex, and it changes depending on his healing stage. So I tried to keep true to my own views but also have some in there that people enjoy. If any Russian was translated wrong, please lmk. ;; wc: 8.4k

a/n post writing: I will not be writing this version of him again, I didn't enjoy it enough to write a dom!WS again. I considered not posting this, since I don't like how it came out, but I wanted to see if anyone enjoyed this version.

Alarms blared throughout the facility, their piercing sound echoing off metal walls as crimson emergency lights cast eerie shadows across empty corridors. In an instant, like a ghost melting into darkness, the soldier vanished from his holding cell without a trace.

No one stood a chance of apprehending him. Even Steve, with his enhanced abilities and intimate knowledge of his old friend's tactics, found himself outmaneuvered. The Winter Soldier moved with calculated precision, each step chosen to shake any pursuit. When he rounded that final corner, disappearing into the maze of hallways, Steve was left standing alone, the sound of his footsteps fading into silence.

Your heart ached with concern when you got the call he was gone.

Since relocating from his sparse, weathered apartment in Romania to your place in New York, Bucky had maintained a distance from others, choosing solitude over social interaction. Steve did try to interact, but his eagerness was too overwhelming at times and Bucky’s social battery wore out fast. Though he managed to function day to day, it was a constant struggle.

You became his anchor, sitting beside him on bundled blankets through countless nights as he huddled near the soft glow of a small lamp, piecing together fragments of his past, one memory at a time.

You were the one person he could truly lower his guard and feel secure around. Night after night, he would settle down to sleep on the floor beside your bed, finding comfort in proximity. Rather than leave him alone, you would join him there most nights, bringing blankets and pillows to make it more comfortable for him. Bucky protested each time, insisting you shouldn't abandon the comfort of your bed for his sake, but you could see in his eyes and feel in the way his body relaxed beside yours that your presence brought him peace.

So you continued to lay with him on the floor, besides, your carpeted bedroom was pretty comfortable.

When Steve's urgent call came through about Bucky's escape, a wave of intense nausea washed over you as overwhelming anxiety seized your entire body. The Winter Soldier's emergence after such a long period of dormancy filled you with dread.

The complex nature of his existence within Bucky's psyche remained too complicated to think about for long - whether he was a separate consciousness, an alternate personality, or something else entirely. You came to the conclusion that the Winter Soldier was indeed a separate identity, he was and wasn't Bucky. He had his own thoughts, his own way of thinking, his own demeanor.

And that made you extremely nervous.

You paced across your living room floor, unconsciously chewing your nails down to the quick as you tried to regain some semblance of composure.

He'd be fine...he'd be fine. He's smart, skillful, he knows how to stay out of sight and safe...he's survived worse situations before...

The persistent, gnawing fear of the soldier being captured refused to release its grip on your mind. Your thoughts spiraled into increasingly dark scenarios - heavily armed teams surrounding him, the soldier's violent resistance, and Bucky being forcibly restrained and dragged away to some unknown facility while fighting against his captors with every ounce of strength he possessed.

You really didn't want to think about it.

Steve tried his best to keep you informed of any developments, but information was frustratingly scarce. The Winter Soldier was a phantom that left no footprints, no evidence, no trail to follow. Each passing day, your heart ached with desperate wishes for his return. You constantly checked your doorstep, watching your window late into the night, hoping against hope that he would materialize there like he had so many times before. You would have settled for anything - a glimpse, a sign, even the smallest indication that he was still out there somewhere, anything at all.

The gnawing anxiety in your stomach had become an ever-present reminder of his absence. Try as you might to maintain some semblance of normalcy, your thoughts inevitably circled back to him like a compass finding true north.

Your mind raced with endless questions and scenarios, each one only making your anxiety worsen: Was he wandering the streets of some distant city? Had he found somewhere safe to lay low? Was he fighting his own battles somewhere, injured and alone?

Try as you might, your mind remained plagued.

Several weeks went by without a single notice of the soldier.

You were making your way back to your apartment complex from a nearby convenience store in the dimming evening light, carrying a small plastic bag with a few basic necessities. The street was eerily quiet, with only the distant sound of traffic and the occasional flutter of pigeons settling in for the night.

While you walked back along the familiar route, the hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stood up as rough, calloused hands grabbed you from behind, violently yanking you into the shadowy alley you were passing. The hands were merciless in their grip, tugging at your clothes and forcefully shoving you against the cold, rough surface of the brick building so he could get a better grip after disorienting you.

You felt the sharp kiss of cold steel against your throat, while another hand roughly yanked your hair back, exposing your neck further. The man who stood behind you pressed close, his hot breath spitting against your ear and cheek as he spoke. "Make this easy and don't lie to me. I know you got some money in there." His voice was low and unsteady, wavering between excitement and nervousness, like a predator who hadn't quite mastered their technique but knew enough to be dangerous.

The blade pressed harder against your neck, the cold metal beginning to warm against your skin as he repeated his demand for money with increasing urgency, the edge threatening to break skin.

You obliged without hesitation, knowing that you were alone in this dark alley with no witnesses or help in sight, desperately hoping that giving him all the cash you had would be enough to satisfy him into running off into the night. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you reached into your wallet, fumbling with the bills before pulling them out and extending them backwards toward him.

He snatched the money away from your shaking fingers with an aggressive swipe, and you could hear the rustle of paper as he counted it in the dim light. "A hundred bucks and you're carryin' around a pretty expensive bag like that?" He asked gruffly, his voice filled with suspicious disbelief as he violently ripped your purse from your arm, the strap burning against your skin as it was torn away.

Bucky gave you that bag - a beautiful leather purse you had admired longingly through the mall window months ago. He had noticed your gaze and worked extra shifts for weeks, carefully saving every dollar until he could finally surprise you with it. The memory of his proud smile when he presented it to you made your heart ache. You couldn't bear the thought of it being stolen, not when it meant so much.

"Hey, give that back - I gave you all the money I had!" Your voice cracked with desperation as you lunged forward, fingers outstretched toward your purse. The attacker's response was swift as he laid a vicious backhand that sent you sprawling onto the ground. The rough cement scraped against your palms as you tried to push yourself up, your cheek throbbing where he had struck you. Through watering eyes, you could only watch helplessly as the stranger clutched your precious bag in his grimy hands.

Without warning, his heavy boot connected with your face with a sickening crack that sent waves of pain radiating through your skull. The impact left you reeling, your world spinning as an intense burning sensation spread from your nose throughout your entire sinus cavity. Your eyes immediately welled up with involuntary tears and squeezed shut against the agony. Instinctively, you covered your nose with one trembling hand, feeling the warm wetness of blood flowing freely between your fingers, soaking into both your palm and the sleeve of your jacket.

Before you could process what was happening, a rough hand seized your throat, forcefully pinning you against the cold, damp ground beneath. The man's grip tightened with calculated pressure - just enough to immobilize you while still allowing shallow breaths.

"You're turning out to be far more trouble than this thing is worth," he growled in frustration, carelessly tossing the bag into a murky puddle that had collected near the rusted dumpster. His eyes took on a predatory gleam as they raked over you, like a prize to be had. "I think I need to take something else from you instead...and since you're not wearing any jewelry I can see..." He let the threat hang in the air. "I'll just have to improvise."

The man raised the knife to your face, the cold steel barely grazed your skin as he traced it downward, following the curve of your neck until it reached your collarbone. "I think I know exactly what I want to take," he whispered, his voice thick with malice. “You’re gonna be a good little thing, and stay still.” His hand slipped beneath your top, making you recoil at the revolting sensation of his ice-cold fingers and the rough texture of his tattered, fingerless gloves against your skin. Your instinctive struggle against his touch only served to anger him further.

"I said stop moving!" he snarled, pressing the blade against your delicate skin with more force. The sharp edge bit into your sternum, leaving a shallow cut several inches long before he began using it to slice through the fabric of your top. Pure panic overwhelmed your senses as your eyes desperately darted to your discarded purse. Your thoughts turned to Bucky - his sudden absence, his unexplained disappearance when you needed him most.

The crushing weight of helplessness threatened to suffocate you.

Self-loathing crashed over you in waves as you lay there. You weren't someone extraordinary or remarkable - you had no special training or impressive skills. What little self-defense you knew was useless against an attacker who so drastically outmatched you in both size and strength, especially now that you were injured. Bitter regret filled your mind as you berated yourself for not training harder when you had the chance, for not carrying something - anything - to defend yourself with, even a simple taser.

As you tried to block out the horrifying sound of your clothing being torn apart by his blade, your gaze was drawn once again to your purse lying just out of reach. The memory of Bucky giving it to you surfaced - how nervous he had been that day, the way his fingers fidgeted anxiously as he watched you pull it from its gift wrap.

That precious memory stood out so vividly now, the way his eyes had lit up with pure joy at your reaction. It was a rare moment of unbridled happiness for him, his smile brighter and more genuine than you had ever seen before or since that perfect day. Normally so cloudy and heavy with silent burdens, you were the one who brought that smile to his face.

The thought of Bucky suddenly triggered an overwhelming rush of adrenaline that sharpened your senses to the situation, surging through your mind like an electric current. Fragmented memories cascaded through your consciousness as you channeled every ounce of strength into a desperate defensive maneuver, squirming and positioning your feet against your attacker's midsection before unleashing a powerful kick that sent him flying backward, his body crashing heavily onto the rain-slicked ground.

“GAH - you bitch!” The man let out a pained, strangled groan with a venomous spit of words, laying as the wind had been knocked out of him for several seconds.

With your heart pounding a tattoo against your ribcage, you frantically scrambled to reorient yourself, turning onto your stomach and pushing yourself up with trembling arms. Your fingers clutched desperately at the waterlogged purse as you launched into motion.

You managed to maintain your footing as you executed a sharp turn around the alley corner, your shoes striking rhythmically against the glistening sidewalk. You were running on pure instinct now, like a frightened deer fleeing from an approaching predator. Behind you, your pursuer's voice carried through the night air, a stream of vulgar threats and curses that seemed to tear from his throat with increasing rage.

Fear kept your gaze locked firmly ahead as you pushed your body to its limits, your sole focus on reaching the sanctuary of your apartment building. The shopping bag of groceries lay forgotten somewhere in the darkness behind you, abandoned in your desperate flight. Each labored breath sent sharp pains through your chest, the cut on your sternum bled and burned while warm blood continued to trickle from your nose, creating a pulsing ache that radiated through your skull with every footfall.

The familiar silhouette of your apartment building finally emerged from the darkness ahead, though in your panicked state, you remained oblivious to the fact that the sound of pursuing footsteps had long since faded into the night's silence.

You were trembling violently as you stumbled inside the building, your legs barely supporting your weight as panic coursed through your veins. The elevator wasn't even a consideration - your mind screamed at you to run up the stairs, to get inside your apartment where you'd be safe. Your fingers, surprisingly steady despite the rest of your body's betrayal, found the key without fail and slid it into the lock with a metallic scrape that sounded deafening in the empty hallway.

The door flew open under your desperate push, and you practically threw yourself across the threshold, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your trembling hands fumbled with both locks, clicking them into place before you staggered backward, eyes fixed on the door as if it might disappear. Your lungs burned with each ragged breath, chest heaving as you tried to force air through a throat that felt too tight, too constricted. Each desperate gasp was a battle, your diaphragm spasming as it struggled to maintain any semblance of rhythm against your body's frantic demands for oxygen.

The weight of your rain-soaked purse slipped from your numb fingers, landing with a wet thud beside your dropped keys as your legs finally gave out. The survival response that had propelled you home began to ebb away as your brain registered the relative safety of your surroundings, leaving you crumpled on the floor like a marionette with cut strings. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through your body as you collapsed onto your back, and you pressed your heated skin against the cool ceramic tiles of the entryway, letting their solid presence anchor you to reality.

You remained motionless on the floor for a while, your consciousness focused solely on the relentless throbbing that pulsed through your nose with each heartbeat. The long laceration across your chest continued to weep blood, creating a warm, sticky sensation that contrasted sharply with your exposed skin. Your once-whole top now hung in tatters, split cleanly down the middle, leaving your torso vulnerable to the apartment's cool air that raised goosebumps across your flesh.

After the intense tightness in your lungs faded, you summoned the strength to push yourself up from the floor. You wanted a shower, to get all the grime off you, and you began the arduous process of removing your ruined clothing. Your soggy jacket hits the floor with a wet smack; your shirt, nothing more than scraps of fabric; and your pants, uncomfortably damp as they clung to your skin.

Standing naked in your bathroom, you stepped carefully into the shower, eager to feel clean from the dirt of the city and the hands that had been on you.

It wasn't until the shampoo made contact with your hand that you realized your palms were thoroughly scraped raw, the skin torn and angry. The sudden contact with the soap sent white-hot bolts of pain shooting through your nerve endings, making you inhale sharply through your teeth. You resisted the instinct to flick your hand and get the shampoo off, it would be pointless in the long run. You’d still have to wash yourself.

A string of colorful expletives escaped your lips in a harsh whisper, and you abandoned any notion of a thorough cleansing in favor of getting the ordeal over with as quickly as possible, your movements now hurried by the stinging sensation that refused to subside.

The warm towel you dried off with would've felt nice if you weren't still in pain, the soft fabric doing little to soothe your aching muscles. While you attempted to tend to your injured hands first, carefully examining the damage and considering what supplies you might need, your phone suddenly buzzed on the counter beside you. The notification that illuminated the screen came from Steve, a text message appearing with an American flag emoji, thoughtfully placed by his name as a joke when you first added him to your contacts.

'He's been spotted downtown in the commercial district. Going after him with a tactical team. Stay home until further notice. We will notify you immediately when he is in custody. - Steve Rogers'

You had to hold back an eye roll at his overly formal message style, your fingers awkwardly fumbling as you managed to type back a response using just two fingers that weren't bandaged.

'You don't have to put your name with every text message you send, you know. I have you saved as a contact in my phone, like everyone else does.'

A beat of silence followed, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before adding:

'Be careful.'

You didn't really mean those words of caution for him, though - your worries were entirely focused on Bucky. The Winter Soldier would stop at nothing to get away from any perceived threat or danger, and a group of heavily armed SHIELD agents pursuing him would definitely register as a serious threat in his fractured mind. You knew all too well that when cornered, his first and most deeply ingrained instinct is to kill, without hesitation or mercy.

Distracting yourself with the mounting frustration of attempting to bandage your own palms, you struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying different angles and approaches to wrap them securely enough. After about an hour of fumbling with the increasingly mangled gauze, your patience finally wore thin. You dropped the ruined medical supplies onto the bathroom counter with a defeated sigh, closing your eyes and taking several deep breaths to try to calm your rising frustration before you became too agitated to continue tending to your wounds.

The quiet but distinct sound of something shifting in the neighboring room made you freeze mid-breath, your senses suddenly heightened as your hearing narrowed in on the subtle noise. It sounded like something soft had been displaced - perhaps a throw pillow tumbling from your couch, landing with an almost imperceptible thud against the floor.

You did not own a pet. You lived alone in this apartment - well, right now you did, with Bucky on the loose.

Had the man that attempted to hurt you somehow manage to follow you here? The thought sent ice through your veins, remembering the helplessness you felt.

Your heart rate accelerated rapidly, pounding against your ribcage, but you couldn't hear the rush of blood in your ears as your senses remained hyper-focused and alert, straining to detect any additional sounds that might betray an intruder's presence in your home.

You did not have any weapons with you, scanning the bathroom frantically for anything that could serve as protection. Your eyes landed on the medicine cabinet where a simple disposable shaving razor sat innocently on the middle shelf. Not ideal, but in desperate times, a shaving razor would have to suffice if need be.

You remained completely still, ears straining in the silence as you listened intently for several minutes before gathering enough courage to peek out of the bathroom. The darkness of your apartment stretched before you like an endless void, and you silently berated yourself for not having the foresight to turn on the lights when you first heard the noise.

After you heard nothing more, you took another cautious peek, your head venturing just a little further past the bathroom door frame this time. The shadows revealed nothing unusual. Your bare feet made soft, pattering sounds as they carried you down the hallway, the plush material of the living room rug cushioning your step as you reached it.

Your attention was immediately drawn to one of the decorative throw pillows lying haphazardly on the floor, displaced from its usual position on the couch. You reached down to return it to its rightful place among the other cushions, sighing to yourself.

A thorough visual sweep revealed no obvious signs of forced entry. The windows remained securely locked, and nothing else appeared disturbed. You were probably just being paranoid from what happened earlier.

Somewhat relieved but still on edge, you turned to make your way back to the bathroom to resume tending to yourself when your blood ran cold. There, barely an arm's length away, stood a looming figure. Time seemed to freeze as he stared down at you, and the scream building in your throat was cut short when his arm shot out with lightning speed, fingers wrapping around your throat.

Terror coursed through your veins as your eyes instinctively squeezed shut, your mind convinced this was the robber from before, somehow finding you in your home like a hound tracking its prey.

His grip was calculated as he drew you closer - not crushing or aggressive, but firm enough so you had no chance of pulling away.

"Цветок [Flower]..." The voice that emerged was rough and coarse from disuse, scratching against his throat like sandpaper. You swallowed reflexively around his iron grip, your eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light until his features became clear enough to recognize.

"Bucky?" Your voice barely more than a frightened squeak, sounding small and fragile even to your own ears, every syllable quivering with poorly concealed terror as your wide eyes remained fixed on his face. "Wh...where have you been," You started to voice the countless questions that had plagued your thoughts for so long, but the words died in your throat.

This wasn't Bucky - at least, not the Bucky you knew. The evidence was written plainly across his features.

His eyes held an emptiness to them, like staring into the depths of a frozen lake - cold, bottomless, devoid of warmth or recognition. His brow was deeply furrowed in what might have appeared to be anger, but lacked the heat of genuine emotion behind it.

Instead, there was a disconcerting blend of confusion and vacancy in his expression, as though he was caught between two worlds - not fully present in either, yet not completely absent. The man before you existed in some twilight state between consciousness and programming, humanity and weapon.

"Soldat..." You strained, your voice barely above a whisper as you attempted to forge a connection with him. You had interacted with him like this before, spoken gentle words that seemed to pierce through his conditioning, successfully managed to calm his volatile state. Deep down, you knew that beneath layers of programming and conditioning, there remained a fragment of recognition. Even if the Winter Soldier was his own identity, you knew he saw you as someone significant…even if it were small.

His penetrating gaze slowly traveled downward, taking in every detail of your injured form. The thin fabric of your bra provided no concealment for the angry wound that carved its way across your sternum - that long, jagged cut that traced a cruel path downward before curving delicately beneath your right breast.

His eyes lingered on your nose, now painfully swollen and decorated with spreading bruises, dried blood still clinging to your skin. You could feel his attention shift to where your hands rested against his flesh arm, your palms raw and scraped up from the earlier struggle.

His eyes narrowed.

Without uttering a single word, he released your neck in favor of your arm and guided you down the dimly lit hallway toward the bathroom, where a thin sliver of light spilled through the partially opened door.

"Сидеть [Sit]," he commanded firmly, gesturing towards the toilet with a motion of his hand while his intense gaze bore into you. The warm lighting of the cramped bathroom cast stark shadows across his features as you carefully studied his appearance.

Your eyes traced over him - he appeared relatively intact, though somewhat disheveled. Despite your thorough examination, you couldn't detect any concerning injuries marring his form, no purple-black bruises blooming across exposed skin or telling tears in the fabric of his clothes. The only betrayal of his condition were the pronounced dark circles carved beneath his eyes, though their presence hardly surprised you given what you knew of his circumstances.

Without resistance, you followed his direction without protest, knowing that any sign of defiance could potentially trigger his volatile nature. Though he had come to view you as someone of significance, you remained acutely aware that he was far from domesticated - his actions still carried an air of unpredictability that kept you vigilant. His piercing gaze shifted to assess the scattered medical supplies you had left strewn about, his expression hardening slightly as he regarded you.

"Вы устроили беспорядок [You made a mess]," he remarked, his tone flat and uninflected as he gathered the discarded gauze in one fluid motion, depositing it into the waste bin beside the sink. Though the foreign words held no meaning to you, the disapproving edge in his voice suggested some form of criticism.

"I couldn't wrap my hands." Your words came out as a quiet explanation as you extended your palms for inspection. The skin was inflamed and angry, scattered with tiny abrasions where fragments of stone and the rough terrain had scraped against your flesh during your earlier ordeal. The soldier's attention dropped to examine your injuries, and without warning, he pulled you upright, maneuvering you against the counter's edge as his solid frame pressed firmly against your back.

The proximity made your throat feel tight, a shiver running down your spine at his closeness.

One warm hand, one cool hand, both encircled your wrists from behind, his grip firm but mindful. His thumbs pressed gently against the upper parts of your palms, just below where your fingers began, as he tilted your hands upward to examine the extent of the small wounds. His touch remained delicate as he rotated your wrists, ensuring he could thoroughly assess your palms from every angle. The damage was most severe at the heels of your palms, where the skin had been viciously torn away, leaving raw flesh exposed.

Despite the anxiety fluttering in your chest, you found yourself trusting him, even in this vulnerable state. He turned on the faucet, adjusting it until the water flowed in a gentle stream, and guided your injured palms beneath it. The cool water ran soothingly over your wounds for several long moments before he spoke. "Need disinfectant." He reached for that dreaded brown bottle, the white cap making a sharp click as he flipped it open. The harsh, medicinal smell immediately assaulted your nostrils, making your stomach turn.

"No, that stuff stinks and hurts-"

"Да [Yes]," his voice resonated deeply, the tone both authoritative and reassuring, "Keep still."

You instinctively tried to pull away at the last second, your body reacting to the anticipated pain, but your efforts were futile. The bubbling, burning sensation that erupted across your already raw and flayed palms was as excruciating as you expected, feeling like liquid fire dancing across your tender flesh. A sharp hiss of pain escaped through your clenched teeth as his metal hand maintained an unwavering grip on your wrists, while his right hand carefully but firmly continued pouring the peroxide over your wounds.

The thought crossed your mind that you desperately wished for any other kind of disinfectant - something gentler, less aggressive. There had been countless opportunities to purchase alternatives during your supply runs, yet somehow you had never gotten around to it.

Words of protest formed on your lips, but remained unspoken as he allowed the peroxide to bubble and foam on your palm. His eyes remained fixed on your injury, watching intently until the chemical reaction subsided before finally guiding your hands under the stream of cool water.

You sighed with relief, the pain running away with the water washing over the wound. Tears began to well up in your eyes, rapidly blinking in an attempt to disperse them before they could fall. The intensity of the peroxide's sting had caught you off guard, leaving you feeling frustrated at your own vulnerability.

It reminded you of being a kid again, having someone else tend to you was a memory long lost. Now it had been brought back in a wave of emotions, the smell, sensation, and situation all mixing together to stimulate all sorts of reactions from you.

The soldier's keen observation skills didn't miss your distress - they never did. His towering frame leaned closer, bringing with it a sense of protective presence. His thumb began drawing gentle, soothing circles against your inner wrist while he continued holding your hands beneath the running water. "Хорошая работа [Good job]," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple in a feather-light touch.

The foreign words were lost in translation, but somehow that didn't matter. The low, reassuring timbre of his voice was comfort enough, wrapping around you like a protective blanket against the lingering sting.

You let out a soft, shuddering breath when he repeated the process with the other wrist, the pain burning just as intensely as before. This time, an overwhelming wave of nostalgic longing washed over you, causing hot tears to stream steadily down your darkened cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake.

"Тише [Quiet]," he murmured under his breath to you, "Hush now..."

"It hurts," your voice trembled and cracked as you fought to maintain the stillness he required, but the surge of emotions proved too powerful to contain, breaking free despite your best efforts to hold them back.

"Скоро все закончится [It will all be over soon]," the soldier carefully held your wrist under the cool running water once the aggressive bubbling finally subsided, offering blessed relief to your burning skin.

Peroxide was the devil.

He guided you back to sit on the toilet lid, his fingers working with practiced precision as he applied a soothing layer of ointment to your tender palms before wrapping them in clean, sterile gauze. "Вам понадобится марля, которая не прилипает к ранам, и липкая лента, чтобы удерживать ее на месте [You'll need gauze that doesn't stick to wounds and tape to hold it in place]," he muttered under his breath, continuing his ministrations until both palms were thoroughly and professionally dressed.

The confused, gentle tilt of your head and furrowed brow made it clear you hadn't understood a single word of his Russian.

He arched a single dark brow slightly and gave a small, knowing shake of his head. "Nevermind. It is done."

He reached out to you, his experienced eyes carefully examining the laceration across your chest. He assessed the wound and identified its source without hesitation.

A blade - specifically a pocket knife.

Approximately 4 to 5 inches.

Serrated edges that showed signs of poor maintenance.

The cut began with a forceful, deep penetration that gradually lost power as it traced across the flesh, creating an uneven gash that grew increasingly superficial toward its terminus. The irregular pattern suggested an amateur attacker, likely in a rushed confrontation.

The soldier released a disapproving grunt as he began treatment, cleaning the wound with gentle dabs of a sterile cloth. You were grateful for this relatively gentle approach, preferring not to feel the searing sting of peroxide you'd endured earlier. His expression remained intensely focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleared away the blood and thoroughly disinfected the area before applying a protective dressing over the awkwardly positioned wound.

"There. Законченный [Finished]." He withdrew his hands and efficiently disposed of the used bandaging materials in the nearby waste bin. Your nose had sustained damage as well, he'd done what he could to clean it, despite the limited treatment options for that particular injury.

"Thank you," you whispered quietly, your voice barely audible as you watched him examine the bandage with intense concentration. His eyes remained fixed on his careful wrapping job, studying every fold and layer with methodical precision, as if to ensure it would stay.

When his gaze finally lifted to meet yours, the room fell into a heavy silence. He remained completely motionless for several long moments, his expression unreadable as he seemed to contemplate something. Then, he leaned forward in one fluid motion, his strong hands grasping your upper arms as he helped you to stand.

For a moment, you remained silent, gazing up into those pretty blue eyes of his, now devoid of the characteristic warmth and tenderness that Bucky typically reserved for you. They were cold, distant, unnervingly empty compared to what you had grown accustomed to, shadowed by the calculating precision of the soldier's mentality that had overtaken him.

He returned your stare with unwavering intensity, his lips pressed into a firm line, offering no words. Your mind raced with things you wanted to express, but the right words seemed elusive, slipping away before you could grasp them properly. The only thing you could consistently think of was the dreaded thought that he would disappear again.

"Don't go," you whispered to him, "Please...I can't...I can't lose you again." The fragile plea escaped your lips and caused your voice to waver, betraying the emotions that surged through you at the sight of him standing before you, inside your apartment after weeks of his disappearance.

Bucky, Winter, Soldat, whatever identity currently inhabited the familiar body of the man you knew—continued to observe you right back with an unreadable expression, not a single flicker of recognition or emotion disrupting the stoic mask he wore. His powerful hands maintained their unyielding grasp on your upper arms, fingers pressing into your flesh with surprising restraint.

When you attempted to shift position to get closer, his only response was to tighten his grip further, a barely perceptible furrow appearing between his brows.

Undeterred, you squirmed again, desperately seeking to establish a connection with the man you knew existed somewhere behind those vacant eyes. The bandages wrapped around your hands created an unwelcome barrier between you, limiting the skin on skin contact you craved.

You managed to reach his face within his grip, gently cradling his stubbled cheeks between your bandaged palms—trying to feel the warmth and texture of his skin through the layers of gauze as best you could, searching for any spark of the man you recognized. "Soldat..." you murmured in a hushed, intimate tone, your voice still carrying the slight quiver of emotional exhaustion and lingering fear.

You knew he liked to be addressed when he was there. Bucky’s name was always met with confusion or anger.

He heard his name on your lips and immediately shifted his grip, large hands moving to firmly encircle your waist. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your hips, the sudden change in contact drawing an involuntary gasp from your lips. He lifted you completely off the floor as though you weighed nothing more than a feather, and carried you across the room before dropping you onto the bed.

You fell with a soft grunt, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from your lungs. The soldier moved with predatory grace, climbing over your prone form the second you landed on the mattress. His metal hand reached out, cool fingers gripping your face gently despite their unyielding nature. His eyes assessed, observed you closely, seeming to catalog every minute reaction that flickered across your features.

"H-Hey, Soldat -" Your voice emerged as barely more than a whisper, much softer and more vulnerable than you had intended. The word hung in the air between you, unfinished and trembling. His flesh hand moved down your body, fingers trailing with purpose until they hooked firmly into the waistband of your pants. He yanked the loungewear down to your ankles in one swift motion, your mind began to race wildly with thoughts tumbling over one another.

What the hell was he doing? This unexpected intimacy felt foreign and unsettling. You had never been intimate with the soldier before—this cold, mechanical version of the man you knew—and it felt fundamentally wrong, like a violation of boundaries you hadn't even realized existed between you.

You knew what happened to him, to an extent, pieced together from fragments of trauma that Bucky had felt comfortable enough to share during his more lucid moments. The torture, the conditioning, the systematic dismantling of his humanity—all of it had left scars far deeper than the ones visible on his flesh. You had never shown any desire towards the soldier for precisely that reason, maintaining a careful emotional distance when he slipped into this alternate persona.

Yet here he was, effectively caging you against your own bed and undressing you as though following some internal protocol. Maybe he was confused about who you were or what situation he found himself in. Maybe he didn't really understand what he was doing at all, operating on some fragment of fractured memory. Maybe this was merely a conditioned response programmed into him after he was forced to tend to a handler's wounds or needs during a mission—a thought that made your stomach twist with a complex mixture of pity and dread.

"Замолчи [Shut up]," He threatened in a low, guttural tone that brooked no argument, the Russian syllables flowing with practiced ease from his lips. The command came right as he peeled your bottom half out of its remaining, lacy fabric, the delicate material offering no resistance against his determined hand.

He leaned down, pressing his face into your neck and smelling you, a deep, deliberate inhale as he closed his eyes and memorized every little bit of your unique scent—the subtle sweetness, the natural warmth, the faint traces of perfume that had faded throughout the day. It grounded him enough not to just fuck you right there, even if his cock was straining desperately within the confines of his jeans, the hardness urging for release against the denim.

His scruff tickled against your sensitive skin, the coarse hairs creating a delicious friction that bade you nearly arch your back in response. His blushed lips pressed firmly against your pulse point as he allowed them to feel how fast your heart was beating beneath the delicate surface, the rhythm increasing with each passing second under his touch.

"Ты нервничаешь [Are you nervous]?" He asked in a hushed tone, his voice barely above a whisper, his warm breath caressing your skin deliciously, though you still didn't understand the foreign words that fell from his lips. He seemed to chuckle at that, a low rumble in his chest that you could feel vibrating against you, knowing full well you didn't know what he was saying. "Silly flower," he rasped as he pulled away just enough to run his lips further down your jugular, tracing an invisible path with his mouth until finding that sweet, vulnerable junction between your neck and shoulder where he lingered.

Your lips parted to speak, but the words died in your throat as his mouth descended upon that sensitive spot and bit down. Your eyes flew wide open, pupils dilating in shock and something else entirely, as you felt his teeth take possession of your tender flesh. His tongue was hot and demanding, swirled languorously around the captured skin, creating maddening patterns while he suckled hard, his strong hands pinning you firmly against the mattress, leaving you at his mercy.

A loud, unrestrained moan escaped from deep within your chest, reverberating through your body as he claimed you with his mark. His teeth pressed deeper, nearly breaking the surface of your neck, before he finally released his hold with a wet, sloppy pop that echoed in the dim room. His possession bloomed across your skin - a mark so dark, so angry, so blatantly territorial that it stood as obvious as sin itself in his hungry gaze.

The freshly marked skin throbbed with your racing pulse, sending waves of sensation throughout your body as it was finally released from his mouth. A pleasant haziness settled over your mind, leaving you momentarily disoriented when he pulled away. Yet his appetite remained far from sated with just a single mark. The soldier’s right hand slid beneath your head, fingers carefully threading through the roots of your hair before tightening their grip and pulling back sharply, exposing the vulnerable column of your neck fully to his attention.

"Don't wilt on me now," he chuckled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble as he nipped his way along the exposed column of your throat. His lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk against your sensitive flesh as he felt your neck move beneath his mouth, bobbing visibly with a thick, nervous swallow that betrayed your anticipation for whatever he was going to do to you next.

He bit down, again and again, making a garden of blossoms emerge across your neck and collarbone, each and every mark darkening to a deep purple as he released the abused skin from his teeth. The sensation was an addicting balance between pleasure and pain, sending waves of it down your spine with every press of his mouth against your sensitive flesh.

"Красивый [Beautiful]," he whispered against your skin, his hot breath fanning across the fresh marks, his tone still as gruff as it was, lower pitched with growing lust that seemed to emanate from his very core.

He leaned back from your panting form, pupils dilated with desire as he was drinking in the sight of you disheveled and helpless underneath him. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, hair mussed and lips swollen from his earlier attentions. The strain in his jeans became too much for him to bear, the fabric stretched taut over his obvious arousal.

The need grew too great and pulled you up suddenly with strong hands gripping your shoulders, pushing you down to your knees in front of him as he grunted down at you with barely contained need. His hands fumbled, fingers trembling slightly in his haste as he was hastily bringing the zipper down and pushing his jeans and underwear far enough for himself to spring free from the confining fabric.

"Open," he commanded, his fingers roughly entangling in your hair as he forcefully pulled you closer to his throbbing member. The swollen head was uncomfortably flushed and engorged, beaded with translucent pearls of anticipation, gradually becoming too heavy to remain perfectly balanced against the tiny slit. The little droplets slowly descended, trickling down the underside of his tip, leaving a shiny, slick trail in their wake. They languidly formed long, delicate strings as gravity beckoned them downward.

You watched as it pulsed once more with urgency, the veins standing prominent against taut skin, silently but forcefully demanding you to do something to satisfy the need.

The soldier snapped a harsh demand at you in a guttural tone, the foreign syllables sharp and commanding in the tense silence between you. Though you didn't quite understand the specific word he uttered, the meaning behind it was crystal clear from his posture, his expression, and the commanding grip still firmly tangled in your hair. It didn't take a genius to know what he wanted.

You shyly opened your mouth and he pulled you closer, fingers tangling back up in your hair as he pushed his thick cock into your mouth without much patience. You instinctively tried to pull back a little, just for some relief, but he held you firm with an unwavering grip that left no room for retreat.

"Нет, оставайся там, где стоишь [No, stay where you are]," He grunted with commanding authority, his voice low and unyielding as he savored the sensation, feeling the pleasant warmth of your tongue against him and the soft tissue of your cheeks enveloping him completely.

His hips snapped quick and brutal against you, establishing an intense and unrelenting rhythm without any sort of gradual build up as he held your head firmly in place. His strong hands were tangled in your hair, gripping you with unwavering control as his pelvis repeatedly collided against your face. The coarse hair at his base created a constant friction against your sensitive skin with each thrust he gave and you could feel the subtle burning sensation beginning to build where he held you down against him.

"Да...да [Yes...yes]," he growled out deeply, his voice rough as he looked down at you struggling to stifle gags around him. Your small sounds echoed in the quiet room as you fought to maintain composure. Your saliva was pooling steadily, bubbling and glistening at the corners of your stretched mouth before trailing down in thin rivulets along your chin as he continued to piston himself.

His touch was significantly more aggressive than what you expected from him, catching you off guard. Bucky had shown a distinct hesitancy when it came to physical intimacy when you had shared intimate moments together in the past, his approach had been consistently tender and thoughtful, always prioritizing your comfort and pleasure above all else.

However, his usual demeanor was gone, you knew that. The gentle lover you knew, replaced by someone whose actions were marked by an almost primal urgency, his movements firm and relentless in their execution.

You choked as he pushed past what you could handle, his soft cockhead brushing against the flesh of your throat and pushing deep into you. Your eyes widened a little, feeling him bulging out your neck as he pushed his entire length inside you. But thankfully, before you panicked or choked too badly, he pulled you off him and gave you a few seconds to breathe again. You gasped, spitting excess precum out of your mouth as your chest heaved with breaths. You felt like your face was a mess, thick saliva coating your chin and lips, the somewhat salty taste of him in the back of your throat.

He pulled you back gradually, allowing you to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation each time. It was subtle, but it proved that part of Bucky had to be in him somewhere. Though initially it had been overwhelming, you found yourself becoming more accustomed to deepthroating him, but the natural reflex to gag remained persistent.

You couldn't help but notice how his deep, primal grunts of pleasure sent waves of desire coursing through your body, making your core pulse and belly grow hot. A small voice in your mind whispered that doing this with the soldier was wrong, but the pull between you was simply too powerful to resist, and you surrendered to him.

And it was worth it when his head fell back, pretty lips opening as his hips snapped once more and he let out a loud, pleasured groan.

His balls twitched and his cock pulsed against your tongue, filling your mouth with multiple ropes of hot cum. You had forgotten the sheer volume he produced each time, the way it filled your mouth almost faster than you could handle. You almost swallowed before he was done, your cheeks pooling with his seed. As he slowly withdrew from your throat, you could feel the warmth pooling heavily against your tongue. His eyes were dark from his pupils being fully dilated, watching you swallow every last drop he had given you.

The soldier watched you recover slowly, his intense gaze never leaving you as your breathing gradually steadied. After his own measured breaths had evened out, he deliberately knelt down before you and reached forward, cupping your blushed cheeks between his calloused hand and metal one.

You caught your breath, looking up at the mostly silent man, studying the diluted emotions that flickered across his guarded features. A deep-seated fear reminded you of the situation - the possibility that he might vanish again, that the real Bucky remained trapped somewhere beneath the cold front of the trained assassin who had been programmed to feel nothing.

But as the thought crossed your mind, he helped you up from your position on the floor and guided you to the bed.

The soldier pulled his pants back on after laying you on the bed, causing your apprehension to grow stronger about him disappearing again. But instead of leaving, he made his way to your bed and settled himself beside you. A deep, resonant grunt escaped him as he drew your form closer to his solid frame, securing you under his metal arm. The titanium was cold against your skin but gradually, the chill of the metal became less noticeable, almost familiar in its constant presence.

You laid with the soldier, your head nestled comfortably against his broad, muscular chest and felt completely safe and secure. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing, along with the aftermath of his brutal face fucking, had nearly lulled you to sleep when you felt the sudden vibration of your phone on the wooden bedside table. With a sigh, your arm stretched out, fingers wrapping around the device as you brought it closer to examine the notification that had interrupted your repose.

The screen illuminated to reveal a message from Steve, and you opened it with heavy-lidded eyes.

'We haven't found him yet, have you heard from him at all? Anything? -Steve Rogers'

'Again with the sign off Steve...' You thought to yourself.

Your fingers had barely hovering over the keyboard when the soldier's swift movement caught you by surprise. He plucked the phone from your grasp and deposited it on the far side of him, well out of your reach. "Нет [No]," he declared firmly but gently, his metal arm returning to its previous position as he drew you back against his chest, tightening his protective hold.

"Ignore it," he murmured softly against your hair, his voice carrying a hint of possessiveness beneath its gentle command. You couldn’t keep the small smile from tugging at your lips as you gave into him and buried yourself into his chest.

“Okay…”

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Image from Pinterest & cropped

[mournthebird]

Knots.

summary: You help the soldier with some self care.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Post!HTP and abuse | PTSD symptoms & behavior | Flashbacks of HTP | Past dehumanization | Flashbacks of SA | Intimate handlers

a/n: Bit of a short one, but I thought helping him shave would be nice <3 And maybe trim his long hair a bit too. Two more chapters to go and I think that will be it for this series. I wrote this quick so please don't mind any errors. ;; wc: 3.1k

"Your hair has grown a bit."

Your voice cut through the air, startling him out of his previously zoned out mindset where his thoughts had been drifting aimlessly through memories and half-formed ideas. He blinked several times, slowly turning to look over at you with slightly unfocused eyes that gradually sharpened with awareness. It was then that he truly noticed his hair, for the first time in what felt like forever - the weight of it, the way it fell across his vision, the unkempt state it had fallen into. He hadn't really paid any attention to how he looked since he...well, he couldn't remember when. The days and months had blurred together into an indistinct haze.

"...sorry." He mumbled, the word coming out soft and uncertain, not exactly sure what else to say in response. You didn't sound like you were upset or berating him, which was a small comfort, but old habits died hard. He never got to tend to himself before, he wasn't allowed to - personal care had been a luxury far beyond his reach. You never asked him to look after himself either, so he wasn't sure what he could've done to avoid your comment, leaving him adrift in unfamiliar waters of self-care and personal autonomy.

"It's alright, don't apologize," your reassurance was nice, washing over him like a warm blanket and helping to ease some of the tension from his shoulders.

You gently reached out, your fingers carefully threading through his dark, unkempt hair. Over time, he had grown increasingly comfortable with your gentle touches, no longer tensing or pulling away when he knew your hands were approaching. The progress had been slow but steady - though he would still occasionally flinch if caught unaware by sudden contact, the reflexive response born from years of conditioning never failed to go away completely. In those moments, you would always take extra care to reassure him with soft words, reminding him that he was safe.

"I can trim it for you, if you want." You offered softly, studying the way his hair had grown past his collar. Your hand drifted downward, fingers ghosting along his jawline where several days' worth of stubble had accumulated. "And shave some of this," you added, feeling the rough, prickly texture beneath your fingertips. The soldier's own hand rose hesitantly to mirror your gesture, touching his jaw as he swallowed thickly, considering the offer.

"...if you want to." His voice was quiet, uncertain, still struggling with expressing his own desires.

"Do you want to?" You emphasized gently, wanting him to make the choice for himself.

"...yes." The word came out barely above a whisper, but it was decisive.

The ceramic sink gradually filled with warm, gently bubbling water as the fragrant soap and rich shaving cream created a luxurious foam inside it. You swished the gleaming razor through the water, the metal catching the bathroom light as you turned back to face the patient soldier. He sat perfectly poised on the wooden stool in the bathroom, his big blue eyes gazing up at you without much of an expression.

"Keep still alright?" You spoke in gentle, soothing tones, bringing the well-honed blades up to his stubbled cheek and carefully drawing them down to his defined jaw in smooth, measured strokes. Of course, Soldat remained absolutely motionless, like a masterfully carved statue perched on that little wooden stool, his posture relaxed yet perfectly controlled. He allowed you to delicately adjust his head to whatever angle was needed as you continued shaving his face, your movements precise and unhurried to make sure every swipe was perfect.

"Doing okay?" You asked gently, pausing to check in with him about halfway through the intimate ritual. The soldier lifted his gaze to meet yours, his expression almost innocently vulnerable, making your stomach suddenly flip with unexpected emotion. In all your time together, he had never looked at you quite like that before - with such openness and implicit trust.

You took a moment to admire his features in quiet appreciation - the strong, defined angle of his jawline that spoke of nobility, the soft pink hue of his perfectly shaped lips that almost held a permanent, precious pout, and those remarkable eyes that drew you in. Those eyes, windows to his soul, held such warmth and vitality that it made your heart ache. Despite all the pain and suffering he endured, despite every obstacle that could have dimmed their light...his eyes remained steadfastly, beautifully bright.

"Almost...done." The words left your lips in barely more than a whisper, gentle and soothing as you finished your careful ministrations. You took a warm, soft cloth and delicately dabbed his face dry, making sure every spot was attended to. You reached for the aftershave, applying it with gentle strokes across his smooth skin.

As your hand came to rest on his cheek, you found yourself lingering there longer than strictly necessary - drawn in by the warmth of his skin, unable and unwilling to break this moment of connection.

Your heart fluttered as you observed how he responded to your touch - the way he ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, pressed his cheek further into your palm, seeking more of that tender contact. It was a small gesture, but one that screamed at you in the quiet of the bathroom.

Focus, focus.

"Now let's see what we can do about that hair." You reluctantly pulled your hand away from his cheek, watching as his expression shifted - his brow furrowing deeply and lips turning downward in a small, almost imperceptible frown that tugged at something deep within your chest. The warmth of his skin lingered on your fingertips, a sensation you tried desperately to ignore.

No, you couldn't feel like this. It was wrong.

Moving behind him, you took to brushing out his hair first. Your hands worked with practice having to do this with your own hair, gently running the brush from the ends and gradually moving higher to ensure the least amount of discomfort when working through the stubborn knots. The methodical strokes seemed to calm you both. He sat perfectly still for you, but you could sense there was more he yearned for in your touch - an unspoken desire that radiated from him in waves.

He wanted you to hold him, to continue the gentle ministrations with his hair just as you were doing now, to show him that tenderness wasn't just a distant memory. Every careful stroke of the brush seemed to remind him of a truth he had long forgotten: that touch doesn't have to hurt, that it could be soft, nurturing, healing instead of harmful.

The man yanked its hair with savage force, causing sharp pain to radiate across its scalp. "I told you not to miss," the handler spoke with a familiar malice that it became familiar with. The spot where its hair was continuously yanked developed that persistent, throbbing ache that it desperately tried to push from its consciousness, knowing any reaction would only make things worse.

It couldn't flinch, wouldn't dare to show even the slightest reaction. HYDRA had made it clear what happened to assets that showed weakness, that dared to respond to discomfort. Even the smallest involuntary movement could result in severe consequences.

A gentle tug of the brush running through his hair pulled him abruptly from the dark memory, your soft and immediate apology working to ground him in the present moment, reminding him he was safe now. "Sorry, just found a stubborn one in here..." your caring voice helped chase away the lingering shadows of the past.

As he sat in the silence of the bathroom, his mind began to wander yet again, drifting through the corridors of his fractured memories like a lost ghost. His thoughts scattered like broken glass, shards between gentler memories with you - moments of peace and quiet understanding - against the more vicious ones that lurked in the shadows of his consciousness. Their dark tendrils constantly tried to wrap around and forcefully pull away all the lighter, precious memories he desperately held onto, attempting to corrupt them in classic HYDRA fashion.

Even still, it held onto him, refusing to let him go.

The soft, ambient light illuminating the bathroom in a gentle, warm glow caught his metal arm at just the right angle, creating a mesmerizing play of shadows across the surface. He found himself caught in an almost trance-like state, meticulously tracing the intricate grooves and carefully engineered plates with his eyes, his gaze tiredly half-lidded as he tried to focus his scattered thoughts by counting how many precise lines were drawn against his titanium forearm.

This handler was different from the others it had in the past.

He was unpredictable in his actions and reactions, displaying a volatility that made every interaction an exercise in cautious observation. It found this characteristic particularly distressing, as it undermined any attempt to establish reliable behavioral patterns.

The man exhibited a jarring duality in his demeanor - he could be loud and openly sadistic one moment, taking visible pleasure in displays of unnecessary cruelty, while in the next breath he would transform into something completely inverted.

His manipulation took on an almost hypnotic quality, reminiscent of a serpent's mesmerizing sway, as he would speak in soothing, honeyed tones while orchestrating harm with calculated precision. Like a constrictor coiling around its prey with deceptive gentleness, he would wrap his victims in a façade of care and comfort, all while administering his particular brand of venom - a poison that worked through words and actions rather than fangs, but was no less deadly for its subtlety.

A snake. That is how it described this man.

Sometimes beautiful to look at, but knowing the true nature of his scales, it knew better.

Then why did it fall for his sweet tone, why did it fall for the gentle touch?

Soldat blinked slowly, struggling to maintain focus on your gentle hands as you carefully brushed through his tangled hair, but he found his troubled mind inevitably wandering back to darker memories.

He ran his calloused fingers through its matted hair, feeling his way until he discovered the painful knot hidden at the base of its skull. His fingertips were uncomfortably warm and sticky with blood, but he purposefully ignored that sensation. He quite liked it, but held his tongue. As he roughly prodded at its injured head, examining the wound, the slight involuntary flinch it gave in response only caused his cruel smirk to grow wider with satisfaction.

He struck without warning or mercy. Like a perfectly trained rattlesnake that had been patiently coiled and waiting for precisely the right moment to unleash its deadly strike.

The handler's iron grip suddenly seized its hair, violently yanking backward with such unexpected force that it actually cried out in genuine pain this time, unable to maintain its usual stoic silence.

Why did it feel so much more vulnerable and powerless with this particular handler?? How did he possess such an uncanny ability to draw out its voice when others could not?

"Goddamn, babe. You're bleeding quite profusely now, aren't you? What did we discuss earlier about this situation, hm? No crying whatsoever. We simply cannot afford to keep weak assets in our organization - you understand that, don't you?" He maintained that eerily gentle tone he typically used when offering comfort to the thing, a purposeful torture that only intensified its mental confusion and emotional distress.

The asset writhed in discomfort, experiencing an excruciating burning sensation across its entire scalp that made it desperately yearn for solitude and rest. Sleep called to it like a siren song, but given its handler's current temperamental state, it knew that such relief would likely remain frustratingly out of reach.

The night before, it had been tasked with cleaning the entire arsenal belonging to the agents - a task that consumed countless hours just to achieve the required gleaming finish on each weapon. Even after completing such an exhaustive task, the asset wasn't granted even the briefest moment of respite, ordered to remain awake as punishment for a small misdemeanor it couldn’t even recall.

It harbored an overwhelming desire to beg for mercy. Every fiber of its being wanted to plead desperately with its handler for some small measure of compassion. However, such displays of weakness were strictly forbidden and promised a horrible punishment.

The soft, rhythmic snip of the scissors cutting through his hair acted as an anchor, helping to ground him in the present moment. You moved with care and gentleness, working to trim his hair back to that familiar length - the same as when you met, falling just shy of his shoulders. Your hands moved with a focused steadiness, fingers carefully carding through the strands while the comb followed in their wake, creating a gentle, repetitive pattern before the precise, delicate snip of the scissors would break through the quiet once more.

He made a conscious effort to focus on the floor tiles now, trying to count the individual squares, to trace their patterns with his mind. But there was only so long he could maintain that fragile concentration before the memory's dark tentacles began to wrap around him, inevitably dragging him back down into those depths he fought so hard to escape.

The comforting rhythm of the snipping gradually faded away, growing distant and muffled, as the harsh, commanding voice of his last handler in HYDRA took over, flooding his consciousness with unwanted recollections.

Hand after hand, yank after yank, a relentless rhythm of violation and control.

A different flavor of foul tasting fluid spread along its taste buds as the asset was kept down on its knees, forced into submission. The men surrounding it formed an impenetrable wall of bodies, barely giving it any room to move or breathe, pressing closer and closer until the weight of their presence crushed against its consciousness. It felt - wait…no. It quickly corrected itself - it didn't feel.

It didn't feel.

It didn't feel.

Bad asset. Disobedient asset. Failure of an asset.

It deserved this. This was necessary for its conditioning and punishment for ever developing feelings. It wasn't supposed to feel humiliation or be opposed to anything they do.

Assets don't have preferences.

Assets don't have desires.

Assets simply obey.

It licked their boots, it let them insert themselves without resistance, no matter how painful it was, no matter how much its body tried to reject the intrusion...it didn't feel. It couldn't feel. Assets don't have the luxury of feelings.

It did feel.

Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of conditioning and denial…it did feel.

The soft shudder that rippled through his broad shoulders suddenly broke your careful concentration, the final decisive snip of the scissors having just been completed moments ago. Your attention immediately shifted from the scattered clumps of dark hair on the floor to his hunched form, noting with concern how he seemed to physically withdraw into himself while perched uncertainly on the weathered wooden stool beneath him.

Despite his imposing physical presence and considerable stature that normally towered over your own frame, he had a peculiar way of carrying himself - shoulders drawn inward, head slightly bowed - as if he were trying to occupy as little space as possible.

"Soldat?" You asked softly, carefully making your way around to face him, your heart clenching at the sight that greeted you. His nose was red and running, skin mottled and blotchy, fresh tears carving glistening tracks down his trembling face. He remained frozen in that tense, hunched position on the stool, head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest, eyes squeezed firmly shut as if to block out the world around him.

"Hey, hey...what's the matter? Did you not want me to cut your hair?" You asked with gentle concern in your voice, reaching out with to brush aside the newly shortened bangs that had fallen forward to hide his eyes from your worried gaze. The dark strands were still slightly damp from the earlier wash, sliding easily between your fingers as you tried to establish some sort of connection with him.

You remained in patient silence, giving him the space and time to express himself naturally without any sense of obligation or hurry. Your fingers moved with gentle, soothing motions through his hair in a repetitive pattern, while your other hand occasionally lifted to tenderly dab away the moisture from his flushed cheeks and reddened nose with your sleeve. To your surprise, he accepted these gentle touches without any resistance or signs of discomfort, allowing himself to be comforted by your presence.

"...Н-Нет [N-No]," he finally managed to vocalize after several long moments, his voice emerging fragile and unsteady, trembling with each syllable. Though he had slipped back into his native Russian tongue, you found comfort in recognizing the simple word.

"Can you tell me what it is?" You inquired carefully, your hands moving to cradle his face between them. You made no attempt to direct his gaze upward, instead letting your palms rest against his skin with gentle reassurance, offering silent support through your touch.

He kept his eyes tightly closed, focusing intently on your hands as they rested on his face while your thumbs gently stroked back and forth across his cheekbones. They felt so different from what he had grown accustomed to - gentler, warmer, filled with an unfamiliar tenderness that made his breath catch slightly in his throat.

He remained silent, something you had come to expect from these sessions, though you couldn't help but wish he had grown comfortable enough to open up by now. Still, you quickly pushed aside these thoughts, knowing it was not your place to feel these selfish things when he was still so deeply hurting. No matter how well and gentle you were with your ministrations, you knew this kind of deep-seated pain and suffering wouldn't simply vanish overnight. These wounds needed time to heal, perhaps more time than either of you initially realized.

Your attention was suddenly drawn back up as his trembling hands wrapped around your smaller wrists, the contact unexpected but not unwelcome. The soldier finally opened those glistening eyes - pretty, baby blue eyes that seemed to hold a sea of unspoken emotions within their depths...

"I...I just...want to feel you." He whispered, the soft admission tumbling from his lips like a secret, making your heart equally speed up and ache all at once. His gaze was pleading and gentle, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw, as several strands of his disheveled hair fell into his face when he raised his head to look at you better. "...Пожалуйста [Please]."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover image from Pinterest. I do not claim as my own.

Taglist: @millercontracting | @teafangirl | @questionableratatouille00 | @buckybarneswife125 | @hazydespair | @leighta | @knoxic | @ghostlyfleur | @beckies000 | @seventeen-x | @freyjhasdesiredreality | @curlycow01 | @blackstabbath6 | @devilslittlehelper | @regics | @honeybee-hayes | @buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger | @gabriella-aesthetic | @sapphirebarnes | @animechick555 | @chimchoom | @regics | @frombkjar | @tummyyellin

Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded anytime.

[vivalas-vega]

like real people do / bucky barnes x reader

yay first bucky one shot !! this literally started as me wanting to write some quick and dirty one-bed trope nonsense... and then it got real lol. i just love him your honor, i got angsty and fluffy real fast. as always, please let me know what you think!!

like real people do / bucky barnes x reader

I do not have a taglist--if you'd like to be notified, please follow @vegaslibrary and turn on post notifications!

summary: a brush with death on a mission leads to you and bucky confronting your feelings.

word count: 5.6k

warnings: canon level violence/scary situations, language, angst, minor suggestiveness (this takes place in some reality where bucky & reader work for fury lmao & a very minor reference to this happening after endgame but none of that really matters it was just the vibe that ended up happening)

The air felt hot and sticky around you, laced with danger and the edge of fear you were keeping at arm's length… but it was harder to do so as you went crashing down a full flight of stairs… assailant in tow and doing nothing to break your fall.

“Princess? Could use a little help out here,” you heard Bucky grunt in your ear and the familiar surge of worry filled your chest as you rolled to your feet, not wasting a second in launching an attack on the man in front of you.

“Little busy, Buck,” you managed to get out, dodging a hit before landing one of your own, but your thoughts weren’t here. Each step you took backwards was goading your attacker, but it was also leading you closer to Bucky. “How bad?” you followed up, a kick sharp to your ribs knocking the breath out of you but the feeling was secondary to everything else going on in your mind.

“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. The words eased your anxiety–marginally–and let you be more present in the fight at your feet, not the one down the hall.

Everything in your body ached, and you didn’t know if the blood sliding down your temple was from where you’d collided with every sharp edge of the staircase, or from one of the hits your opponent had managed to land.

If you had to wager, you’d probably say it was from both.

You tasted blood against your teeth, and you finally landed a combo that brought the man to his knees… but before you could finish the job he was back on his feet, grabbing you by the throat and pinning you to the wall. Your legs kicked several feet off the ground as he lifted you, the force cutting off your airflow.

He knocked your head against the concrete hard enough to make your ears ring, and you brought your fists down with everything you had against his elbows–trying to break them down, give you some kind of opening, but they were locked and rigid.

“Bucky!” you choked out, praying to a god you didn’t really believe in that he heard you. When the gloved hand tightened around the column of your throat you felt the lack of oxygen clouding your brain, vision darkening around the edges.

You fell to the floor suddenly, knees colliding painfully with the concrete as you sucked in a desperate breath. Your lungs burned as you coughed, trying to force the air down around the panic that had begun to settle deep in your bones.

A gunshot fell on your muffled ears, but you didn’t flinch. Somewhere in the back of your mind you instinctively knew it was Bucky, and you pressed your palms flat against the cool floor to try and ground yourself… but Bucky’s slid over them, gripping and trying to get you to focus on him.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out and tilting your chin up. As soon as you looked into those stormy blue eyes you felt some of the anxiety ease, and he made quick work looking you over. “Talk to me, are you okay?” His gaze was holding yours with a little too much weight and you swore he might have flinched when he saw the outline of the man’s hands already appearing around your neck… but maybe you’d been deprived of air for too long.

You nodded, trying to hide your wince as he helped you to your feet. “Never better,” you replied, taking a step back and trying to put some distance between you. “Did you get it?”

He gave you a slightly deadpan look, holding a flash drive between his thumb and index finger that you quickly snatched to zip safely into a pocket inside your suit.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” you sighed.

You slid Bucky’s spare helmet on your head with practiced ease and took your spot behind him on the bike… a routine done so many times neither of you even thought as your limbs moved.

He reached back and tapped twice against your calf, you tapped twice against his chest, and his bike roared into action.

You let yourself relax, just slightly, as you held onto Bucky and weaved through the busy streets of the foreign city. The cool night air felt like pure relief as it kissed your skin, and if you knew he wouldn’t yell at you, you’d have taken the helmet off to let it wash over you fully.

Your chin rested lightly on his shoulder, watching the way the streetlights blurred around you, as the weight of the night crashed heavy over your frame. His arm moved down to your leg, metal stretching down the length of it and gripping your calf, holding you firm as he took a tight turn, bike tilting closer to the pavement. He let it linger for a moment as it straightened out, knowing you were momentarily rattled by the mission even if you wouldn’t say it, and he gave you a soft squeeze that said more than he could in that moment.

You shifted, cheek pressing against his back, eyes fluttering closed and arms still tight around his torso. You thought to yourself that you loved these moments with Bucky maybe more than anything. Just you and him, the stretch of road, and the air whipping around you. You both were always outrunning danger, outrunning death, but on this bike it felt like it couldn’t catch you. Like nothing could… and Bucky was thinking the same thing.

He didn’t need to look back at you to know you’d shut your eyes, and his grip on the handlebars tightened. The feeling of you wrapped around him, placing your trust right in the palm of his hands did something to him that he didn’t want to think about too much. You shot through the night, barely a blur to stationary eyes, and you had relaxed into him and closed your eyes. The weight of that had clawed its way into Bucky’s chest, made a home somewhere under his ribs, and he hated how much he liked it.

You hopped off the bike with ease, looking up at the motel that would have been unappealing on its best day like it was a beacon of comfort and sanctuary, and he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the way your heavy footsteps trudged all the way to the door.

You stood there for a moment, staring at it like it might open itself… and so did he.

“Aren’t you gonna open it?” you asked, brow furrowing.

“Was gonna ask you the same thing, princess.”

You just looked at each other for a moment, trying to process.

“I don’t have the key,” you said and his eyes widened.

“Well, I don’t have it either,” he replied and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I saw Fury give you the key.”

“Then you took it after we dropped our shit off.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “World’s best assassin.” You patted along your suit, trying to feel for a key you knew you didn’t have. “Can’t keep track of a fucking motel key.”

“You talking about me or you?” He wasn’t able to keep the smirk off his face, despite his exhaustion.

“You know what?” you asked and he raised his eyebrows expectantly, but his expression dropped almost as fast as you did to your knees right in front of him.

“What the hell are you-” he stopped short, watching you pull a bobby pin from your hair to stick into the door handle.

“Oh,” he murmured, a sheepish hand landing on the back of his neck, and you huffed a soft laugh, turning back to give him an amused glance as you jimmied the door open. He was grateful you couldn’t see the heat in his cheeks under the cover of night, or the way he locked his gaze on the door rather than you beneath him.

You took his hand when he offered it, and pushed into the sparse room with a sigh. You were ready to sink into your post-mission routine when you caught a glimpse of the key resting on the dresser, just beside his things, and you turned to look at him triumphantly.

“Aha!” you said, pointing. “I knew I didn’t take it.”

“You can be so petulant sometimes,” he muttered. “At least you’re consistent. Like a common criminal.”

You scoffed. “And thank god for it.”

“You want first shower?” He was already pulling a change of clothes out and you shook your head, busying yourself with propping your tablet up beside him.

“Go ahead, gonna get this to Fury.”

His gaze on you lingered for a moment, but you didn’t notice, and he disappeared into the bathroom like it hadn’t happened.

Your fingers traced the spot where your opponent had grabbed you, wincing at how tender it felt. You waited for the intel to load, mind drifting to what could have happened if Bucky hadn’t made it in time.

You shook off the thought.

Bucky always got to you. 

It wasn’t just your easy dynamic, or deep-seated feelings you refused to acknowledge that kept you from asking Fury to reassign you… it was that he never left you behind.

There were moments where he could have, where you nor anyone else would have blamed him. When it was too dangerous to go back for you, when it would have compromised him as much as you were… he always showed up.

And you did the same for him.

Countless missions, countless brushes with death. You’d both die before leaving the other behind.

You walked out together, or you didn’t walk out at all.

The tablet dinged and you pulled out the flash drive, tucking into your bag and pulling out your pajamas just as Bucky opened the bathroom door.

He was towel drying his hair, white tee and low-slung grey sweats hugging him in a way you tried really hard not to focus on.

“Don’t get mad that there’s no hot water,” he said, almost sheepishly. “There wasn’t any when I got in.”

You huffed an unamused laugh, meeting his eye for just a moment. “Only the best for Fury’s top agents,” you joked before shutting the door behind you.

You didn’t linger under the icy stream, not wanting to spend any more time than you had to. Each movement tugged and pulled at your muscles in a way that made you fight a groan–you didn’t want to make a peep. Not with Bucky and his super soldier hearing on the other side of the door. It’d only make him worry, and all you wanted was sleep.

When you re-emerged he was already laying on his side of the bed, closest to the door like always, and you finally noticed the fact that there was in fact only one–and you breathed a light sigh of relief. You should have been annoyed, you had a suspicion Fury actually kept doing this to you both for his own amusement, but you didn’t care. Even with the firm boundary of six inches between you, you always slept better beside Bucky. You felt safe, and you were more rested after a long mission than you were on a normal night in the compound.

He watched you carefully as you tucked your suit into your bag and went through your usual routine of getting ready for bed. Each new bruise he spotted made him shift upright, concern darkening his expression, and he was quickly in motion when he saw the cut above your eyebrow he’d missed before.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered and your eyebrow pinched at his sudden movement.

“What are you doing?” you asked, hovering in the center of the room, and you almost thought he looked mad for a second.

“Would you sit down?” he huffed, grabbing the med kit from his bag and you followed his orders despite your resigned sigh.

“It’s fine, Bucky.”

“No,” he said, voice firm as he moved in between your legs. “It’s really not.” He tilted your chin up to get a better look at it, disapproval settling deep in his features.

“It’s just a scratch.”

He gave you a deadpan look, running an alcohol swab across it. You hissed, hand shooting out to grab the hem of his shirt. You bunched it in your fist, fingers grazing the skin just above the waistband of his sweats and you felt him tense under your touch. You dropped your hand like he’d burned you, keeping your eyes on your own lap to avoid his gaze.

“Should have called for me sooner,” he muttered, carefully applying butterfly bandages like he was scared you’d shatter if he pressed too hard.

“Was a little preoccupied,” you replied and you could see just how unamused he was with you. “I had him,” you added. “Until he decided choking me out was a good plan.”

He was quiet as his hand settled on the side of your neck, thumb lightly tracing along the bruise that was growing angrier as it settled deep in your skin. You hated the warmth that flooded through you at the small contact, and the way his concerned eyes seemed to be burning right into your soul. 

“You could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” you whispered, voice barely audible through the silence. “You always show up.”

“Almost didn’t,” he muttered. “I was pinned. Thought I wouldn’t make it in time…” he trailed off, giving you another once over to make sure he didn’t miss anything. 

“He had you-” he hesitated, jaw tight. “By the throat, doll.” His voice was tight, stretching like it was about to break and your expression softened.

“I know.” You gave him your best reassuring look. “But I’m alright. Always am.”

He nodded once, unconvinced, and you sank back into the mattress as he put the kit away.

Something tense had settled over the room as you pulled the covers higher, but you didn’t know how to address it. Bucky always worried, you joked it was his inner old man coming out, but something in the way he’d held your gaze felt different. Something churned beneath the surface of his gaze, something you couldn’t name. You didn’t want to read into it–to let your mind wander into forbidden territory but the more the silence lingered the harder it was.

This wasn’t the first time you’d nearly died, wasn’t even the worst brush with it. You wanted to ask why this time had seemingly lodged itself under his skin but you couldn’t force the words past your lips.

The bed dipped under his weight as he slid in beside you, leaving a few inches of space like he always did but it didn’t matter. You could feel the warmth of him immediately, the pull to sink into it was almost gravitational but you resisted and leaned over to turn off the lamp.

You both laid silently, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, waiting to see if the other would say something but neither of you seemed willing to break.

His vibranium hand twitched on his chest and he exhaled softly, the weight finally pressing down hard enough.

“I’m going to say something.”

Your head tilted slightly towards him, but you didn’t move your eyes from the ceiling.

“Okay.”

“I didn’t have to kill that guy.” He paused, considering his next words. “I wanted to, because he was trying to kill you.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. You knew the relationship he had with taking a life. No matter how justified, it always stirred old feelings and you never wanted him to do that for you unless he had to. “Bucky-”

“That doesn’t bother me,” he cut you off. “Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. What bothers me is how indifferent you are to dying.”

You sighed softly. “I’m not indifferent to dying.”

“Could have fooled me.” The words were sharp, but there was no edge to them.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said, voice quiet.

“You always scare me,” he exhaled. “Everything you do scares the hell out of me.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t find any words to say as your heart started to thump unevenly in your chest.

“I try not to worry because I know you can handle yourself,” he continued. “But in those moments when you can’t…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish his sentence.

You finally turned to look at him, eyes settling on his profile and you felt something clench deep behind your ribs at the emotion he was trying to keep off his face. 

“You’re important to me,” he said after a few moments, and this caught you off guard. You knew that… at least in theory. He’d never said it so explicitly, but he never had to. He said it through actions, in his own way.

“I know,” you whispered.

“No, I don’t think you do, doll.” he replied, erring on a sigh. You rolled over onto your side to face him fully, delicately, like if you moved too fast you’d break the moment. “I tried not to care about you, thought it would be too hard. You almost remind me of Steve, if he had a mouth like yours and a habit of driving me crazy.”

You breathed a short laugh.

“I didn’t want to care because I knew if I did, it’d be too much when you left.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere, have I?” You hadn’t been able to find any words until now, but those ones flowed out easily.

“Not yet,” he said, turning his head towards you and you felt your breath catch when he finally met your eyes.

You hesitated, just long enough for the silence to stretch. “Not ever.”

“You can’t say things like that,” he muttered and your brows pinched together.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t mean it.”

You fixed him with a firm look, something close to irritation tugging in your chest. “I do mean it.”

He looked back at the ceiling. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve… changed since we started working together. You’re harsher, quicker to the trigger. I don’t want to rub off on you more than I already have.” You could see it clearly even if he was fighting to hide it–guilt. “You’re too good for me to be dragging you down, doll.”

You let out a sigh, not annoyed, just hurt. “You think you’re the big bad wolf corrupting little red riding hood?” 

“Well-”

“Fury paired you with me because my heart got in the way too much. I gave second chances to people that used them to try and kill me, and I almost fucked up missions looking for good in people that wasn’t there.”

He didn’t respond.

“I was a great agent before I met you, but I made bad calls because I thought I could give people the same second chance that was given to me. I found a balance… because of you. I’m alive because of you, Bucky.”

You could see the confusion flicker behind his eyes, like he knew he’d said something wrong but wasn’t sure what. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” You rolled back over and stared at the ceiling, feeling the crack of your heart as you did. “You just said you’re not good enough to be around. How is that not upsetting?”

“I’m not. And I don’t care if you think being my partner has helped you–all I can see is you becoming more like me and I can’t stand it.”

“Because being like you is such a bad thing?” Your eyes darted back to him again, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was worrying his cheek between his teeth, gaze hard as he stared above him.

“Yes.”

That hit low and stayed there, stubborn and sore. You could feel something dancing on your tongue that you wanted to bury… so you did.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you huffed, shuffling out from under the covers and standing.

He propped himself up on his elbows, shocked by your sudden movement, and watched as you grabbed a pair of pants from your bag.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t–” you stopped, searching for the answer yourself. “I don’t know.” He sighed when your shorts hit the floor, then quickly crossed the room, catching your wrist. Not rough, but firm–enough to make you pause.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“What happened to knowing I could handle myself?” Your hands were shaking and Bucky was having a hard time figuring out what had made you snap like this, why you were refusing to look him in the eye.

“That’s not–fuck,” he muttered. “You’re not going anywhere because you’re angry and I can’t let you walk away like this. Can we just-” he stopped himself and ran a hand through his hair. “Can we just rewind? Go back and start this conversation over?”

“I don’t know how to pretend this conversation never happened.”

He looked lost, like he was searching for what he’d said wrong… and you weren’t stopping, so he grabbed the pants you were trying to step into and threw them somewhere behind you.

You stared at him, exasperation evident, the heat rising in your chest.

“Are you serious?”

“What the hell just happened?” He stared down at you but you wouldn’t look up. “One minute we’re having a conversation and the next you’re trying to storm out into a bad part of town in the middle of the night.”

You finally tilted your head up, and his face softened. Your eyes burned, throat tightening as you fought to keep your face blank, but he noticed… he always did. 

“Talk to me,” he pleaded, voice gentler than it had just been. “Please just tell me what I said wrong.”

“You know, I was actually proud of myself for the way I’ve learned from you?” you asked, not really expecting an answer. You turned around and bent over to pick up your pants, and Bucky’s eyes darted away, jaw tight.

“Then I find out you actually think less of me for-”

“I do not think less of you-”

“That’s not even why I’m mad!” you yelled, throwing your jeans back onto the floor with a frustrated huff after stumbling trying to pull them on.

“Why are you mad? Make me understand here, sweetheart, because I’m having a real hard time figuring out how to fix this.”

Hearing him say sweetheart in that low tone made you falter, and he caught it.

He took a step closer and hooked your chin to keep your eyes on him when you tried to look away. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, trying to coax it out of you. “Please just talk to me.”

“Don’t,” you warned, pushing his arm away and taking a step back. “You don’t get to say you’re not good enough and then use the fact that I care to make me talk.”

“Is that really what this is about?”

“Of course it is!” you snapped. “I fucking love you, Bucky. And I am so tired of you acting like you’re unlovable. Like you don’t deserve something good.”

“I’m not,” he shot back, not even registering what you’d just said. “Not from you. Do you really think I could let myself–let you–get closer to me than you already are?”

“You don’t get to decide how I feel!” You were at the end of your rope, hands still shaking. “I love you, and you’re just going to have to figure out how to deal with that.”

The first time hadn’t sunk in, but the second made Bucky’s heart stop in his chest with a painful clench that nearly winded him. You loved him… but you weren’t done.

“I thought- fuck,” you shook your head, trying to organize your thoughts. “I have never expected you to feel the same way about me, but I can’t take you acting like I’m some delicate flower you’re bound to poison. I can’t listen to it and not tell you that I’m unbearably fucking in love with you.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stared at you with a look that you couldn’t read and you felt like you’d ripped your heart out and handed it to him just to watch him step on it.

The more the silence dragged, the more you itched to run… so you did.

You managed to tug your jeans up your legs as you said, “so to answer your question, yeah. I’m trying to storm out in the middle of the night because I can’t do whatever this is anymore. I’ll ask Fury to reassign me.”

You walked past him, each step laced with uncertainty and heartbreak, but you never made it to the door.

He caught your wrist and spun you around. You stumbled, colliding with his chest, hands braced on the firm muscle. You lifted your head to look up at him, eyes wide and scared of what he might say, but his mouth was on yours before you could even get a word out.

His lips were hungry, demanding and possessive as if he could etch his response into your skin… and then they were gone as soon as they’d appeared, leaving you reeling and breathless as he stepped back with a huff.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough with conflict. “I can’t–I’m only going to hurt you. You deserve better. Better than me.”

You just blinked for a moment, one hand coming up to touch your lips like you were trying to convince yourself it was real.

“Are you being serious right now?” you asked, and his head snapped up.

“What?” 

“Do you need me to lay it all out? Is that it?”

“I don’t-”

“You never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You’ve seen me kill people with my bare hands, but god forbid I walk too close to the street,” you started, letting out an unamused chuckle. “You keep an extra knife in your boot just for me, because you know I like to throw mine and then get mad when I don’t have it. Sometimes in the middle of the night you jolt awake, just to look at me. To make sure I’m still there. You think I don’t notice, but I do… it’s the only way I can sleep, and I sleep like shit at the compound because I don’t feel safe unless you’re near me.”

“Sweetheart-” he tried, but you just cut him off again, unable to stop now that you’d started.

“When I manage to make you laugh in the middle of a mission it actually feels like my heart is glowing and it’s disgusting,” you huffed, laughing despite yourself. You weren’t even making an effort to hide the tears that managed to slip down your cheeks. “I could listen to you laugh for the rest of my life and it still probably wouldn’t be enough. I’ve never cared about impressing anyone in the gym, but god–when you give me that infuriating little smirk of yours when I manage to catch you off guard, it makes me feel like I can do anything. You make me feel like I can do anything.”

You took a step forward and closed the distance. “You’re scared of hurting me. But I don’t think you realize–this, right now, is hurting me. You thinking you’re not good enough. That you’re not deserving of something good.”

His hands twitched at his sides, desperately wanting to reach out and grab you, but he held himself back.

“You deserve it more than anyone. And I’m not scared of you, Bucky. You’re not broken, not some ruined thing that needs fixed. I don’t even care if it’s not me, if you don’t want this or if you don’t feel the same, I just need you to stop acting like you don’t deserve it.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he sighed, small and broken, finally reaching out to grab your waist and pull you closer.

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing along your cheek as he looked down at you like you were something holy–sent to save and curse him all at once.

“I take the outside of the sidewalk, and bring an extra knife, and wake up just to check up on you because I love you.” he said, letting it hang for a moment as his hand on your waist tightened. “I love you so much, it scares the hell out of me… and I didn’t know how else to show you that. It didn’t feel fair to give it to you straight because this isn’t normal or easy, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

He took a deep breath. “You think I’m not damaged, but I am. I’ve got some serious shit I’m still working through, and I didn’t want to put you through that.”

“You’re putting me through it anyway,” you said. “Might as well let me hold your hand because I hate watching you do it alone.”

He just looked you over for a moment, searching for any trace of uncertainty in your eyes but all he found was an unwavering love that rattled him to his core.

He leaned down and kissed you–not fiery and desperate like the first time. Properly, slowly, like it should have been.

“Our lives were never meant to be normal and easy, Bucky,” you said when he pulled back, a hint of your usual mischief in your eyes that he loved so much. “I met you fighting weird alien robots that looked like bugs.”

He laughed, handing you that favorite sound of yours that made you flush, before giving you another slow, deep kiss.

“I wanna take you out,” he mumbled against your lips. “Something normal, like real people do.”

The ghost of a smirk tugged at your features. “You gonna ask me to go steady at the end of it, Sergeant Barnes?”

He fought a groan at hearing you pull out his long-forgotten rank. “Don’t call me that before date three–and I might.”

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, nose brushing his.

“You think you’re making it to date three?” you teased and a slow, satisfied grin tugged at his lips.

“You did just scream at me over the fact that you’re in love with me,” he said, bringing his hands down to the top button of your jeans, slowly undoing it without breaking eye contact. “I think I can get a lot more out of you than three dates.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t deny it.

He caught the way your eyes tracked him as he sank onto the floor, tugging your jeans down your legs and holding your calves to help you step out of them. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, mildly scolding.

His hands slid up to the backs of your thighs and you couldn’t help but thread your fingers through his hair when he gently kissed below the hem of your shirt, a soft breath escaping… but he was back at your lips before you could even blink.

“Come on, off to bed,” he ordered, and you huffed a small laugh of disbelief.

“You’re a tease, Sergeant.”

“Shouldn’t have told you I liked that,” he muttered, sliding in beside you. “Call me old-fashioned, but I want to do this right–earn the privilege to have you like that.”

Your cheeks flushed and you bit back a smile as you settled beneath the covers.

“You’re very old fashioned,” you teased and he gave you a deadpan look. “But I think it’s perfect.” You leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, lingering for just a moment. “I’d wait as long as you wanted.”

You eyed the space between you. “Is the invisible boundary still in effect until date three?”

He chuckled and reached out, pulling you flush against him and you laid your head against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart as you wrapped an arm around his torso.

You lay like that for a few minutes, letting what had just happened wash over you as your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his arms holding you so securely, and the way he kept pressing kisses to the top of your head.

He reached down, gently tilting your chin towards him and your breath stalled when you caught those blue eyes you loved so much, holding yours just as intensely as they always did, but with something else in them now–completely unguarded.

“I need you to know I’ll never do anything to intentionally hurt you.”

You nodded, “I already knew that, Bucky.”

He leaned down to press his lips to yours, short and sweet before either of you let it turn into something heated.

“And I sleep better next to you, too,” he said, letting his thumb trail along your bottom lip. “Never have nightmares when you’re next to me.”

You smiled softly, cupping his cheek and tracing your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ll be here if you ever do.”

He kissed you again, like he was trying to tell you something he didn’t have the words for, and you felt every one deep in your chest.

You chased his lips when he pulled away and he smirked against you, giving you one, then two, then three more quick kisses that made you giggle.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Sergeant.”

[deakyjoe]

Crave

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Category: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, idiots in love

Summary: An unknown problem causes tension between you and Bucky. He’s desperate to know what.

Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers, angst, but a happy ending, past parental death, the winter soldier committed atrocities, Bucky did nothing wrong, allusions to past smut, kissing, idiots in love, nickname "doll"

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: Throwback to the Bucky Barnes fics I was writing on Wattpad when I was 14.

You hadn't looked Bucky in the eye for four days, six hours, twenty three minutes and fifty six seconds.

And it was starting to frustrate him.

Bucky was short on people he trusted, even shorter on people he considered friends. And now, with Steve gone and a rift between him and Sam, you were pretty much all he had left. He couldn't bare the thought of losing you, and something was clearly bothering you. Just what, he didn't know. So it was his mission to find out. 

Cornering you in the kitchen was a bad idea. He realised that as soon as he did it.

The apartment you and Bucky had shared for the past couple of years had been a genius idea at first. You'd both been outcasts, understood each other to a certain degree, and enjoyed your solitude. The apartment stayed quiet the majority of the time, the both of you finding comfort in no company other than your own. You'd pass each other briefly sometimes, but would rarely linger. An occasional conversation would happen, but nothing too serious. 

It was prime for what you both needed.

Until Bucky noticed that you were avoiding him. You were still talking to him when necessary but ever since the whole thing had happened with Val and Bob and the rest of the New Avengers, as they were now being referred to, you hadn't looked him in the eyes. 

Trying to get you to hang around to tell him what was wrong was more difficult than he'd anticipated. He should've known, the apartment was home to two of the best trained assassins in the world. Evading him was easy when you would simply dip under his arm and slip out of the room whenever he walked in.

So, he cornered you in the kitchen.

You were in the middle of cooking dinner for yourself, head down as you hummed along to whatever was playing on the radio. Peaceful. You looked peaceful, Bucky noted. That changed as soon as you sensed his presence.

You tensed but didn't leave the room, just continued chopping vegetables. "Hey, do you want me to cook you something?"

One of the many things Bucky appreciated about you was your ability to try to pretend like everything was okay. Something was clearly wrong and yet you were still offering to make him dinner. It was almost admirable.

He stood firmly in the doorway, blocking it in case you decided to make a speedy escape. "No, no. I, uh... I wanted to talk to you about something."

The movement of the knife in your hand paused momentarily before you kept going. "Oh?"

Bucky scratched the back of his neck with nerves. How was he supposed to ask? So, he avoided the real topic for a moment and strayed to something else that he'd also been meaning to talk to you about as well. "Valentina mentioned us moving into the old Stark Tower."

This time you stopped, putting the knife down on the cutting board. But you still didn't look at him. "Really?"

"Yeah. Yelena, Alexei and Bob have already moved in. Ava's in the process and Walker's planning on it in the next couple of weeks." Bucky watched as you took that in, he could practically hear the cogs turning in your head. "We don't have to."

You shrugged, turning to the pan that was sizzling next to you and turning down the heat. The room smelled strongly of garlic and onion and Bucky was starting to regret the offer of you cooking him dinner as his stomach started growling.

"Maybe we should." You replied finally.

Bucky's heart started racing. 

"Some more space, y'know? Might be good." You added on.

His heart stopped altogether. 

"Space?" He repeated and you nodded. "You want space?"

You sighed and sprinkled some salt in the pan. "I didn't say that. But this is a small apartment for one person, let alone two. Tower's got more room." 

He could only watch as you continued to refuse to look at him, feeling his world crumbling. You wanted more space, away from him. He was losing the closest person in his life. The one thing he didn't think he'd be able to survive. So all filters in his brain disappeared.

"Is that really the reason? Or does it have something to do with why you haven't been able to look at me the past few days?"

Your hands clenched into fists, nails scraping against the granite counter top. "What- what are you talking about?"

"It's times like these that I appreciate the fact that I'm the only person you can't seem to lie to." Bucky rolled his shoulders back, trying to gain the confidence to ask you, to hear the answer that could change everything between you. "I'm not stupid either, doll. I notice when you don't look me in the eye. Especially for days on end."

You covered your eyes with your hands, massaging your temples with your fingers and thumb. "I- I don't know what to say."

There was no point denying it, he'd caught on and there was no way out now. You had hoped that you'd been more subtle about it but nothing got by him it seemed. And now you felt bad. But how were you supposed to tell him?

"Just tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it." Bucky was desperate. The loneliness he'd experienced for years was slowly creeping back in and he hadn't even lost you yet. He was just predicting it. 

"It's not something that can be fixed."

The onions were burning, the smell of it filling the kitchen. Both of you were unaware as you battled the emotions you were both feeling.

"Then what is it?"

You dropped your hand from your face, looking at Bucky for a split second before averting your gaze away. Guilt washed through you but you couldn't help it. Looking at him made you feel sick.

Inhaling deeply, you decided to just drop the bomb. "What I saw."

That statement only confused Bucky even more. "What you saw?"

"When... when we were in there." Nothing more needed to be said. The implication was clear based on your emphasis on the word there. You both knew where you were referring to.

He stayed silent, he had his suspicions and he didn't want them to be true. What you saw in the void was something he feared because, deep down, he knew exactly what you'd seen.

You didn't stop. "I saw my parents dying."

An ache rippled through his chest as he felt his heart crack in two. It wasn't something the two of you ever spoke about, your parents' death. It had been brushed aside years ago when the two of you had properly met for the first time. But Bucky had always had the sense it had been an underlying tension between the two of you. After all, how couldn't it be? The Winter Solider had killed your parents.

"Oh." It was all he could offer. What else was he supposed to say? He was the cause of your pain.

"And I know- I know that it technically wasn't you who did it. But he had your face. So it's been a little difficult looking at you. I'm sorry." You suddenly seemed to remember the onions, taking a spoon and stirring them to prevent them sticking to the pan. It was only a momentary distraction.

"Why are you-" He swallowed the lump in his throat, staring you down as you still refused to look at him. "Why are you apologising?"

"Because I'm treating you like shit even though it's not your fault." Your voice cracked, running a distressed hand down your face. 

"It- it techni-"

"No." You cut him off sharply, picking up the knife again. "It's not. So don't you dare say it."

He said it anyway. "I killed them."

The knife was slammed back onto the counter, the clatter echoing around the room. Bucky watched the inner turmoil you were going through, trying to argue against him when maybe, inside you somewhere, you actually believed it. 

"It's okay. I understand." He whispered and then he left the kitchen, disappearing through the door and retreating to his bedroom for the night. 

It was too early to go to bed but, not knowing what else to do, Bucky did it anyway. After changing into his pyjamas, he crawled under the covers and switched the light off. The room was plunged into darkness, the only sounds being of you distantly moving around in the kitchen. He was left with nothing but his own thoughts, spiralling for hours as he contemplated what would happen next. Would you leave him? Would you move into the old Avengers Tower and solidify the separation between you? He couldn't stand the idea of that. What would he do without you?

Eventually, the apartment went silent. Bucky had assumed you'd gone to bed yourself after hearing the muffled sound of your voice on the phone to someone for the last thirty minutes. You were probably arranging your moving plans, looking forward to the quick escape.

But then his door creaked open, light footsteps making their way towards his bed. Then the blankets were thrown back, the mattress dipped and you were suddenly curling yourself into Bucky's side, resting your head on his metal shoulder.

"Hi."

Your voice was tender, breathy, and Bucky felt the rigidity of his muscles melting from his body. 

"Hi." He responded, wrapping his metal arm around you and letting his hand rest on your hip. His body called to you, needing it near, and having you in his bed was heaven for him.

It had happened once, the two of you. Pretty soon after the whole deal with Thanos and Steve leaving. You'd just tumbled into bed together one night, the both of you needing the intimacy and comfort of someone you trusted. You hadn't spoken of it since, too scared to address whatever it had been. But Bucky often found himself craving that closeness with you again. 

"I'm sorry about the last few days." You sighed, turning your face into his neck and skating an arm over his chest to hold him closer.

Your breath fanned over his skin, making it prickle and he suppressed a shiver. 

"It's okay. I do understand." He did, he really did. Honestly, what he didn't understand was how it seemed so easy for you to live with the man who had murdered your parents. It just didn't make it hurt any less when it did seem to bother you.

The topic lingered between you for a few seconds, neither of you knowing where else to take it. You were just going to keep going in circles. You were sorry. He understood. But you were still sorry. It wasn't going to get you anywhere. So you broached the other subject that was causing tension.

"I spoke to Yelena. About the logistics of us moving in. She said that me and you can have our own floor to ourselves. So it'd still be like us living in an apartment together. If you'd like." Your voice was shy, uncertain of what he'd say.

"Is that something you'd like?" His metal fingers flexed against your hip, flesh hand clenching on his other side. 

"Of course. You're my..." You trailed off, letting it hang in the air. There was no appropriate term to accurately describe what you and Bucky were. More than friends but not quite the next level. You just hovered somewhere in between. "You're the most important person in my life."

Sweat prickled at the surface of his skin, creating a slick sheen that he was worried you could feel. If you did, you didn't seem to care. Pressing your nose into his jawline, he could feel your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

Your voice was shaky as you kept talking. "I don't care where we are. Here, the tower, wherever. As long as we're together. I can't survive without you."

He turned to face you, lips brushing against yours with the ghost of a touch. So close to colliding, but so far from actually happening. All it would take would be the slightest tilt of his head and Bucky would be kissing you. It was all he wanted to do. But he needed confirmation first. "Really?"

You smiled against his mouth. "Yes, really."

There was a moment of silence, a second where Bucky convinced himself to just do it, to kiss you. But then you spoke again.

"You don't need to worry about losing me. I'm never going to leave your side."

That one simple statement meant more to him than you could ever possibly understand. He didn't necessarily blame Steve for what he'd done but he did hate him for it sometimes. And Sam... his relationship with Sam was more complex than he'd like to admit so he wasn't entirely surprised that they were clashing at the moment. That didn't mean he was anymore okay with it. So you simply telling him that you never planned to leave his side was all the reassurance he needed from you. 

So he kissed you.

It was soft, cautious. Bucky wasn't entirely sure if it was what you wanted. But then you made a satisfied hum against his mouth, as if you'd been waiting for him to make the move. The kiss heated a little, moving away from being careful but stayed gentle. 

Bucky didn't dare move, worried about scaring you off. Maybe he was imagining this, what if he wasn't really kissing you and it was just the desires of his mind torturing him. But then your hand moved from his chest to cup his cheek, keeping him in place as you pushed your lips against him harder.

There was a purity to it, neither of you pushing for the next step. Open mouthed kisses were exchanged but nothing more.

Something was plaguing him still, so he asked when the two of you broke away for air.

"What if you still can't look at me in the morning?"

"That's not an issue anymore." You assured him, thumb stroking along the scruff of his jaw. There was no hesitation in your voice, no matter how much it ached hearing him ask that question. "The knowledge of your pain hurts more than my own. Besides, you're Bucky. My Bucky. Not the man who killed my parents."

"It doesn't bother you? I always thought that maybe..." He didn't know how to word it exactly. Maybe you secretly hated him for what he'd done. Maybe you wanted him dead. Maybe you were plotting against him. Maybe you only stayed with him out of obligation to Steve.

"It's never bothered me. Steve was clear before he introduced us. And he clearly trusted you more than anyone else in the world." You planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "And it didn't take long for me to feel the same."

His eyes fluttered shut. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I know better than anyone the power of HYDRA's brainwashing. And when we met... I knew you weren't the same man who killed them. The detached look in your eyes was gone and filled with something else. Something warmer, but also tinged with guilt and regret." You nudged your nose against his. "And then I saw how far you went to protect the ones you loved and what they did to keep you safe. It was inevitable that I'd eventually love you too."

The use of the word love tipped him over the edge. So he kissed you again, this time pushing for the next step. You were all too happy to comply.

A month later, when the two of you had moved into the tower with the rest of your new team, Yelena had asked you how your new bedroom was.

"It's bigger than your old one in that tiny little apartment, isn't it?" She'd been very proud when she'd shown it to you. She was convinced it was the reason you had decided to move in.

You shrugged. "Haven't been using it."

"Wha-?" Yelena cut herself off when she saw the way you glanced at Bucky next to you, a smirk on both of your mouths. "Ohh..."

She got it then. You'd been staying in the same room. She had been curious why the two of you didn't share a room beforehand, having assumed you were a couple. Apparently she was wrong and it was only a new development. As much as she was happy for her two new friends, she was pissed that she'd agreed to let the two of you have a whole floor to yourselves when you were only using one room.

When she brought that up, you and Bucky both agreed that you didn't care where you were living. As long as you were together, nothing else mattered.

[system-to-the-madness]

Still Loved - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Pairing: : James Buchanan ‘Bucky‘ Barnes x fem!Reader Era: post-tfatws Genre: fluff Word Count: 6 039 Warnings: food, crying Bucky, Bucky’s having a bit of a crisis, mentions of Bucky’s past Summary: Bucky’s fully prepared to spend his birthday alone, but you have different plans A/N: Happy Birthday to our Bucky! spent like an hour looking up Brooklyn accent, feel like I know less than before, probably did it all wrong. Don’t come for me unless you feel confident enough to do it in spelled out Franconian German.

Bucky wasn’t entirely certain why he woke up with the feeling of dread having settled deep into his stomach. Not until he had turned and grabbed his phone from the nightstand anyway. The date caught his eye without him meaning to check it, and he froze. 

The 10th of March had always been a day he had looked forward to, his favourite day of the year. As a child, he had known it would be the one day, where his Ma would take him out to a café, leaving his siblings with the babysitter. They’d sit in a window spot, eating cake and laughing until his stomach hurt. He remembered how every year the shop seemed to shrink, the table and the chairs became smaller, and eventually his feet would reach down to the floor. In the evenings his Da would come home to the family, all four children running to hug him, but on the 10th of March the hug Bucky got was especially long and tight. His Da would always be the one to bring the presents. Sometimes there were two or three small ones, usually small toys Bucky had seen in the shops, or books, once he could read. Other times there was one big present, a little machine he could assemble himself, a chemistry set or the pocketknife he had gotten for his tenth birthday. Really, those days, the 10th of March of every year until 1943 had to have been the best days of his life. Later, after he had met Steve, he still would let his Ma take him to the café, would still welcome his Da home, but in the afternoons, after class, he'd hang out with Steve, just taking walks and buying insane amounts of sweets on their way around the blocks.

Now… Bucky wished his bed would swallow him whole and spit him out tomorrow, preferably without his memories of this day. He wasn’t sure what the worst part of his birthday was now. That the whole world knew it was his birthday, and somehow expected him to do something meaningful that day? That everyone expected him to somehow make time so they could congratulate him for being born, when really he had had very little say in the matter? Or maybe it was for surviving so long? Yeah, he’d rather not be reminded of the conditions for his survival. 

Maybe he didn’t like his birthday, because while the whole world remembered, nobody ever really made him feel as special as his family had, with his Ma taking him out to the café, his Da handing him his present with a knowing smile, Steve sheepishly giving him a rolled up drawing of a spot Bucky had commented recently on liking, his sisters giving him flowers they picked themselves or trying to put them in his hair. 

These days, people shook his hand and said: “Happy Birthday” and kept moving along as if nothing had happened. Sure, he didn’t expect, didn’t want, the whole world to make a big fuss, but at least the few people he was closest to… Well, that wasn't a lot of people if he was being honest. There was Sam, for one. Sam, who had been sent on a mission to Alaska last night, so he wouldn’t be home for a while. Then there was Joaquin, if Bucky even cared to count him. Who had gone with Sam, for obvious reasons. Sharon hadn’t been in contact for months. And again, not necessarily the person he was closest with. That left…

Bucky sighed and sunk back in his pillow. Yeah, there was no way he’d celebrate his birthday in a meaningful way this year either. You were the one person he would always count on to have by his side, considering you weren’t nearly as often out of the city as Sam or Joaquin. But you had a deadline to meet for a project that had been going on for almost a whole year now, and Bucky understood that even if you could make time for something like his birthday, you probably would not be in the mood. If he were lucky, he’d get to see you tomorrow. Or on Wednesday. No, not Wednesday. That was too far away. 

He sighed again, running his hand over his face. This was pathetic. Hadn’t he seen you just on Saturday? The two of you had played darts with Sam, and you had been world-record-breakingly bad at it, and somehow it had been the most endearing thing Bucky had seen since- well, since the weekend before that, when you had put some cookie batter on his nose and laughed gleefully, apparently absolutely ecstatic about the way he had raised his eyebrows at you and pressed his lips together. The second part had mostly been to suppress the urge to kiss you, but his point was standing: it was absolutely pathetic that he, a grown man of what? 108 years old could not even go half a week without seeing you. 

His phone made a weird noise that faintly sounded like a cackle, which wasn’t surprising since the ringtone he had set for messages from Sam was a sound recording of the man himself laughing his ass off over a small mistake Joaquin had made. Grabbing the phone off his bedside table again, he opened the message, phrased in the usual nonchalant-sounding tone Sam loved to use. A few years ago, he might have been confused at Sam’s message, but by now he knew him well enough to understand that this was simply his way of showing he cared. Reading through the birthday message actually made a smile tuck at Bucky’s lips and he quickly replied with a heartfelt thank you, appreciating that Sam had taken a few minutes away from the mission to send him this message.

Realising that he couldn’t spend the whole day in bed, Bucky got up, making sure to disconnect his phone from the Wi-Fi so he wouldn’t be tempted to check social media, and made his way to the bathroom. A long shower, a hearty breakfast and two chapters of his current reading later, there was a knock on his door, making him pause mid-sentence. 

Quickly he went through all the people who would check up on him in person, coming to a similar conclusion as this morning: There was nobody. Sam and Joaquin were on a mission, Sharon was god-knew-where and you were probably drowning in work and incompetent co-workers… Now that he thought about it, he could pick up some lunch and drop by your workplace. That would mean for one, he might help you destress a little over shared lunch, and two he would get to see you before Wednesday. But… would you even have time to talk to him, even if it was just twenty minutes over some take-out sushi? Or would that just add to your stress? He’d hate himself, if he made your day even worse than it already was by additionally stressing you out over insisting he was so self-centred that he ignored your needs over his wish to spend his birthday with you.

Another knock on his door made him interrupt that thought and hesitantly he got up. What if his address had been leaked to the public again, and these were some people whose families the Winter Soldier had killed? Or worse: fans? He appreciated the support, he really did, he just wished people wouldn’t come up to him and confront him with their sexual fantasies about the Winter Soldier, the will-less killing machine he had once been.

Checking the camera next to his entrance made him furrow his brows in confusion and quickly he opened the door.

“What are ya doin’ here,” he asked, irritated but unable to hide the smile that began pulling at his lips.

“Happy Birthday, Bucky,” you cheered, holding a bouquet of flowers out to him.

“I- uhm,” surprised, but now definitely smiling, he took the flowers and stepped aside, letting you in. “Thank ya!”

“You didn’t mention your birthday at all when we hung out last time, so I figured, I should check up on you,” you explained, following him into the kitchen after you had toed off your shoes in the hallway.

“Ya didn’t have to come,” Bucky told you, rummaging through his cupboards, looking for a glass that was big enough to fit the flowers. “I know ya super busy with that project.”

“Well, guess what?”

“Hm?”

“I handed it in-” you glanced at your watch, “about thirty minutes ago!”

“What? Really?” Surprised Bucky turned around to you, placing the flowers down and crossed the short distance to you, wrapping you in a rare hug. “Congratulations! Ya finally got it over with!”

“I do,” you grinned, hugging him back, and Bucky couldn’t help but hold you a bit tighter, feeling your warm body press against his, feeling your torso expand and deflate with each breath you took. He was inhaling the soft scent of your shampoo, his hands carefully resting on the thin jacket you were still wearing, and he had to remind himself, that this was a casual hug, nothing more. 

“I’m so proud of ya,” he whispered against your hair, before pulling away slowly, hoping you didn’t notice the blush on his cheeks. “I thought the deadline was Friday though…”

“It is,” you answered, taking a step backwards, unable to meet his eyes, and for a terrifying second Bucky worried he might have made you feel uncomfortable, but then you were smiling again and the thought evaporated from his mind. “I put in some extra work last week, so I could finish it in time to spend your birthday with you.”

“Shouldn’t we- shouldn’t we celebrate that it’s over,” Bucky asked, “I mean, it feels like a pretty big thing. Ya should celebrate. With ya co-workers or…”

You scoffed. “Nah, thank you. I have seen enough of them. And I do intend to celebrate. Tomorrow. Today’s all about you. So, what do you say: Lunch? Unless you have other plans?”

Bucky smiled. “All free,” he let you know before finally deciding on a beer mug Sam had brought him as a gift from his last trip to Germany, knowing fully well that beer did nothing to Bucky’s super-soldier body and metabolism.

After he had arranged the flowers, all while trying to ignore the way you were leaning with your shoulder against his fridge and watched him, he put on a shirt that made him look at least a little more like he was planning on heading out and his leather jacket, and let you lead the way to a small restaurant. 

It was almost impossible to find spots in Brooklyn that were not busy around the lunch time, but the restaurant you had chosen, in a small backstreet, seemed just far away enough from the big streets to avoid the worst of the trouble. It was a lovely little place, with a window nook, into which the waiter guided the two of you to sit, looking out into a slightly more crowded street. It was an Italian place, the walls painted with sceneries of the Mediterranean, small olive trees growing in pots next to the door, fairy lights in wine bottles strung along the ceiling, and soft, Italian music playing over speakers hidden behind fake vines. 

The elderly gentleman with a strong Italian accent, Emillio, handed the two of you menus and made a big gesture out of lighting the candle on the table between you, even while soft spring sunlight was flickering in through the window.

When he had stepped away again, Bucky leant over. “How confused do ya think he’ll be, when I order in Italian?”

“You speak Italian?”

He shrugged: “Well, a little.” He leant back again with a smug grin, watching as you were furrowing your brows.

“Since when?”

“Some time in ‘43, I guess… See, we were stationed in Italy, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little, if ya know what I’m sayin’.”

As he was speaking, your amused smile slowly dropped, and an expression of thinly veiled horror began creeping over your face.

“Shi- I’m so sorry,” you apologized, making it Bucky’s turn to be surprised.

“What for? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“For- I mean- I completely forgot you were stationed in Italy and now I dragged you to an Italian restaurant-”

“Oh, come on,” Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at the way you looked around, half-panicked as if the sight of a wine-bottle might trigger a traumatising memory for him. “I appreciate ya concern, I really do, but it’s fine, ya hear? It’s all fine.”

Reaching over the table, he covered your hand with his, stroking the back of it gently. 

“I love Italian food,” he reassured you, who only slowly began relaxing again.

“Ugh, I’m so stupid,” you groaned, turning your hand to wrap your fingers around his. “I should have thought about this.”

“No, trust me,” Bucky laughed quietly, leaning forward again, “It’s all fine. Apart from the fact that it’ll be hard findin’ a country in which I haven’t - worked, I do love Italian. And it’s romantic.”

He wasn’t sure why he said the last part, or why he thought it to be necessary to kiss the back of your hand, before placing it back down on the table. But the way you looked at him for a brief moment, before you averted your eyes as if you had seen something that wasn’t meant for you to see, was worth any possible embarrassment that could have followed. Because for a short moment, Bucky was sure he had seen a glimmer in your eyes. Not the kind of glimmer the girls in the ‘40s had had in their eyes when he had asked them to dance, the glimmer of a quick crush. But rather the glimmer that Sam always joked about being in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you or talked about you.

The first few times Sam had teased him, Bucky had still reacted to it, worried you might find out about his hidden feelings for you, but soon he had realised Sam always made sure to do it without you noticing; he was a good guy after all.

But having seen this small spark in your eyes now, gave Bucky confidence like he hadn’t had in a long time. He had been good with the ladies once, he knew how to talk to them, make them swoon, and there had never been one who he had taken interest in, who he hadn’t gotten to take interest in him, too.

Oh, knowing he could probably get you to make a move on him without having to reveal his feelings first gave him a boost of confidence he knew would end in disaster. That left only the question of whether he wanted to. This was no date after all. It would be unfair of him to use what had been but a split second’s impression as a basis to turn a casual lunch into something you might not have intended at all. But did that mean he shouldn’t try?

Bucky was watching you closely, how you opened the menu and scanned the pages as if looking for something. You seemed nervous, biting your lip absentmindedly, and your eyes always flickering up, as if tempted to look at him. The good kind of nervous, he concluded, not the bad kind.

“I think, I’ll stick with pasta today,” you told him, finally looking up, allowing him a break from his racing thoughts.

“Oh, pasta sounds good,” Bucky agreed, “I think I’d like some carbonara. Haven’t had that in a while. At least if they don’t put cream in it.”

After Bucky’s unusually carefree and outright flirty gesture, the rest of lunch passed without any more incidents. Bucky ordered food and drinks for both of you in Italian, using the opportunity to ask whether there was cream in the carbonara (there wasn’t), and Bucky’s apparently fluid language skills were enough to draw several other staff members to your table, all of them Italian as it seemed and all of them in one way or another related Emillio.

As Bucky was talking to who he assumed to be the husband of the original waiter’s cousin, trying to explain that, no, you were not his wife, not his fiancée either, and no he was not about to propose to you, he could feel your eyes on him. Unable to help himself, he glanced over to you, finding you were watching as he was speaking in Italian, gesturing almost desperately to the clearly amused older man in front of him. You had tilted your head to the side a little, a soft smile on your face, your eyes taking in his gestures as if you were studying him. When he met your eyes, your smile broadened, and he lost his train of thoughts, stuttering over his own words, before quickly averting his gaze again. It was impossible really, how easily you made him lose his train of thoughts. All you had to do was smile at him and any rational thought was replaced by the thought of you.

The food was, for a lack of better words, otherworldly. It tasted better than anything he had eaten in a very long time, but he wasn’t sure how much of this credit should be paid to the kitchen, and how much to his company. You had eaten with a clear appetite, enjoying the meal as much as he did, sometimes closing your eyes in bliss at the delicious dish before you.

Of course, you had also tried almost killing him with a heart attack, as you had fed him some of your food with your own fork, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t the first time. You often shared fries while walking in the park and yes, it had happened that you fed the fries to him, but usually Bucky followed up the action with a sharp stare over at Sam, as if daring the superhero to call out the gesture.

After finishing the meal, the plates had been taken away, and Bucky had ordered coffee and dessert for both of you, before you pulled out a small package you seemed to have hidden underneath your jacket.

“It’s nothing special,” you apologised, sliding the in flowered paper bound package over the table to Bucky.

“What is it,” he asked, a curious smirk pulling at his lips. 

“A birthday present. From both Sam and me. As I said, nothing special, but… you know.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment before he reached out, taking the package. Judging from the weight and the size, and the way it felt under his fingers, he suspected a book. Suddenly his throat started to feel weirdly rough, and he quickly swallowed away the awkwardness. 

“Ya didn’t have to get me anything’,” he quickly said, hoping his eyes didn’t look as wet as they felt. It had been a long time, a really long time since he had been given anything physical as a present that wasn’t meant to help him fulfil some kind of duty for the giver. 

“It’s your birthday, of course we had to,” you disagree. “Well, I say we but Sam wasn’t really that involved in the process. I think he’s more the ‘let’s make memories together’ kinda guy.”

Bucky chuckled at your description of Sam, remembering how he had threatened him with taking him out for drinks after coming back from the mission he was on now. Running his hands over the smooth wrapping paper, Bucky pointed to it.

“Can I open it?”

“That’s what it’s for, sure!”

Encouragingly you lent forward, propping your elbows on the table. The light of the candle between you mirrored in your eyes and for a moment, Bucky was threatened to get lost in the light that seemed to pour out from you, but then he quickly turned back to the package in front of him. Carefully he tore at the scotch tape, making sure not to rip the paper too much. Sure enough, once he folded the paper away, he revealed a book. Flipping it, he curiously studied the title.

“‘The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring’,” he read out loud, showing you the cover as if you hadn’t been the one who had chosen the book for him. “By… wait, that name sounds familiar. Tolkien… Isn’t that the author of ‘The Hobbit’?”

“That’s him,” you nodded, smiling as you watched Bucky flip the book over so he could study the cover himself again, the dark blue fabric with the silver imprinted letters. “It’s… well, it’s like a sequel to ‘The Hobbit’, but following Bilbo’s nephew. You mentioned having read ‘The Hobbit’, so I thought you might enjoy it. The whole ‘Lord of the Rings’ is three parts, but I need presents for Christmas and your next birthday, too, so don’t you dare buying the other books yourself.”

Bucky nodded with a smile, fighting the urge to look up at you again, flipping open the book instead.

“Oh, it has a map,” he exclaimed, quickly busying himself with studying the drawings, running his fingers over the familiar names of the Shire, Rivendell, the Misty Mountains. “Maps are good.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you told him, and finally he gave himself permission to look up at you again. Which turned out to be a big mistake, because you had that soft expression in your eyes again, which made his knees weak and made him want to reach out over the table, intertwine his fingers with yours, and kiss your hand again without having to hide the admiration he held for you.

Not long after, your coffee and desserts got served, giving Bucky something else to focus on besides the way his heart kept beating at a fast pace, almost as if your presence alone kept him alive. That you still kept looking at him so softly, laughed freely at his jokes, and reached out to touch his hand once or twice was not helping him. 

As he was chewing on a spoonful of tiramisu, arguably the best he had ever had, he looked out of the window into the street beyond. It reminded him of the afternoons, in which his Ma had taken him to the café. The scent of black coffee in the air, the sweetness of a creamy treat on his tongue… sure, the street outside looked different, the clothes he wore, the company he kept. But at the heart of this memory there was always a window out into a busy street, the scent of coffee in the air, a dessert on his spoon and a woman he loved in front of him. Back then, it had been his mother, now you. You, who were so different from his mother, who he loved in such an entirely different way. But still he loved you, he loved you like he had never loved anyone before.

The realisation hit him in that moment, that yes, he had gone out with countless girls in his life, but none of them had ever even remotely meant as much to him as you did. What if he lost you, too? The same way he had lost everyone else he had ever loved, first his family and friends when he had gone to war, then Steve, when he had left him for the past? What if you left him too? What if his love would not be reciprocated? Was today just an outliner instead of a glimpse into his future? Would that soft look in your eyes fade again once he stepped outside this restaurant? Would the brush of your fingers against his stop meaning anything?

A soft touch against his cheek startled him back into the moment. Looking over, he realised he had frozen while looking outside, the spoon with the next bite of tiramisu halfway to his mouth. You had stood up from your seat, propping yourself up on the table with one hand, as you brushed at his cheek with the other, a concerned look in your eyes.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

“I-” Only then he realised that you had brushed at a tear that had run down from his eye. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was thinkin’ of my Ma and… she would take me out to a café on my birthday, every year. It was just her and me, showin’ me that even though she had three small children at home, I was still important to her. I was-” Bucky’s throat closed up, and he averted his eyes, from where you had sat back down again, only dropped his spoon into his plate, and ran his hand over his face. For the second time in less than an hour, realisation hit him so hard, that he felt like all air was knocked out of him. “My family loved me so much. My Ma, my Da, my sisters- I was loved so much.”

It was embarrassing, to cry in front of you, in a public restaurant of all places, but he couldn’t help it, he didn’t want to help it. He had to be honest about his thoughts to someone, and you had always felt like the safest person for that. While he tried regaining his composure, you took his other hand, wrapping both of yours around his, and held it tightly. 

“I’m happy that you had such a wonderful family,” you told him quietly. You didn’t tell him not to cry, didn’t tell him to calm down, he realised. You acknowledged his feelings, and that did not help his helpless love for you at all. “I’m happy you were loved by the people around you. And I’m so sorry that they’re gone now. But I need you to know that you are still loved. It can’t replace the way your mother loved you, or your father, or your sisters. But you are still loved.” You hesitated, and for a moment Bucky wondered whether you had read his thoughts, this nagging question of whether he was even still worth being loved after all he had done, after all the suffering he had caused. “And you are worth it Bucky, always have been.” Maybe you were destined to be with him, as his friend at least.

It took a few minutes for Bucky to calm down, before he felt confident enough to drop his hand away from his face again. All the time you never had let go of his other.

A few minutes passed, and he was back to smiling, thanking you quietly for being there for him, which you waved off with a smile, reminding him that you would always be there when he needed you to be. Besides, it was his birthday, and yes of course, you would be there for him on his birthday, too.

By the time you had finished your dessert and coffee as well, Bucky felt like he had lost all sense of time. And for the first time in a long time, he loved it. The lines between his old life and his new life were blurred by the feeling of your consideration for him, this feeling of being cared for so naturally being something he had not dared hoping he would ever get to experience again. At the same time, it seemed impossible to tell how much time had passed since you had stepped into the restaurant together. Had it been only twenty minutes or ten hours? And this morning seemed as fast as half a lifetime away anyway. 

When you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, Bucky quickly took the chance to pay for the meal, even though he knew you had wanted to invite him, which earned him a scolding and a pout from you, as you returned, but knowing smiles from the staff, who had insisted on not billing him for the dessert. In turn he made sure to tip them generously.

After you had calmed down from scolding him, and accepted your fate, you grabbed your jackets and headed out. The sun was shining, surprisingly warm spring air met you as you stepped outside, followed by the calls of ‘thank you’ and ‘come back soon’ from the waiters.

Bucky flipped up the collar of his leather jacket, as if subconsciously bracing himself for what was inevitably to come next: saying goodbye to you. You had spent already more than half of your day on him, had stressed yourself out the entire previous week to even make time for this, and while Bucky had spent half of his brain capacity over the past hour on finding a way to drag the inevitable out, he felt like it would be inappropriate for him to try and keep you around for much longer.

You had stepped out of the restaurant first, after he had held the door open for you, and now you were holding your face into the sun, eyes closed as you let the beams warm your skin.

For a moment, Bucky stopped in his tracks, just looking at you. You had never been especially guarded or scared around him, not even in the beginning, not more than one would be around a normal stranger anyway. Now, you were completely relaxed, a soft smile on your face, lashes resting against your cheeks, shoulders dropped casually. You were stunningly beautiful, Bucky realised, not for the first time. He wished he could take a picture of you like this, burn the memory into his brain to always return to this moment, you, standing in the sun, so relaxed and carefree, him, in his leather jacket, the book you had given him for this birthday in hand, the fabric of the spine weighing heavy against this skin.

“So!”

Tearing Bucky out of his happy little bubble, you turned to face him, eyes sparkling, happy. God, he loved you.

“Where to now,” you asked, turning to head towards the next bigger street, Bucky falling into step beside you. “I was thinking, since you’re interested in engineering, there’s this new, interactive museum in Manhattan, combining engineering and art, the Museum of Art and Technology. I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in, but it sounded kind of interesting…”

Bucky was only half listening to what you were saying, too distracted by the way your hand kept brushing against his with each step. Carefully he moved his fingers, prolonging the contact with the back of your hand for a few moments, and with the next time your skin brushed against the cool vibranium of his hand, you slipped your hand in his, wrapping your fingers around him in a manner that made his breath catch in his throat in the best way possible. In disbelief he looked up from the ground he had fixed his eyes on, surprised when he found you were already looking at him expectantly.

“What do you think,” you asked, clearly referring to a question he hadn’t caught, too distracted by the fact that you had just taken his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it were routine. He wanted it to be routine, wanted it to become routine. He’d never be able to forget the soft touch of your hand in his either way.

“Museum,” he asked back, the single word the last thing he had processed before getting distracted. 

“Of Art and Technology,” you repeated, looking away from him again. “Wanna go?”

“Now?”

“Sure, now. Why not?”

“Ya don’t want to- go home or…” Bucky trailed off, keeping his eyes on you, watching how you were walking next to him, still holding his hand. Were you really as calm as you seemed? Didn’t it turn your whole world upside down that you were holding his hand?

“What,” you laughed, “do you? Already had enough of me, Barnes? Wait-” Suddenly you stopped, turning to him, your fingers loosening around his, but he held on; he wasn’t prepared to let go of you yet. “Do you want to go home?”

Bucky stared at you, just half-registering your question. There was a sudden vulnerability, almost hurt, in your eyes, which he didn’t like. He didn’t want you to feel anything but safe and cared for while you were with him. The spark in your eyes had dimmed, and the open, unguarded gaze with which you had been looking at him the whole day, began closing up as if you were preparing to be told off.

Quickly Bucky shook his head. “No,” he told you, maybe more forcefully than necessary. “I don’t. I wanna go to that museum with ya. I wanna-” 

He stopped mid-sentence, not sure what exactly he was supposed to say other than that he wanted to keep spending time with you, that he was so infinitely glad that you had come to see him today, because it felt impossible to wait until Wednesday until he would allow himself to make up an excuse to see you.

But even those thoughts were lost when he looked at you, at how close you stood to him, still holding his hand, eyes widened slightly as if you were the one who was fearing rejection. Your lips were parted slightly, looking soft and sweet in the afternoon sun, their shape as perfect as if crafted by Michelangelo from living flesh. And that was where his mind stopped, like a cracked record, unable to move on from the thought of your lips, the thought of wanting to kiss your lips. He had wanted to do it for so long, had spent every minute in your presence wanting to kiss you. Why couldn’t being your friend be enough? Why did he have to want more than you had already given him? But he was selfish- for the first time in so, so long he was selfish enough to ask for something that was not offered to him.

“I wanna-” he repeated, unable to look away from you, “Can I kiss ya?”

Your eyes skipped between his for a terrifying moment, as if you were evaluating the honesty behind his words, and then you lent in, closing the gap between you, and pressed your lips to his, making his breath hitch and a shiver run down his spine. Closing his eyes, he gently tightened the hold on your hand, pulled you in until you stood chest to chest with him, and tried wrapping his arm around you without having to drop the book he was still holding. His whole world tipped over, gave the phrase of ‘falling in love’ a whole new meaning, but he didn’t mind it one bit, not with your hand on his chest, not with your lips, tasting of coffee and tiramisu against his, not when he could feel - not see, but feel - the way you smiled into the kiss.

When you pulled away, Bucky knew he was wearing the widest grin, not that he minded. It seemed like you noticed, too, because you reached up, and ran your thumb over his chin, along the lower line of his lips, scanning his face with what seemed like infinite softness in your eyes.

“Did you think I’d say no,” you teased, making him shake his head slightly.

“Can never know, love,” he offered with a smirk, making you raise your eyebrows.

“Where’d that nickname come from,” you teased, slowly pulling away, Bucky giving in only reluctantly.

“Oh, would ya prefer sweetheart? Honey? Angel?”

“Stop it,” you laughed, clearly flustered, making him grin wider. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Trust me, I haven’t even tried yet,” Bucky chuckled, pulling you into his side affectionately. “So, museum ya said. In Manhattan?”

Nodding, you began walking to the closest subway station, and while you started explaining about the museum, Bucky couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, his birthday could become his favourite day of the year again.

[frostironfudge]

Devour - Bucky Barnes

Summary: the new pics of seb have me in a vice grip so here is Bucky on a Mediterranean getaway with you

Pairing: mafia!bucky x fem!reader

Word Count: 880

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, sm/ut, or/al fem receiving, dirt/y talk, allusions to previous smu/tty times, d/s vibes, sorta mafia bucky?, sorta soft moments, also prinţesă means princess (romanian)

A/N: this picture got everything to life for this drabble @sebsgirl71479 thank you for this picture

Main Masterlist

The heat is sweltering.

Drops of sweat mimic the condensation on your pink drink’s glass. Taking another sip you grumble the ice watering down the sweet and sour concoction. 

“Something amiss?” Bucky’s tone is light teasing from behind you. 

“Drinks all watered down.” You pout, still not turning to look at him, too comfortable in the lounge chair, kindle resting on your thigh. 

The breeze finally comes in drawing out a sigh from you and your eyes close. Soon enough the sun’s heat diminishes and your breath hitches. 

The scent of amber and bergamot fills your senses urging your eyes open. Bucky leans over you, gold sunglasses perched atop his head.

Your eyes trail over his stubble growing in, as he swallows you watch his throat and then follow that trail to the necklace that half dangles still caught in his white tank top. 

That same necklace that grazed your kiss bitten lips last night, soothing the heat spreading over your skin. 

An easy smile on his face, his ring clinks against the glass. “Here,” he says handing you the replacement drink and he stands, “Can’t have my best girl pouting can I?” 

You roll your eyes and he pinches your cheek a habit he formed early on both out of endearment and knowing it annoys you. 

You admire his outfit, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Fuck the drink you want to drink your man in. 

“See something you like prinţesă? You have that look on your face.” Azure eyes that put the Mediterranean seas to shame glint with mischief. 

“Oh, I see something I love.” You flirt back, admiring the way his eyes crinkle as his grin takes over. 

“A moment ago,” He returns to his original spot, the one where he hovered over you.

“You seemed as though you saw something you want to devour.” He smirks, head dipped low, lips brushing below your ear, you whimper. 

The pendant of his necklace brushes over your sternum. Cold against warm.

“Bucky—,” Your words meld into a moan when his lips trail down your neck, he leaves open mouthed kisses and your hands find his shirt tugging on it wanting him closer. 

“A little temptress in this swimsuit of yours,” his larger palm traces from your knee up your thigh and you arch but he only continues over your body till he pinches your hardened nipple through the fabric, “Fuck.” 

He reclined the lounge chair further back, caging you in, your leg now wrapped around him. 

Bucky’s lips are on yours, needy, frantic, cock straining against his pants and your hands wandering but pulling him closer. 

He chuckles into the kiss as your fingers aid in the fall of his sunglasses and his hair coming loose from the bun. He loves how needy you become for him. 

How beautiful you look sun kissed and kiss bitten from the night before all of his marks proudly displayed across your chest, shoulder, the one he left on your inner thigh. 

Bucky growls as a particular grind of his hips makes you moan as your clit begs for more attention. 

“Please, Bucky, please,” You plead pushing the soft blue shirt off of his shoulders. 

“Want to taste you, my temptress.” He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lips, you suck on the tip of his finger. 

“I want to taste you too.” You nip at the flesh, Bucky smirks above you. 

“I’d have whipped this outfit out sooner.” He laughs when you huff frustrated, then groans as you grind your hips to his, smirking up at him when he affixes you with a pointed glare to behave. 

“I’ll eat you out right here, prinţesă.” He says in warning, hand moving to cup your mound. He can feel the heat of your skin, his own favourite concoction waiting between your thighs. 

“Is that supposed to scare me?” You raise a brow, “Because if I remember right, no one else sees what belongs to the White Wolf.” 

His eyes blaze with something deeper than lust, his possessiveness and protectiveness for you a known fact in his ruthless world. 

“Hmm, well if anyone does see,” He kisses your cheek, then trails his lips down your neck, over your chest the warmth of his mouth preceded by the cool necklace over your abdomen. Bucky settles between your thighs, pushing them apart but pulling you close. 

Nose brushing over your clothed cunt and the sight is so erotic you can’t help but moan. 

“If anyone does see you pleading and pleasing me they know you are mine temptress. As they should.” 

The fabric is peeled away and your folds are soaked, he hums pleased before his tongue runs over your aching cunt. 

You keen as his lips latch onto your clit, your fingers tangle in Bucky’s hair. 

“Which one of us is in for a treat?” Bucky questions rhetorically as you tremble beneath him, his rings digging into your thighs. 

Bucky moans, at your taste, “We’re to remain here my temptress. I want to have my fill. You will give me how ever many I want won’t you?” 

You nod.

“My good fucking girl.” He praises, mouth back on you, your moans pleasing his ears and your taste satiating as well as growing his hunger for you. 

-x-x-x-x-

Bucky Taglist: @slutforsexyseabass @almostcontentcreator @stevesmewmew

[arcane-vagabond]

Trapped in Silk: Chapter One

Trapped in Silk: Chapter One

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The world has been turned on its head ever since news spread that vampires are not only very real, but many have walked the earth undetected for centuries. You keep to yourself, head down and out of everyone's way. That is, until you bump into a stranger while avoiding a group of men chasing after you. You think you've seen the last of this stranger, only to run into him once more. Your life is turned upside down as he envelopes you into his life and into his riches. Are you a passing fancy, or are you the latest addition to his treasure trove? Only time will tell. (Vampire!AU)

Content Warning: Reader is chased, Derogatory names directed at reader, Creepy men being creepy men, Cursing, Blood, Dismemberment, Vampires, Pet names, Threats, Flirting, Awkward Reader, Reader making not the best decisions. I think that's it, but please let me know if I've missed something!

Word Count: 3.1k

Masterlist || Series Masterlist

You cursed lightly under your breath at the sight of the group of men standing around the entrance to the convenient store. Normally, you wouldn’t have stopped, but you had been too busy to make your weekly grocery run on Sunday, and you were fresh out of pretty much anything to eat in your tiny apartment. So, it was either stock up on the essentials or live off of fast food until the weekend.

You wish you’d let yourself starve.

They weren’t a rowdy bunch, and perhaps that’s what made you so nervous to approach. These men weren’t like the groups of loud college boys that hung around this same store. No, these men had an edge to them, something you couldn’t quite place. A sensation pulled at your gut, and you frowned, the sensation not altogether unfamiliar. You had experienced the same feeling several times throughout your life, almost like a sixth sense. You had learned to ignore it, keeping your head down and wanting little to do with the limelight that came with pursuing sensations like those. You’d seen the psychics on TV from time to time—usually when your grandmother had them playing in the background growing up—and you wanted no part in it. You weren’t psychic, you were just really good at guessing.

Maybe if you kept saying it, you’d believe it one day.

You pulled your coat tighter, more to hide yourself than to stave off the early winter chill that crept along the sidewalk, and you tilted your head down as you marched past the group of men.

You could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t linger to let them get a good look. Blinking against the shock of the fluorescents, you wrinkled your nose as the warmth of the convenience store stung at the apples of your cheeks. You surveyed the aisles before grabbing a small hand-held basket and moving towards the frozen section. It wasn’t ideal, but the convenience of pre-made food would have to do until you could make an actual grocery run.

It wasn’t that you thought you were too good for the processed food, you just liked the rituals of cooking every night along with making your lunch for the next day. It was a relaxing part of your day, a sense of accomplishment that you didn’t have to associate with your menial job.

Your eyes wandered down the aisles as you passed, stopping in front of the pre-made food section. The sandwiches didn’t look too bad, maybe a little bland, but they’d surely get you through the week. You picked a couple of roast beef and turkey ones, turning your attention to the different bags of chips available. You wanted to keep your fast food runs to a minimum, but the convenience store only offered so much for you to choose from. With a sigh, you grabbed a couple of bags of chips, not really caring what kind you grabbed.

There were a couple of other people milling about the store, some casting nervous glances towards the exit—not that you blamed them, of course.

You walked as casually as you could towards the register, the older man paying you little mind as he began to scan your items. You shifted on your feet nervously, hands clenching and unclenching in your coat pockets as you gave another quick glance towards the doors. Maybe if you covered your face enough…

“Did you drive here?”

You glanced up at the clerk, a wary grimace on his face as he followed your line of sight. You pressed your lips together with a shake of your head. No, it didn’t make sense to have a car in the city—not when public transport was readily available. Maybe if you lived further out in the suburbs.

“No,” You replied. “It’s only a couple of blocks to my apartment though. I’ll manage.”

“I’ve tried calling the cops a couple of times,” the clerk continued, scanning the last of your items. “Said those guys keep scaring my customers, but they don’t do anything. Even threatened to fine me for wasting their time, the bastards.”

You made a sympathetic noise in return, taking the bags from him and bracing yourself for the inevitable. Maybe you should have just gone home, come back on your lunch break tomorrow. It was too late now.

“Stay safe, miss,” the clerk called after you, worry creasing his brow as he leaned over the counter to watch your retreat. You offered him the ghost of a smile before pulling your coat closer, hoping the lapels would obscure your face enough in the shadows.

The automatic door chimed as you stepped through, a gust of wind whipping around you as you stepped out onto the walkway. The sharpness of the cold dug into your skin, clawing its way down to your bones and sending a shiver up your spine as you gasped at the sudden sensation. Mistake number one.

“Well, hey, sugar,” purred one of the men, sliding off of his perch atop the bike rack, a leering grin on his face. Dark hair ruffled in the wind, casting shadows across his face but doing little to hide the sinister look in his eye. “You look cold. How ‘bout we help warm you up.”

Mistake number two was assuming he wouldn’t follow you as you turned on your heel to walk in the opposite direction.

“Oh, now don’t be like that, baby,” he called after you, a couple of chuckles ringing out from his friends, the sounds of footsteps echoing behind you. Mistake number three was not running back inside the convenience store to call a friend to take you home.

You picked up your pace slightly, trying not to draw attention to your rising panic as your heart hammered in your chest. Your nostrils flared as you tried to keep your breathing even, your groceries starting to feel heavy in your hands.

“Hey, bitch, I’m talking to you!”

You broke out into a run, your bags jostling at your sides until one by one they fell from your grip, colliding with the sidewalk below, but still you kept running. Your feet carried you as fast as they could, lungs burning as your eyes scanned the streets for signs of anyone who could help you.

This is the city, you thought. How is there no one walking around?

You supposed most people tried to stick to the safety of the indoors now that the new threat of vampire kind was out in the open. No one wanted to be the unsuspecting victim of a thing they had long thought to be a myth.

“When I catch you,” snarled the man behind you, closer than you would have liked, “you’re going to regret ever even being born.”

You willed your feet to move faster, willing the shadows to hide you from the impending threat behind you. How could you have been so stupid? Why didn’t you call for a ride?

Help me, you thought. Your muscles ached and threatened to spasm as you continued your sprint. The buildings began to blur together, all looking the same through the haze of your fear and tears. You choked on a breath, gasping for air that wouldn’t come as you veered right.

Please.

Your teeth chattered as the wind rushed around you, your nose and lips growing numb the longer you stayed out in the cold.

Someone help me.

Could you hide? Would you have enough time to duck into an alley to find a spot, or would they find you still? Would anyone answer their speakers if you rang. Would you even have time to explain what was happening?

Please.

You scrunched your eyes, pressing forward as you rounded left on the corner, only making it a few feet before you ran into a wall. You grunted, stumbling back and almost falling on your rear before a set of strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you steady. Not a wall, or at least not an inanimate one.

Hands settled on your waist, and you cowered for a moment, thinking one of the men had caught you. You gazed up, meeting cerulean blue as they stared down at you, an unreadable look on the handsome stranger’s face. For a moment, you felt relief as you realized that the man in front of you was, in fact, not one of the men who had been chasing you. Your shoulders sagged in relief for just a moment, your hands tightening in the stranger’s black shirt.

A cold breeze kicked up, sending another shiver through you and cooling the hot stream of tears that ran down your face. You shivered at the sensation, subconsciously leaning into the stranger for warmth. He continued to study you, a furrow in his brow that seemed more perplexed than put out. The stranger opened his mouth as if to say something, stopping as the sound of feet hitting the pavement came up behind you.

“That bitch must have-” The other man stopped, his companions slowing behind him as well. A sneer curled on his lips as his dark eyes spotted you. “Well, well. Looks like you had the bright idea that it was better to come with us than run away.”

The stranger tightened his hold on you, a low growl sounding in his throat as you trembled. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, the irises seeming to almost glow as he listened to the man in front of you.

“Get behind me,” he murmured, guiding you to stand behind him. Your body trembled at the sound of his voice, not from fear, but from the way it rang in your ears—like warm liquid. You allowed him to maneuver you, his hands moving from your hips up to grab the lapels of your coat, pulling them tighter around you.

“Now close your eyes,” he continued, the lilt in his tone hard to resist. You obeyed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as his hands smoothed over your shoulders. “Don’t look until I tell you to, no matter what you hear, okay?”

You nodded, earning a low hum.

“Words, draga mea.”

“Yes,” you managed, voice sounding small even to your ears. Fingertips danced across your jaw lightly before pulling away.

“Good girl.”

You sensed more than felt him pulling away, your body swaying towards him. You scolded yourself internally at your reaction to this stranger.

Must be the adrenaline, you thought.

“Look, pal,” the man chasing you snickered, “we don’t want any trouble. Listen, I’ll even let you have her after we’ve had our-”

His words cut off with a sickening, wet sound followed by silence. A moment passed before all hell broke loose around you.

“What the fuck?” The man shrieked, and you couldn’t help but open your eyes, letting out an involuntary gasp at the sight. The man’s left hand was missing, spurts of blood shooting out as he grasped the stump with his right hand, leaning over in pain.

“What the fuck?” He repeated, dark eyes wide in shock as they glanced from the stump that used to be his hand, up to the tall figure in front of him.

“Dude!” Shouted one of his companions, the burly man slowly backing up as he looked at the stranger in front of him. “It’s a fucking blood sucker!”

“That’s right,” the handsome stranger said, inspecting the blood that coated his gloved hand, head tilting as if considering something. “I’m a ‘blood sucker.’ So, if you want to keep your lives, I suggest you run.”

The men stood paralyzed, limbs visibly shaking as they stared at him. You couldn’t say you didn’t feel the same in that moment, even with his ire directed elsewhere. The stranger let out an irritated sigh, rolling his shoulders as he fixed the group of men with a less than impressed look before waving them off with a flick of his wrist.

“Now.”

The men didn’t hesitate this time, turning and running like their lives depended on it, and you supposed they did. You startled as the handsome stranger turned back to face you, a disapproving look on his face as he saw your eyes wide open.

“Draga mea,” he admonished, walking over to you slowly, ignoring the way you tensed up as his attention was fixated on you. He stripped his gloves slowly, pocketing them as he stopped in front of you. Cool fingers traced your jawline, moving to cup your chin between his thumb and pointer finger to lift your chin up.

“I thought I told you to keep your eyes shut,” he tutted, thumb running along your bottom lip. You gasped at the sensation, eyes growing wide at his familiarity before gathering your wits about you long enough to take a step away from him.

He’s still a stranger, you reminded yourself, a small frown tugging at the corners of your lips. And a vampire to boot. Don’t let your guard down.

The man in front of you smirked, as if able to read your mind, and for a moment you wondered if he could. You squared your shoulders, clearing your throat as you looked him in the eye. The smirk grew into a lop-sided grin as he watched you, a kind of fondness lighting up his gaze.

“Thank you for your help,” you said, hugging your coat tighter around you, suddenly very aware of the winter chill that surrounded you. “I should get going though.”

You began to walk away, stopping as the stranger took a step towards you, his grin replaced with another frown.

“Alone?” He questioned.

“Yes,” you replied, watching him warily. The man shook his head, coming up to stand beside you.

“That won’t do, draga mea,” he purred. “Let me walk you home.”

“Look,” you turned to him, feeling the irritation bubble up inside you at his insistence. You stopped as you realized you didn’t know this man’s name.

“Bucky,” he supplied, a twinkle in his eyes as he peered down at you. You took a deep breath, avoiding his eyes to keep from making a complete fool of yourself.

“Bucky,” you repeated. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you saving me from those creeps-”

“You’re welcome,” he ginned, leaning forward.

“Because I do,” you continued, pointedly ignoring him. “But I’ve already taken up enough of your time, and I’m really not that far from my apartment.”

“Nonsense,” he waved you off. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort you home? To make sure that you’re safe?”

You hummed, crossing your arms and eyeing him as he gave you another boyish grin. You could point out the fact that he was a vampire on top of being a stranger, that was two strikes against him. As if reading your mind once more, Bucky put his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I promise to keep my hands to myself,” he vowed. You stared at him for another moment before sighing.

“Right,” you muttered, starting the walk towards your apartment. Bucky fell into step next to you, an easy silence falling between the two of you. It was Bucky who broke the silence first.

“What were you even doing out here in the dark on your own?”

You gave him a sharp look from the corner of your eye.

“I needed groceries,” you told him, stopping dead in your tracks with a groan. Bucky arched a brow at you in question as you grimaced.

“My groceries,” you pouted, running a hand through your hair. “I dropped them after those guys…”

Bucky made a sympathetic noise, nodding his head in understanding.

“Do you want to go back?” He asked, gesturing towards the way the two of you had just came. “We can get you some things to replace all of it.”

“No,” you sighed, feeling the weariness seep into your bones after a long day and an even longer night. “No, thank you. I think I just want to go home.”

“You’re sure?” He asked, blue eyes studying you. “It’s not a problem.”

“I’m sure,” you smiled, though you knew it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I appreciate it, but I have work in the morning, and it’s already late.”

“Alright then,” Bucky nodded, falling back into step with you. The silence was filled with tension, but for what reason, you couldn’t place. You felt his eyes on you the entire time, studying you still as you hunched your shoulders to try and hide from him. What was he looking at? Was there something on your face? Was he planning on how to best trap you and drink you dry? Was he just toying with you at this point?

“Your heart is pounding, draga mea,” he purred, his hand brushing against your coat sleeve. “What has you so worked up?”

“N-nothing,” you stuttered, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment. Bucky hummed, a twitch of his lips your only indicator that he found this whole situation amusing. You rounded another corner, breathing out a sigh of relief as you spotted your apartment. Your gait quickened, Bucky matching your pace easily until you stopped at the stairs leading up to the entryway. You stepped up onto the first step, turning to face Bucky with a bashful smile.

“Well,” you gestured back behind you, “this is me.”

Bucky arched a brow at you, an amused smirk on his face as you fiddled with your fingers awkwardly.

“You’re not going to invite me in?” He questioned, that familiar smirk taking purchase on his lips once more. You spluttered, eyes growing wide as you tried to think of how to answer. Bucky’s smirk transformed back into that boyish grin once more.

“Kidding, draga mea,” he chuckled. You scowled at him, though there was no real heat behind it.

“Well,” you blew out a breath, “thanks for walking me home and, um, saving…me.”

“No thanks necessary,” he assured you. “But, I would like your name.”

Your cheeks grew even hotter at the realization that you had never actually given this man your name. You supplied it, and he repeated it in a low rumble, as if tasting it on his tongue.

“It suits you, I think,” he nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets and shooting a wink your way. “Well, I’ll see you around, doll.”

He backed up, eyes trained on you as a devilish smirk stretched across his lips before he turned around and continued on his way. You watched after him until he disappeared around the corner, blowing out a breath as you looked up at the starless sky above. Part of you hoped you never saw him again, but another, darker part of you prayed you did.

A/N: And here's chapter one! The man, the myth, the legend! Bucky is so interesting to write, and I'm excited to delve into his character and see what kind of person he's going to be! Can't wait to hear thoughts!

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @sailoraviator-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The story untold no more - Bucky x Reader - part1

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

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Journalist!Reader

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

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

Words for the chapter: 15 805 (big oopsies)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then I’ll drop it,” you promised.

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

And you wouldn’t waste it.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It terrified him.

---

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

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

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

Subject: Something to Think About

Hi Bucky,

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

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

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

Title: The Soldier and the Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT]

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

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

Best regards.

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

With a low sigh, he tapped the email.

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

Then he reached the photo. His breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Subject: Re: Something to Think About

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

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

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

Let me know when you want to start.

Bucky,

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

Bucky blinked, momentarily surprised, but you continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“You’re close with them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched. “What?”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Bucky smirked. “Terrible, huh?”

“The worst,” you admitted dramatically.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

First, though, tea.

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

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

“Well, look who it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Today, he was ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Are they wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” you asked gently.

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome,” you replied softly.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

It was time.

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

Title: James Buchanan Barnes – The Boy from Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

“Weird?” you repeated, tilting your head.

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

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

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

“First time for everything,” you teased gently.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Bucky’s childhood home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

---

Title: James Barnes – Brooklyn’s Own Casanova

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Part 2

[cosmos-coma]

Winter Mountain Soldier Spy - Part 1

A/N: I'M BACK. I've been stewing on and writing this idea out for an entire year now and I'm finally ready to put out the first chapter! I'm REALLY excited for this piece because I really wanted to make it self indulgent and more applicable to who I am and what I do. I am a naturalist and I live in lonely wooded mountains and I wanted to really reflect that. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Pairing: Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Words: 3747

Summary: The Winter Soldier, armed with only a knife and his fragmented memories finally flees HYDRA's grasp. Bloody and fading, he stumbled through the woods and countryside to find safe refuge.

You think yourself a simple woman. You live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by deep woods and farm fields and you're happy. It's a sleepy little place, hardly any excitement to go around, but you're happy to call it home. When driving home on the empty country road you encounter the last thing you expect: a man stumbling from the woods, bleeding out and wary of anything that moves. You try to take the soldier home, but will he accept your help?

And even If he does… Will he stay?

Bucky Masterlist | AO3

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

________

Flecks of snow danced along the wind, dusting the forest floor in a pristine blanket of white that perfectly blended his dark figure into the rocks and surrounding woods. Cold, biting air settled around him like an old friend, his breath puffing out like chimney smoke, but he did not feel it. 

A raven cawed its passing overhead- a grim reminder of exactly what he was here for. He watched his target move through the scope; male, average height, middle-aged, unremarkable in just about every way- save for the fact that he happened to be in HYDRA’s way. 

‘A man… not just a target.’ The Winter Soldier reminded himself in an odd thought, but he knew better than to say it out loud. The last time he did, it didn’t end well. 

‘There are civilians-‘ he paused, wincing instinctively at the pain that used to follow, he corrected himself, ‘There are obstacles on the premises.’ His target was with their family, surrounded by bodies who had been getting in the way all evening- all evening until now. 

 ‘Proceed as intended,’ his handler replied, their voice void of any remorse for their hand in this bloodshed.

His finger ran over the trigger, but remained hesitating, ‘They’re children….’ 

They had him wiped mere seconds after that mission’s debriefing, but- whether fortunately or unfortunately- they did not wipe him well enough. Fragments of thoughts and memories of the waking weeks before remained like scattered puzzle pieces. Now all he had left was to put them back together. 

He’d been discovering more and more of these fragments as of late- remembering pieces of missions here and there, things he’d done…. And blood he’s spilled. Yet these memories never go very far back, a few months at most, and he was beginning to wonder just how much was still locked away. 

“I said: Soldier, do you copy?” The voice in his earpiece interrupted, slicing through his thoughts and bringing him back to the task at hand. “Prepare the machines, we may need a wipe upon debrief...” he heard his handler continue in the background.

“I copy.” He was quick to reply, his tone even and cold just as it always was. He couldn’t risk another wipe; he had been quiet and obedient to a T to keep his changes under the radar. He just needed to hold out until the time was right.

“Finish your job and get back here for debriefing.” 

His finger twitched on the trigger.

“Yes, Sir.”

——- 

The world was painted in various shades of black, white, and muted browns, all blending together as you drove through the winding country road. The sky was a blanket of low gray clouds, tiny droplets of rain making their slow descent like dust from a shaken-out quilt. Fog crept down the mountainsides like an ancient creature scouring the earth, its breath leaving ghostly wisps that lasted long after the creature had moved on. 

You hummed, half-singing the lyrics to a song you didn’t even realize was stuck in your head. You tried to listen for the patter of rain against your windshield, but even that was muted, too soft to even leave an audible mark.

This was one of your favorite types of weather- a midwinter rain. Perhaps it was something about the way it melted the snow back into what it once was, making the cycle whole again. Or perhaps you just liked the dreary weather, and there wasn’t any more to it than that.

Wide open fields expanded to the right of you, sectioned off by old stacked-stone walls and whatever old trees had taken root there decades before. To the left of you lay steep forested mountain, the ground littered with rotting leaves and brightened only by the still green ferns that poked out of the melting snow. Mossy rocks of all sizes covered the mountainside, providing texture and support for the fallen trees as well as giving credence to the local phrase that there were ‘two rocks for every dirt’.

Nodding along to the quiet music now knowingly stuck in your head, you took the last sharp turn toward home when- 

SCREECH

You slammed on your brakes, nearly standing straight up on the pedal as you came to a screaming halt, your bumper coming just shy of the large dark figure that stumbled wildly into the road. At first, you’d thought it was a massive black bear- albeit out of season- until the figure slowly clambered up onto its two legs and turned to face you.

This was no bear. 

His cold, distant blue eyes seemed to bore right through you, leaving nothing hidden as he scanned you through the windshield. Long strands of dark, shoulder-length hair framed what you could see of his face, the rest hidden behind a rigid, muzzle-like mask. Even then you still found him… oddly handsome-for a man who had just stumbled from the woods.

Broad yet slumped shoulders drew your eyes next- the way they stretched and pulled his leather jacket with each labored breath. His right side had a full sleeve, sitting snuggly around a muscular arm while the other side was completely bare, showing off a silvery, plated prosthetic the likes of which you’d never seen before. He looked like a soldier, a man on a mission - but as his hand pulled away from his side you began to guess that was not quite the case- not anymore. His hand came away a blazing crimson as blood coated every inch of his palm and began to steam against the cool air. It looked like he had been trying to apply pressure as he ran- and from the looks of it, it was not working.

“Fuck…,” you whispered, quickly putting on your hazard lights and jumping out of the car. Thank god this road was always empty. “Are you okay? What-What happened? Did you-“ Your words faltered as you spotted other wet streaks running down his jacket, fitted with bullet holes above each one. Glancing briefly into the woods you spotted the scant red trail left in his wake, following it with your eyes until it ran out of sight. Blood continued to pour out of him even now as his pulse hammered on. How on earth had he still been running like this…? 

“You’re hurt-“ you said, stepping toward him with your hand outstretched.

Blue eyes widened in a flash of momentary fear as he took a staggering step back, trying to keep his distance and biting back a grunt of pain as it jolted up his side. “I’m fine,” he spoke firmly through the mask, his voice far rougher than you had imagined, or was it just the exertion? Fingertips hovered over the knife hidden in his belt as his feet steadied into a defensive stance, repeating, “I’m fine….” 

“You’re not fine...! You’re bleeding out!” You exclaimed, “I’m not here to hurt you, okay? Please, just let me drive you to a hospital or-“

“No-“ he rushed, a slight panic hidden in his tone that he was quick to extinguish before continuing, “No hospitals….” 

Slowly you nodded and held your hands up, glancing down at your feet as you risked another small step toward him, “Okay… Alright, that’s fine. No hospitals then-“

His fingers glided over the handle of his knife, but for some reason, his instinct refused to draw it. Perhaps it was the disarming softness in your expression…  or…. Or was it the loud breath echoing in his ears? Unaware at first that they were his own they now became something overwhelming, taking over his senses as they ebbed and flowed shallowly. When did he start breathing so hard? Has he always been moving this slow…? And Why… Why were his thoughts… lagging…?

“-Let me take you to my place instead.” You suddenly offered, surprising even yourself as you took another slow step forward, yet you couldn’t seem to help yourself as you continued, “It’s just up the road here.” You pointed beyond him, “I can patch you up and then you can leave whenever you want, okay? No hospitals. No doctors. Just please let me help you try to survive this….” 

The Soldier’s jaw clenched as you finally came within arm’s reach, his eyes searching and scanning for any semblance of a threat in you. But there was none. All he saw were your big eyes; Soft, round, and… earnest. It wasn’t an emotion he was familiar with- seeing or feeling- But between the blood still weeping from his wounds and the way his vision was beginning to swim in his eyes he wasn’t sure he had a choice anymore.

Slowly he nodded, pulling his hand away from the knife and bringing it back to its place on his side, “Your place…” he breathed heavily between his words, “No hospitals….”

“No hospitals,” you agreed with a short nod, moving even slower this time as you reached out again and laid your hand on his cool metallic shoulder. Like nervous prey, his wide eyes watched your every move as you came up beside him, your hands carefully placed between the bullet holes to support him.

He stepped forward on his own at first, his movements seeming to insist that he could do it himself, that he was still fine, but as his feet began to stumble toward the next step his cold metal hand shot out for your support. His movement still felt stiff and distanced now under your supportive touch, yet you found him leaning into you more and more as you helped him towards the car.

Once the stranger sat securely in the passenger seat you hopped into your still-idling car and sped off through the rest of the empty winding roads. 

You tried hard not to let yourself get distracted as you drove, yet you still found yourself stealing glances at the handsome stranger. He had finally relaxed into the seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he took in heavy breaths. Though blood still seeped from his open wounds, you grew hopeful as his breath began to even out; with any luck, it’ll keep him from bleeding out in your care.

You lived along a quiet semi-dead-end road, with only a few houses here and there that sat occupied by older couples you had yet to actually see. You were fortunate to be where you were, with no neighbors close enough to bother you and town a good 30 minutes away, you could live in relative peace and solitude.

Pulling to a stop in front of your old farmhouse you quickly hopped out to help him in, finding his rather dense weight leaning heavier on you now than before. His adrenaline must’ve finally passed and now he was beginning to fade. You weren’t sure how many waking minutes he had left- let alone if you could continue carrying him.

You needed to work fast.

“Come on, big guy- we’re almost there…” You urged as you tucked yourself under his thick metal arm. He didn’t fight this time as you slipped your arm around his torso, half-walking and half-dragging his heavy feet inside. He grunted half-heartedly as you entered the house, looking around through slow-blinking eyes.

“Okay, we’re almost- It’s right over there- fuck… !” You felt his knees begin to buckle beneath him, tugging the both of you down. Thankfully the coffee table was already nearby and, though it was a struggle, you managed to pivot and slowly lower him onto the table, leaving him in an upright slump.

Tired blue eyes looked up at you- your relentless efforts and your heavy breaths as you took a second to recover. His lips parted beneath his mask; he wanted to say something, but even he wasn’t sure what it was. But before any noise had the chance to spill from his lips you were off again, the sounds of you rummaging through drawers and cabinets evident as you went throughout the house.

“Aha!” you exclaimed in victory as you ran back to your patient, the first aid kit held proudly in hand.

 You approached the stranger once more, kneeling down, “We need to get this mask off first, okay? You need to breathe properly…” You explained as you reached toward his face. With a flash of silver, you felt cool metal wrapped around your wrist; impossibly strong fingers held you with surprising delicacy. Though fear dwelled in his exhausted eyes, his touch held no malice, only that of caution. 

For a brief moment, the two of you stood in silence, fixed in place by each other's unyielding gaze until your hand finally continued on its path. Though his grip loosened, his touch remained steady on your skin as you disconnected the mask with a click, and slowly pulled it away. 

You prayed he didn’t hear your quiet gasp as you finally gazed upon him. Soft blushed lips, protected from the winter’s harsh cold, lie parted as he breathed through the radiating pain. His sharp jaw and shallow cleft chin were roughened with days-old stubble, perfectly suiting his disheveled look. 

Trying to focus your attention back on the fading man in your care, you carefully peeled away the blood-soaked jacket and shirt, unleashing a strong whiff of iron along with it. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you looked over the man stranger below you, trying not to let your mind dwell on his state of undress. ‘NO! No, getting distracted now! Focus..!’’ You yelled at yourself internally, reining your thoughts back into place as you went about patching up the gruesome wounds.

He had been hit 3 times; once in his shoulder, once in the side, and once right above his hip. Thankfully the one on his hip seemed to go straight through, but the other two were not as lucky. You’d have to go in through his back and dig each and every piece out. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as your tweezers dug through his flesh for every fragment you could find. It took all your composure to ignore the way each sickening squelch turned your stomach, but somehow you managed to prevail. “You were shot in the back…? ” You prodded, trying to keep him awake as you pulled out the last of the pieces. “You must’ve pissed someone off real bad….” 

His head bobbed shallowly, “Something like that…,” his brows drew together in pain, but otherwise kept his practiced expression. Ever observant eyes and craning neck tried to watch you as best he could over his shoulder, but to little avail. 

It’s your touch that concerned him now; like a taser, each brush of your fingers sent lightning across his skin. Its warm, crackling sensation ran throughout his body like a storm cloud charging up for its final strike. It was a new sensation for him, the way his skin grew warm and his heart stirred- it had never happened before, and yet still felt so deeply familiar- as if in another life he’d known it by name. 

Did you feel it too? The thrum of energy deep in your bones? The kind that both put you at ease and made your heart bounce off its walls? The kind that soothed your inner storm yet still left the waves running passionately for the shore?

He grunted, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead as he attempted to wrangle his thoughts. ‘It’s the blood loss talking. Nothing more…’ he assured himself, his metal hand moving to clamp tighter over the still-seeping wound of his hip. The pain would ground him, force him to think clearly again, of that much he was sure.

“You okay?” You asked, your worry evident as you smoothed the medical tape over his skin “I’m almost done with your back and then I can move on to your hip….”

It felt like his mind was being torn in two, warring with itself as it tried to determine whether or not he could really trust you. “ Fine… I’m fine,” he barely assured.

He couldn’t afford to trust anyone- not yet. He was on the run now and who knows how far HYDRA’s claws reached or who they had already sunk them into… but as you moved to settle before him, a small smile on your lips as you brushed his metal hand aside- he wanted to.

 He’s never wanted anything more.

You simply nodded, not wanting to press him any further, and gently pushed his hand out of the way, revealing the last of his wounds. Eyes followed your every movement as you secured the last bandage, each accidental brush of your fingers against his skin, each firm press of the gauze against the staunched wound.

 He wanted to trust you.

“There… that should be the last bandage,” You said with a grateful sigh, wiping the blood from your hands, “but I’m no doctor, so you might need to take it easy for a while.” You said as you stood once again and motioned to the couch behind him, a small, yet resigned frown passing over your expression, “However…I  did promise that you could leave whenever you were ready….”

By God, he wanted to trust you.

You wished beyond anything for him to stay. Not only for the pleasant curve of his lips, the smooth skin that stretched perfectly across toned muscle, nor for the interesting company he would no doubt be. No… it was his eyes that really captured you, that made your heart beg for him to stay. Cold, calm, and vibrant blue- the kind eyes that wrapped around you and held you under. It reminded you of a frozen lake and part of you craved to find out what made him so. 

But you knew better than to try and hold him. 

“I’ll gather the rest of the bandages and antibiotics for now, but there's no rush.” You offered with a tight smile, hoping he couldn’t read your expression as easily as you felt it was painted on your face. You carried the littering of packaging and the now significantly emptier first aid kit back to the bathroom, pausing just inside the cracked door to listen for leaving footsteps.

But the Soldier hesitated.

His eyes moved to the front door. It was left ajar in the rush to get him inside,  the cold of winter still pouring in. He could leave. Leave and never look back, ever moving toward a fate unknown. But a part of him- a part that had been wiped clean so many times- urged him to stay and find fate here.

For once in his life he could choose to listen to this part of him, no matter how small or repressed…

And he would not waste the opportunity. 

———- 

Craning your neck to look beyond the pile of blankets, pillows, and clothes overflowing in your arms, you padded your way up the creaky wooden stairs, “Hopefully, the spare room will be okay for you tonight. And I found some old clothes in the basement that should be about your size.” You offered as you blindly opened up the door before you. 

The man followed only a few steps behind, his trained footsteps eliciting barely a squeak on the usually talkative staircase. He watched on in confusion as you made up the modest queen-sized bed for him, and stashed a few extra blankets and pillows to the side just in case.

You smiled gently as you finished, and finally turned to hand him the clean change of clothes.

Like a sheet of ice in the ever-warming sun he felt his once-piercing gaze now grow soft as he took the small bundle with the utmost care.

It was such a quick and subtle change you weren’t sure you really saw it, but you sincerely hoped you did.

“I know it’s not much right now, but I hope you’ll still be comfortable for the night.” You said as you looked over the room, hoping you didn’t forget anything. 

He blinked, tilting his head to the side a bit as he lingered on your words.

Why would it matter if he was comfortable? What purpose would it serve you? And why were you just giving him these things…? Did you want something in return? “I…” He paused, a small frown coming to his lips before he managed to speak again- the most emotion you’d seen from him yet. “Why?” he questioned.

“Why? Oh, well…“ You thought for a moment, surprised by the unorthodox question, and eventually shrugged, “You deserve to be comfortable…It seems like you’ve been through a lot recently and you deserve to finally rest…” you said with a hint of a smile. And you meant it. Between the bullet wounds and the near-bleeding out- not to mention, whatever must have come before- you figured he probably deserved a few years rest if nothing else. But for now, you were happy to help him take it day by day.

He didn't return your smile- though you didn’t really expect him to- but still, a softness lingered in his eyes. However, this softness did not dwell alone; beyond that, it laid an inkling of fear- an inkling of impermanence. How long could all of this really last? And what would it be like when his time finally ran out?

But for now, he would allow himself the rare unguarded moment as he repeated your words, his voice scant above a whisper, “I deserve to rest….”

His eyes cast down to the soft fabric in his hand, his calloused thumb running over its well-loved structure. They smelled old, but it didn’t bother him. These were the first clothes- the first gift- that he had received in… well, he wasn’t sure how long.

With a soft and reassuring smile, you nodded and slipped past him as you stepped out the door, “I’ll let you get settled, okay? I’ll be downstairs if you need anything-“ You paused “Ah… Hm, I guess I never really got your name in all the rush earlier…” 

The Soldier shook his head, his voice rough and low with its minimal use, “Don’t have one.”

Your brows furrowed, “You don't have a name…? Hasn’t anybody ever called you anything...?”

His weight shifted from side to side as he thought about his next words, his eyes flicking up to yours; they looked like they carried the weight of lifetimes.

 “They used to call me the Soldier… the Winter Soldier.” 

_________

General Bucky Taglist:

@writingmysanity @simpxinnie @goldylions @yeehawbrothers

My apologies if i missed anyone! Its been a while writing for the winter soldier! If you wanted to be added to the general or WMSS Taglist please ask and let me know!

[blythesarchives]

Just As You Are. | B.B

summary: He tries his best for Valentine's Day.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | Fluff | CW!Bucky x Fem!reader | Cunnilingus | PiV sex | Light dirty talk | Unprotected sex | Slightly insecure Bucky

a/n: I'm not big into Valentine's Day just because it feels very commercialized to me, but I like imagining it with Bucky. This plot changed so many times lmao but I think I am satisfied with how this turned out. If you're allergic to strawberries, just imagine a different fruit. Not beta read. ;; wc: 4.2k

Bucky stood motionless in the bustling store, his steely eyes fixed with a deep frown upon the endless aisle dedicated to Valentine's Day merchandise.

He didn't remember it being so...big back in the day. The sheer volume of products and options left him feeling completely overwhelmed, his mind drifting back to simpler times when a thoughtful bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolate were considered more than acceptable tokens of affection for your sweetheart.

Now, he watched as frantic shoppers rushed past him, their arms laden with elaborate bouquets, towers of candy boxes, and enormous stuffed bears that seemed to grow more ridiculously sized with each passing year.

There were some shoppers who took a different approach, selecting items for personalized gift baskets filled with practical things like cozy socks or fragrant bath bombs. That seemed more personalized with his old-fashioned sensibilities, but you weren't particularly fond of long soaks in the tub, making that option feel somehow inadequate.

A wave of insecurity washed over him unexpectedly. Despite knowing that you had never once demonstrated materialistic tendencies or pressured him for presents, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he should be showering you with gifts. Traditional values ingrained in him insisted that as the man in the relationship, this was his role to fulfill. His heart warmed slightly at the mental image of you beaming with delight over an armful of fresh flowers or savoring each piece from a velvet-lined, heart-shaped box of premium, ridiculously expensive chocolates.

Truthfully, he felt completely lost about what would be the perfect gift for you. The confident, charming young man he used to be - the one who could effortlessly capture a lady's attention with just a well-timed smile or clever word - seemed like a stranger from another lifetime. These days, the gazes that would drift to him were filled with suspicion and barely concealed hostility.

Defeated and increasingly anxious, Bucky turned away from the crowded store aisle, his mind spinning with uncertainty as he struggled to think of what to get you for this special occasion. As he made his way through the bustling shop, he passed by an enthusiastic florist who was eagerly displaying enormous bouquets of perfectly arranged, vibrant red roses.

The vendor was encouraging every passing customer to purchase one, his sales pitch well-rehearsed and persistent. The sight made Bucky recall a conversation from several months ago, where you had expressed your views on traditional romantic gestures. You explained that while roses were undeniably a sweet and romantic gesture, they felt somewhat predictable and conventional to you. Too ordinary, you had said, preferring instead gifts that showed genuine thought and consideration.

"Sure, roses are beautiful. I think they're a wonderful gift for birthdays or valentine's, whatever. But...I don't know. Everyone gets roses. I would be happy but it would also sort of feel like you didn't really try, since they're so abundant and common. It makes them feel less special. Hopefully that doesn't make me sound snobbish. I'd rather get a more personalized bouquet or...one with my favorite flowers instead." You glanced up at Bucky who was nodding and listening, remembering, for later.

Though the roses were beautiful, their pristine petals catching the store's fluorescent lighting to aid in their deep crimson coloration, Bucky could practically envision the polite but slightly underwhelmed expression that would cross your face if he chose such a common option.

Plus...why were flowers so expensive these days? A dozen roses for almost a hundred dollars? The modern pricing was ridiculous - back in his day, that kind of money could have bought several weeks' worth of groceries. Besides, a lot of the bouquets contained wilted flowers. If he got you a bouquet, each and every flower would be alive and well.

He didn't want to leave without getting you something special, something that would bring a genuine smile to your face. He stood there for several long moments, running his flesh hand through his hair as he considered what kind of gift would truly resonate with you, something that would perfectly balance thoughtfulness with appropriateness while still managing to surprise you.

After spending what felt like hours wandering through the store's aisles and watching other men pick the big red hearts off the shelves without a second thought, he began to carefully examine each heart-shaped box of chocolates, reading every label and ingredient list to ensure he found the exact type of varieties you had mentioned loving. Finally satisfied with a winner, he put it in the basket he grabbed.

Moving through the store, he made his way to the stuffed animal section, where he spent considerable time comparing different plush versions of your favorite animal, wanting to select the one with the perfect expression and the softest fur. That one looked too grumpy, that one looked lopsided, that one wasn’t proportioned right - but he found the perfect one.

Then rather than settling for a pre-arranged bouquet, he thoughtfully handpicked each individual flower, remembering all the times you had pointed out different blooms during your walks together, creating a personalized arrangement that represented all your favorites. Even with the care and attention he put into each gift selection, a nagging feeling of inadequacy crept in - everything he chose, while thoughtful, still felt too ordinary.

Bucky shook his head and paid for the items, ignoring the feeling.

Back at home, he arranged everything perfectly. He individually wrapped each item, positioning them precisely in the basket alongside the plush animal and chocolates. Taking his time with the flowers, he trimmed each stem at exactly the right angle and arranged them in the vase until the composition was just right. When Bucky finally stepped back to assess his work, his heart sank slightly, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

The entire arrangement somehow still didn't feel special or unique enough.

Alpine gracefully leapt onto the counter, her blue eyes focusing intently on the array of gifts laid out. She lowered her head, her pink nose twitching as she investigated each item curiously. "What do you think, girl...good enough?" Bucky asked softly, his fingers running through the ragdoll's silky fur as he gently stroked from her head down along her back.

After her inspection, Alpine cast one final, contemplative glance at the presents. Then, with typical cat-like indifference, she turned away from them, her fluffy tail held high like a banner as she delicately padded across the counter to the edge, and descended to the floor with one smooth leap.

"Bad, huh?" Bucky released a heavy sigh, his eyes lingering on the carefully chosen gifts as waves of uncertainty began to wash over him, his anxiety gradually creeping in and eating away at him.

He didn't have more time to wrestle with his uncertainties as the sound of keys jingling at the front door caught his attention. You made your entrance quicker than he had anticipated, your exhausted form slowly making its way through the doorway after what was clearly an demanding day at work. You kicked off your shoes in a haphazard manner, letting them land wherever they might. The weariness etched across your features told him everything he needed to know about the challenging nature of your workday.

"Hey," Bucky offered in greeting as he made his way over to you in the entryway, his mind racing as he tried to keep you from noticing the carefully prepared gifts just yet. Perhaps if he could buy himself a little more time, he might figure out something better to give you than the basic gifts.

A soft, tired grumble was all you could muster in response, though the gentle warmth in his eyes worked its magic in lifting your spirits considerably. "Hey..." you murmured an actual response, crossing the space between you to wrap your arms around his sturdy frame. He gladly hugged you back, letting you bury yourself against him.

The thought of spending the entire day at home with him had been your secret wish throughout your shift, but responsibilities couldn't be ignored. He had promised to make the evening special, and that thought alone helped you persevere through the long hours of your workday.

Bucky thought fast, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze with those intense steel-blue eyes. "How about a hot bath? I can get one ready for you, make it nice and warm - it'll be perfect for those sore muscles of yours...plus, I know you’ve been on your feet all day." He offered gently, his flesh hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. A playful smirk slowly spread across his lips as he added, "I could even feed you some fresh strawberries while you relax..."

"Ugh, that sounds so heavenly right now..." You agreed with a soft, appreciative moan, already imagining the soothing warmth of the water and the sweet taste of cool fruit.

Bucky made his way to the bathroom, wanting to create the perfect relaxing atmosphere for you after your long day. He tested the water temperature with his flesh hand until it reached that ideal warmth you always preferred, then clogged the drain.

While the tub filled, he selected your favorite aromatherapy soap, watching as it created billowing clouds of soft, luxurious bubbles that released that soothing scent you loved so much. He also scattered rose petals across the surface - special ones he had purchased with your other gifts. They would slowly dissolve into the water, but for now they created a nice, romantic display as they rested atop the peaks of foam.

In the bedroom, you gradually shed your work uniform, letting each piece fall away with relief before walking into the bathroom to meet him. He remained unaware of your presence for a moment until he turned, and when he did, he took the chance to admire you. Bucky rose up to his full height and approached you, his hands finding their familiar place on your hips. "You're so beautiful, doll..." he murmured, his voice full of affection as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, before adding, "Bath's all ready..."

"It looks perfect," you replied in an equally soft and tired tone, carefully stepping into the steaming bath water and sinking down with a contented moan.

God, it felt absolutely amazing - after countless exhausting days of non-stop work, your muscles were crying out for relief. Your back and neck were especially sore from hunching over your desk for hours on end. The perfectly heated water enveloped your body like a warm hug, melting away the tension and aches that had built up over time. The chosen aromatherapy oils filled the air with a soothing blend of lavender and eucalyptus that relaxed you even further.

"Thank you, Bucky... this is... exactly what I needed," you mumbled appreciatively, slowly sinking lower into the luxurious bath until the fragrant bubble clouds rose around your shoulders like a soft blanket.

Bucky's lip quirked up with a gentle, knowing smile as he reached for a plump strawberry from the delicate pink crystal bowl beside the tub. His eyes sparkled with affection as he held the fruit up teasingly, "Of course doll... now open wide~"

"Tease," you said playfully, leaning for the strawberry he held between his fingers. You gladly accepted the offering, letting your lips brush against the plump, red fruit before taking a delicate bite. The sweetness burst across your tongue as you savored each moment, watching his expression intently. Unable to resist the temptation, you gently caught his finger between your lips, your tongue darting out to taste the lingering juice - a deliberately cheeky move to provoke a reaction.

Bucky's eyes darkened as he watched you, a knowing smile spreading slowly across his face. His fingers twitched slightly at the sensation of your tongue, and he leaned in closer. "Don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he warned in a low, honeyed voice that made you shiver, even in the steaming water. "You know exactly what'll happen. Besides, it's Valentine's Day..." He reached out to trace your jawline with his thumb, his touch feather-light and promising. "...I'll make it all about you..."

You couldn't resist the temptation that coursed through you, causing you to slowly emerge from the water just enough to delicately capture his hand between your teeth and deliver a playful nip. Your lips ghosted across his wrist and laid a kiss, "I think I wanna see what you mean..."

That's how you ended up on the bed with his face between your legs.

Your swollen, sensitive pussy being devoured by the soldier keeping your legs spread open. His tongue flatly lapped at you before he would encase your delicate clit in his lips and desperately suckle. The alternating movements kept you close enough to the brink of orgasm, but he wouldn't let you finish all the way yet.

"Bucky! Pl-please," you cried out desperately as he suctioned to your throbbing clit once more, his skilled tongue working magic against your sensitive bud. Your trembling hands clung tightly to the twisted sheets below your hips, your knuckles turning white from the intensity of your grip. Your cheeks were deeply flushed as tears of pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

It felt so fucking good - Bucky always dove into you like a starved man who hadn't tasted such sweetness in decades, you were a fruit from Eden and he wouldn’t stop until he has had all of you.

Which was kind of true, until you two had started dating and everything changed. Over time, he gradually gained the confidence he needed, becoming more and more comfortable with engaging in intimate acts. The hesitation that had once held him back melted away completely, and once that newfound bravado took over, he became a passionate and attentive lover who knew exactly how to make you come undone.

Bucky growled against you, tugging you even closer as he kept his face against your folds and lapped at you repeatedly. His eyes would peek at your expression from time to time, but he mostly kept them closed, purely focusing on your taste. So sweet and delectable, you were his favorite thing to lap up and devour. He never wanted to stop. This was his favorite thing ever. Being the source of your pleasure and hearing how you whined and squirmed underneath him.

"Come for me, baby...come on. Give it to me." He muffled against you as his tongue continued to move up and down with his repetitive licks, getting your juices and making sure to run over that swollen bud.

Fuck, you were. You were going to.

You moaned loudly as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, the tense burning sensation gradually building deep in your belly while your legs trembled uncontrollably. Bucky kept a firm hold on your legs, keeping himself buried in your pussy as he continued his feast. Heat radiated outward as you began to feel your nerves come alive, electric sensations traveling from your core and flowing down through your limbs to the tips of your fingers and toes. The pressure continued mounting until finally, everything began slowly blossoming and unwinding into an overwhelming, desperate climax.

When he pulled away from your folds, his face and dark scruff were thoroughly soaked with your juices. The smug, satisfied bastard slowly licked his lips and began climbing over your shaking body, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses from your sensitive belly all the way up to the crook of your neck. "Y'r so soft...god, I love every inch of you," he whispered in that husky, desire-laden voice as his lips grazed the shell of your ear.

"Bucky..." You whined needily, the desperate tone in your voice betraying just how affected you were, but you couldn't bring yourself to care - you were absolutely burning with desire for him. The delicious scratching sensation of his rough scruff against your skin felt absolutely divine, and you couldn't help but nuzzle your cheek against his strong jaw, seeking more of that friction. Your responsive action drew a knowing smile from Bucky as he pressed his body more firmly against yours, allowing his head to respond to your pressure and reaching his hand down to carefully position himself against you.

"Easy, my beautiful girl...I promise I'll give you everything you want and need. My perfect doll...just lay still for me, just like that...looking so gorgeous spread out underneath me..." He praised in that gentle, soothing voice that you normally adored, but in your current state of desperate arousal, his sweet words only served to turn you on even more. Something about it drove you insane.

When he finally breached you, your body arched off the bed and your hands immediately grabbed onto him, mindful not to claw at his heavily scarred shoulder.

The moan that escaped from between your parted lips was abruptly silenced as he captured your mouth with his own. The lingering taste of your pleasure danced on his tongue as it skillfully glided past your own, delving deeper to thoroughly explore every corner of your mouth. A deep, resonant hum of satisfaction rumbled in the soldier's chest and vibrated against your lips as he pressed into the kiss with mounting intensity, perfectly matching the quickening rhythm of the increasingly passionate snaps his hips made against you.

The gentle slapping that filled the room was drowned out by your cries of unison - the two of you spewing groans and moans of all kinds as his cockhead repeatedly kissed your cervix and coated it with his precum. The gummy walls of your tight cunt continued to squeeze and massage his cock with each little movement you made squirming beneath him and listening to his lower pitched sounds of pleasure.

"Bucky...ah, feels so good...feel so full," you whined and fell back onto the sheets, ignoring the gentle bulge that appeared beneath your skin each time he hilted himself inside you.

"So perfect for me, doll...made for me, made for my cock," he whispered with reverence, his voice thick and heavy. He leaned down, pressing hard, passionate kisses against your neck, which you willingly allowed. You tilted your head back, exposing more of your sensitive skin to him as he skillfully left a trail of bites and gentle purple bruises blooming across your flesh.

Prettier than any of those damned flowers he saw today.

"R'member when I bit all over you... 'round Christmas? I was so lost and confused back then and..nngh...all I knew was you. All I could think about was you. All I ever wanted was you...completely all to myself..." His voice came out rough and broken between desperate grunts as his hips pistoned at an increasingly frantic pace, his movements becoming more urgent with each thrust.

"Ah, yes...I remember it...you were so needy," You gasped breathlessly, a small knowing chuckle escaping your lips as you eagerly took him harder.

"Now look who's being needy...f-feel you squeezing around me so tight..." Bucky hissed through clenched teeth as he pushed even deeper inside you, his thick cock swelling noticeably with his rapidly approaching orgasm.

"Come for me, Buck Buck...I want it inside. Want you to fill me up," You reached up to him, yearning for more, pulling him down closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His silken hair cascaded down like a brilliant curtain, framing his face while he let out pants from slightly parted lips. The cool metal of his hand gripped firmly at the meat of your thigh, his touch both gentle and possessive, chilling the skin beneath it.

Bucky ducked his face down and pressed closer to you, a deep groan tore through his throat as his rapid thrusts finally stilled - you felt his thick member twitching inside you as he coated your pretty velvet walls in his cum. As his orgasm washed over him and made him thrust a few more times for good measure, the overwhelming sensation brought you to yours again.

You both panted, breathing heavily in unison as you relished in the feeling of him still tucked inside you, thick cum oozing out as you let out soft laughs together.

"That was absolutely incredible..." You breathed out in a contented sigh, your voice thick with emotion, "I love you so much..." Your lips tenderly found his in a series of gentle, loving pecks, while your fingers delicately traced patterns across his cheek, savoring the warmth of his skin.

"I love you too, babydoll. And actually, I have something special waiting for you in the kitchen..." He began, his eyes flickering towards the doorway. With a knowing smile, you gently guided his face back to yours, your fingers lingering on his jaw.

"Would that happen to be that beautiful arrangement of flowers and those decadent chocolates I spotted sat next to an adorable plushie?"

"Wait, what? How did you -"

"I saw the setup when you were preparing my bath earlier...sweetheart, you really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. I feel terrible now." You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows, guilt evident in your voice. "Work has been so hectic lately, I didn't even manage to find time to get you anything..."

He drew you even closer into his warm embrace and gently rolled both of you onto your sides. As his softened length slipped free, you nearly whimpered at the loss of connection, you held the pout back for now. "Doll, you should know by now that I don't need fancy gifts or presents. What matters most to me is having you here, sharing these moments together.” He winked playfully before returning to a more serious tone, “You coming home to me is the greatest gift I could ask for. And you know what? The night's still young - we could curl up together and watch a movie, if you'd like..."

You smiled and nodded, letting out a soft chuckle. "That sounds wonderful, but I really think we should freshen up first...things got pretty messy and you made me feel all sticky." You whispered with a playful lilt in your voice, carefully lifting yourself from the tangled sheets. As you made your way towards the bathroom, your hips swayed flirtatiously, each step a teasing invitation. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced over your shoulder with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "C'mon baby...if you're good, I’ll do that thing you always like..."

His reaction was instantaneous.

Like a coiled spring suddenly released, Bucky leapt from the bed with the same sharp reflexes from his military days - every muscle alert and ready. His blue eyes darkened with desire as a roguish grin spread across his face. "Yes ma'am," he responded, voice husky with anticipation. In two swift strides, he crossed the room and swept you up into his strong arms, making you squeal and laugh with surprise, cradling you against his chest as he carried you eagerly toward the shower.

When your feet touched the cool tile of the bathroom floor, Bucky was already eagerly anticipating another passionate moment together, but you gently placed your hands against his firm chest, causing him to pause. Your eyes met his as you spoke softly but earnestly, "And just so you know, everything you got me was absolutely perfect. I love it all so much. You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble - just spending the evening together would have been more than enough for me, but...everything you did get makes me feel so special. The arranged bouquet with all those beautiful flowers, the adorable plushie of my favorite animal, and those delicious chocolates...it's all too much. You are perfect."

Bucky felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over him at your heartfelt words, the tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying suddenly melting away. His voice was tender, slightly hesitant as he responded, "O-oh... yeah, of course. I...I really wanted to make tonight special for you in every way possible. I picked all your favorite colors and included those specific flowers you always stop to admire during our walks together...and I made absolutely certain the chocolates only contained ingredients and flavors I know you enjoy...and found you a soft, cuddle buddy to keep you company when I have to be away." He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he added with endearing awkwardness, "Besides Alpine, of course."

"Yeah, whenever she's in one of her affectionate moods and decides it's snuggle time," you added with a gentle, warm chuckle, your eyes crinkling at the corners. He swore his heart beat faster each time he saw those delicate lines. "You are enough, Bucky." You gazed deeply into his eyes, taking in every flicker of emotion that passed through them, before offering him a tender, reassuring smile.

Your hand came up to cup his cheek as you leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, feeling the tension slowly melt away from his body as he relaxed against you. Drawing back just enough to meet his gaze again, you whispered to him with absolute conviction so he could feel the words as much as possible.

"You are always enough, and don't you ever doubt that for a second..."

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[mournthebird]

James.

summary: You help him remember what he lost.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Post!HTP and abuse | Flashbacks of HTP | Past dehumanization | Past SA mention

a/n: So sorry for the wait on my writing. Started this back in January, just got around to finishing it.This is the last installment as of now for this series. Might not be the ending everyone wishes for, but this was the ending I was writing for all along.

I never expected my writing to get so much attention and I thank everyone for commenting and telling me how much they enjoyed it. I have plenty more to come, more series, more WS oneshots, etc. I hope you enjoy this last part. Not edited ignore mistakes. ;; wc: 3k

He was actually talking, forming full sentences and expressing himself in ways you hadn't seen before.

Recovery had been progressing well these past few weeks. The conversations between you two were becoming more frequent and natural, his initially trembling voice gaining strength and confidence with each passing day. He was still somewhat soft spoken, and hesitant every so often, but he had overcome retreating into silence. His words flowed more smoothly now, and the progress he'd made since those first difficult days was great. After months of providing him sanctuary in your home, seeing these improvements filled you with a deep sense of relief and hope that he was getting much better.

Your dedication to helping him recover had led you down numerous paths, including the risky but necessary task of infiltrating HYDRA's classified files. Your efforts hadn't been in vain - you'd managed to uncover another name, an identity that existed before they'd reduced him to simply 'Soldat'. You felt the potential benefits outweighed the risks by approaching him with this information. You didn’t want to send him into a mental break, but you also wanted to give him a piece of his identity to have and keep all for himself.

He deserved that much.

He was sitting peacefully in the living room, taking small bites of the sandwich you'd prepared for him. You settled onto the couch beside him, watching as he ate. "Soldat?" you ventured softly, drawing his attention. His glacial eyes shifted from the television screen to meet yours, and he deliberately finished chewing before swallowing his food. Through months of careful observation, you'd learned to interpret his quiet, attentive gaze as his way of showing he was listening.

"I found some stuff about you..." You began carefully, choosing your words, "Maybe it could help you remember some bits of your past before...you know." You placed the gathered paper files on the coffee table, positioning them next to his plate, your heart racing slightly at the weight of what these documents might mean for his recovery.

He gazed down uncertainly at the weathered tan folders spread before him, tilting his head slightly as he tried to comprehend their significance. Though their contents remained a mystery to him, your insistence on their importance lingered in his mind. He used the back of his organic hand to wipe his mouth clean of any crumbs before carefully reaching out to lift the heavy folders.

The weight of history pressed against his palm as he felt the substantial collection of papers and photographs within. Soldat's movements were measured and cautious as he opened the first folder, his eyes immediately drawn to what appeared to be an identification page.

The document contained what looked like a detailed patient dossier - complete with vital statistics, biographical information, and extensive historical records beyond the cover. But what caught his attention, what made his breath catch in his throat, was the photograph attached to the file. The face staring back at him was unmistakably his own, though from a time before HYDRA had claimed him - a fact he had yet to fully comprehend.

You hoped this wouldn’t send him spiraling.

A deep furrow formed between his brows as he leaned in closer, studying the image with an intensity that spoke of desperate recognition fighting against decades of delicate programmed amnesia. "...is this...me?" The words emerged as barely more than a whisper, his metal finger hovering tentatively over the photograph on the right side of the document. The military uniform the man in the picture wore stood in stark contrast to anything he'd known in the past seven decades that it felt like looking at a stranger.

"Yeah, that...that's you. And this," you said gently, making a sweeping gesture toward the thick folder, "This is all about you. I found it during my research into historical military records. The moment I saw this photograph, I recognized you immediately. After reading through your service history and your supposed 'death,' there wasn't a shadow of doubt in my mind - this was definitely you."

Soldat stared intently at the folder, his eyes scanning each line of information with the practiced precision of a soldier. His movements suddenly halted, brow furrowing in confusion as he reached a particular detail. "I have a birthday?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, laden with genuine bewilderment. The concept of having a birth date felt alien to him - such normal, civilian matters had been stripped away during his time as HYDRA's carefully crafted weapon. Personal milestones like birthdays had been deemed irrelevant to his function, reduced to meaningless data points in his fractured memory.

A distant memory stirred in his mind, hazy and distorted like looking through frosted glass. They had once arranged what they called a ‘birthday celebration’ for him, though the term felt wrong, tainted. The party existed in his memory only as fragments of sensations - a searing pain in his ass that had lingered for days afterwards, and the persistent acrid taste that had coated his mouth and torn throat, making even breathing an uncomfortable reminder of whatever had transpired. The memory carried no joy, only phantom discomfort and a deep-seated unease.

"...I don't understand, why are you showing me this?" His voice carried confusion and cautious suspicion as his gaze shifted to meet yours. The soldier in him searched for hidden motives, unable to reconcile your consistent kindness with his understanding of how people treated assets like himself.

Your genuine concern and humanity towards him stood out to the cold efficiency he had grown accustomed to. The question that truly plagued him remained unspoken but clear in his hesitant expression: how could someone like you see him as worthy of anything?

"Because you need to see that you exist - you're a person. A living being, not a machine. Not an asset. A human. You need to see this because you need to break through all that awful conditioning and see for yourself...your person is documented, you're real. Every moment, every breath, every thought you have belongs to you and no one else. Your experiences, your feelings, your choices - they're all valid and they all matter. And I want to give you all I can to help you understand that." You reply, voice determined and firm but gentle and patient.

It truly pained you, as much as you adored and loved caring for him, being a protector, a source of comfort for someone so damaged. Watching him struggle with his own identity and worth was like watching someone try to catch smoke with their bare hands - frustrating and heartbreaking all at once. You knew he couldn't stay this way forever, trapped in this cycle of self-doubt and learned helplessness.

He needed to heal, to find his way back to himself, and without this step, he would remain stuck in this limbo between who he was forced to be and who he could become. There was only so much you could do by yourself, only so far your words and actions could reach into the depths of his trauma. He needed another push, something more than just comfort and reassurance.

You wanted to keep him forever, but that wasn't right. You needed to give him a chance to live again.

The hours slowly drift by as you both remain seated in your living room, poring over every detail and fragment of his past and personal history. While you offer what assistance you can, you're aware of your limitations - you're not a historian or memory specialist, and many of the answers he seeks lie beyond your expertise. The simpler questions you can tackle with confidence, but when the inquiries delve into more complex territory, you find yourself struggling.

Despite these limitations, you pour your heart into helping him. Though your search for living relatives yields no results, you pay careful attention as he recounts his encounter with the man he fought prior to your meeting. You listen intently as he works to describe the individual in as much detail as possible, trying to capture every significant characteristic.

"Actually...he kind of looks like this kid but...bigger." His finger traces to a particular photograph, indicating a small-statured blond man whose frame seems incongruous with his age, suggesting some underlying medical condition or chronic ailment that may have affected his growth.

"Really? Him?" Your eyes scan the photograph with heightened interest, faint recognition tugging at your consciousness. "He looks familiar but...not." You furrow your brow in concentration, unable to figure out who this blond looks like.

"Huh. Well, I'll see what I can find," you say thoughtfully, your eyes drifting toward the old analog clock mounted on the wall. A deep yawn escapes you as the realization of the late hour hits. "Shit...it's almost three in the morning," you mutter, your hands moving up to rub your tired eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in. "I think I'm gonna have to call it a night..."

The soldier glances up from his position, his head tilting slightly as he follows your gaze to the clock. He carefully sets the stack of folders down on the coffee table before rising to his feet. "Me too."

"You don't have to because I am -" You begin to protest, not wanting him to feel obligated.

"Please..." He pauses, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. "I...I just got comfortable sleeping so...so I think this stuff will help me ease into sleep better. Knowing a little bit more about everything." He tries to explain in hushed tones, his shoulders lifting in a gentle shrug as if to downplay the admission. The gesture is small but meaningful, and you can't help but respond with a warm, understanding chuckle as you motion for him to follow.

"If you say so, silly," you reply with gentle affection. "But I'm absolutely exhausted...we can try to look up more tomorrow when we're both fresh."

The evening routine was a blur of haste.

Both of you moved through the motions with heavy limbs and tired eyes. Hours of staring at screens and poring over documents had left you mentally drained, your vision slightly unfocused from the extended research session. The familiar rhythm of brushing teeth and washing faces was performed almost mechanically, both of you eager to find solace in sleep.

When you finally made it to the bedroom, he followed his usual pattern of climbing into your bed rather than retreating to the spare room down the hall. Your bed had become his sanctuary, a place where he found the comfort and security that eluded him elsewhere. The spare bedroom was always available to him, but remained unused.

He preferred the warmth of your presence.

As he settled against your chest, you began tracing patterns across his scarred back. Your fingers danced carefully across his skin, drawing invisible masterpieces - delicate spirals here, geometric shapes there, occasionally spelling out words or numbers in a gentle game of touch. He’d guess them sometimes, or say them in Russian for you. You knew his preferences well by now, avoiding that particularly sensitive area where flesh met metal, creating a jagged reminder of his past. Your touches were meant to soothe, to ease him into sleep, and you would continue until his breathing evened out into the rhythm of slumber.

"You think I'll learn who I was again? Fully?" His question pierced the quiet of the room, barely audible above the steady hum of the white noise machine that helped mask the nighttime sounds of the house.

You took a moment to consider your response, a gentle smile forming as you replied, "Of course. There's so much information out there, and plenty to learn. Plus, if we figure out who that young man is in that photo, then I'm sure we can go off of that."

"Yeah...you're right...always right," he mumbled, his face pressing closer into your body as if seeking additional comfort. Responding to his movement, your hand naturally migrated upward, fingers weaving into his long hair to provide the calming sensation of gentle scalp massage that often helped lull him to sleep.

His breathing gradually slowed and deepened as he drifted towards sleep, your gentle touch working its familiar magic to ease his troubled mind. The soldier's muscular frame relaxed against you as consciousness slipped away, his strong arms remained wrapped around your body tenderly, holding you close like a cherished pillow. Though his body radiated warmth like a furnace - a side effect of the serum that coursed through his veins - the smooth, cool surface of his cybernetic left arm pressed against your skin provided the perfect counterbalance.

He ironically always complained about being cold, yet his skin was hot to the touch. You wondered if the repetitive freezing of his body messed with his ability to regulate body temperature, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

You shifted slightly to nestle more securely into his protective embrace, your own arms encircling him in return. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing began to lull you to sleep. As your eyelids grew heavy, you felt yourself being drawn into a deep, peaceful slumber - the kind of sleep that had eluded both of you for far too long.

Tonight was the first time in months that you both slept without disturbances.

The following day came and you returned to where you had left off. You delved deeper into researching, as you did, you couldn't help but notice the growing signs of restlessness in his demeanor - the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, how his eyes darted around the room, and the increasing frequency of his pacing.

"Talk to me, Soldat...what's going through your mind?" You finally broke the tense silence, looking up from the computer screen where you'd been working. His movements had become more pronounced now, an unmistakable anxiety radiating from him as he continued his agitated path across the room.

"I have to go...I need to find out more. I want to. I...I want to find the man from the bridge, he...he seemed to know me..." Bucky paced restlessly in your living room, his heavy steps wearing a visible path in your rug as he moved back and forth with nervous energy. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, metal fingers whirring softly with each movement as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

"Are you ready for that?" You asked gently, standing to meet him, careful to maintain enough distance to not overwhelm him. You knew this was coming, it was only a matter of time.

Your voice was soft but steady, "I want you to be happy...I want you to be free. If this is what you want to do, then you should go.” You reached up, moving some stray hair from his face and tucking it back with thicker bits of his hair before letting your hand rest on his chest, “Find yourself again. Discover who you truly are."

He looked down, shoulders hunched slightly as he processed everything he had been through with you. His long hair fell forward, partially obscuring his face once again - stubborn locks - as he remembered each careful interaction, each small victory.

You were the first person in seven decades to show him kindness, to show him the care and patience he needed when he was nothing more than a frightened, broken man seeking shelter. Surely, anyone else would've thrown him back out on the street, called the authorities, or worse.

You didn't do that.

You were persistent, taking care of him with such a gentle touch, helping him rediscover his humanity piece by piece, showing him that he deserved tenderness and understanding...he couldn't be more grateful for that.

"I want to go," he said quietly but with growing determination in his voice. You nodded slowly, understanding the significance this moment held for him - a step toward reclaiming his identity and place in the world.

You observed as the soldier - James, Bucky - selected and donned a well-worn brown jacket over top his layered preference on style. His hands, steady now despite their history, secured a nondescript cap over his dark hair, adjusting it just so before his eyes sought yours . "What do you think...? Civilian enough?" The question came softly, almost hesitantly, his searching gaze holding yours as he waited for your familiar reassurance.

You couldn't help but give a small, warm smile, your heart swelling with pride and affection. Watching him take these steps toward normalcy, toward reclaiming his place in the world, it made your eyes glisten with emotion threatening to spill over. He reminded you of an injured bird, carefully testing its mended wings after a long recovery, finally ready to take flight once again. Meeting his questioning look, you offered the reassurance he was looking for, "You look perfect. You..." You paused, taking a breath to calm your emotions.

"You can always come back whenever you need me. I'll be here for you, you know that, right?"

"I know," he whispered, taking a hesitant step forward as his eyes grew visibly misty, mirroring your own. "Thank you, for...for everything you've done. For being there through all of this. I...I don't even have the words to begin to express how grateful I am. How much this all means to me...I—"

"Hush now...there's no need to thank me...just," you took a shaky breath, your trembling hands smoothing down the lapels of his jacket, trying to steady yourself. "Go out there and find yourself again. Rebuild your life piece by piece. Take all the time you need. I know you have the strength to do this. Just…don’t forget about me…"

He gave you a gentle, tender smile - one of those rare, genuine expressions you'd seen so few times before. “How could I?” He leaned forward slowly, he placed a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead, full of unspoken gratitude and affection. After a long moment, he finally pulled away and reached for your front door, his hand hesitating briefly on the handle before turning it.

He had already taken the first crucial steps toward reconnecting with the core of who he was beneath the layers of conditioning and control. He was far from being healed - the deep psychological wounds and trauma would take many more years of patient work to process and integrate.

But with time, he would at least rediscover and reclaim his identity as James Buchanan Barnes.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover image from Pinterest. I do not claim as my own.

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Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded anytime.

[vivalas-vega]

fine line / part four

ok last one for the night !! again, so sorry to my followers that don't care about the mcu, very sorry for spamming your dash :( don't know for sure when the next part will be coming but I'm actively working on it!! enjoy and please please please let me know what you think!

fine line / mcu x reader / part four

part one / part two / part three

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 2.8k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

Early 1945

You got the assignment in a burned-out church in northern Italy. The message came folded into the binding of a field manual, passed through five hands and two borders to reach you. The words were sparse, the tone unmistakable:

Extraction required. Austrian alps. High priority, dangerous terrain. Low probability of return. You’re the only one close enough to make the drop.

You’d accepted without hesitation, but before you moved you sent a message of your own. Not to command, not to any handler… to a name you hadn’t spoken aloud in months, and you knew it wouldn't arrive before you did.

It took three days to track them down; a whisper in a tavern, a smudged map pinned to a wall, a soldier who recognized your eyes and lied to his captain so you could pass… but you did find them, just after dusk, in a makeshift camp nestled in the dense woods near the border. Fires burned low, tents were pitched with weary hands, mud clung to everything and the air was heavy with smoke and frost.

You stood in the tree line, half-shadow, watching. Steve looked nothing like the boy you’d left behind. He moved differently– taller, stronger, but somehow still Steve. He laughed at something Bucky said and the sound carried like it belonged in another life. And Bucky… he looked older, not in the lines of his face but in the way he held himself. The war had soaked into his bones and left its mark and it was then that you finally stepped out of the woods.

It didn’t take long for Steve to see you, Bucky preoccupied with something in his tent. He was halfway to you before anyone even registered movement, his face shifting from disbelief to something softer, something a little broken. “Button?” 

You smiled, small and tired. “Took you long enough,” you said, just above a whisper. He caught you in a hug that lifted you off the ground and for the first time in years, you let yourself melt into something comforting… grounding. “You look good,” you said as he set you down carefully. “Huge. But good.”

“You look… thinner,” he said, cautiously, concerned.

“I haven’t been eating much sausage,” you replied, lips twitching and he shook his head despite his grin. You heard a rustling from behind him and peered around his large frame to meet the eyes you so desperately needed to see… and he stood there in quiet shock, unable to move, questioning his grip on reality.

“Hey, Sarge,” you said, breaking through and he let out a sharp exhale. You could see the weight drop from his shoulders. He was on you so quickly you hadn’t even processed the first step he’d taken and you felt emotion immediately swell in every inch of you as the arms you called home cradled you so closely, so tightly.

“You never write,” he murmured into your hair.

“You never wait,” you teased as he pulled back to hold your face in his palms, touch so featherlight it seemed he was scared he’d break you. Looking at you now, he wasn’t sure he could hold on to you. He pulled you right back in, hand cradling the back of your head as he tried to feel every inch of you pressed against him. You were here, you were real and breathing in his arms. 

Finally, he whispered, “I thought you were dead.” You pulled back, just enough to look at him, not far enough to separate your bodies.

“I was, for a little while.” His eyes flickered over your face, noticing all the little differences. Your sharper cheekbones, a scar above your brow you didn’t have before, the way you carried yourself now, like a blade drawn halfway.

“You’ve been in deep,” he stated and you nodded. “Too deep?”

You almost smiled, “depends on who you ask.”

He didn’t. He just cupped your jaw like you might slip from his fingers, he wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t, and ran a thumb along that sharper cheekbone. “You’re meaner.”

“And you’re dirty and bleeding.”

He looked down at a scrape on his knuckle and huffed a laugh, “so, really not much has changed.” Steve had watched from the side for a moment, he needed to see the two of you like this as much as the two of you needed to feel it. Three kids from Brooklyn, brought back together through blood and secrets, somehow surviving it all… and then he slipped away while the two of you slipped into his tent, knowing you needed more than you could have in the middle of camp.

Bucky didn’t say a word as he lit the lamp low and shrugged off his coat, unfastened his boots. You watched in silence, trying to convince yourself this was back then. The routine was the same, the setting was not. You crossed the space and kissed him like it was the first and last time all at once. Slow, aching, deliberate… then quick, fiery, desperate. His hands came to your waist and drew you in, and he felt your whole body shudder against the heat of him.

He peeled you back layer by layer, scraps of you littered around the tent, and pulled you onto a makeshift pad on the floor… not much by way of comfort but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need any more than this right now. You hadn’t stopped fighting, not for a single moment, since you’d left Brooklyn, and that fight was still in you right now, a habit you couldn’t seem to drop, not even here. Not even in his arms.

The need in your chest was bubbling and overflowing and it made your movements sharp, and a little frantic, but Bucky cut through it all. He grabbed your hands and pinned them on either side of your head, and gave you a steady look before dipping down to kiss the soft skin of your neck. He took his time, not leaving even an inch of your skin unmet, unloved by his lips, and with each gentle movement you slowed, you melted.

“There she is,” he muttered, sending a shiver up your spine, and while he still had your hands pinned you used your head to nudge him back up to you, to meet your gaze. You tilted just slightly, asking for something he’d never deny you, and he captured your lips again in slow, languid movements. Savoring you, because who knew when you would have each other like this again? 

He started to kiss down your body but you shook your head, pulling him back up to you, “I need you,” you whispered, completely broken and full of such longing it cracked his chest in two. Perhaps there wasn’t enough ceremony as there should have been, but it didn’t matter. When he pushed into you, you both exhaled in relief. Low and absent of any tension. Your legs wrapped around his hips, hands cradling his jaw like you were scared he’d leave, and you could feel tears stinging your eyes as you pulled him down for another kiss.

Pleasure bloomed in every fiber of your being, each slow drag and snap of his hips driving you towards something you wanted to stave off as long as you could. You didn’t want this to end… just like that night back in Brooklyn, you wanted to stay right here with Bucky, just like this, for the rest of your life. You hooked his leg, a new move you’d learned for much different situations, and flipped your bodies, your knees settling on either side of him as he looked up at you in awe.

His hands roamed every inch of you, committing each soft sigh and whimper to memory as he traced a set of bruises along your rib cage, and you leaned down to press your chest flush against his, hips rocking back and forth in a way that made it hard to think of anything but each other’s name. It felt like something of the old you was being put back together, while the new you was being ripped apart at the seams. 

You let out a gasp when he bucked his hips to meet yours, a new angle that made you slump against him, unable to do anything but take what he gave you. A hand threaded through your hair, gripping at the base and pulling, not sharply but enough to feel a dull, delicious ache. “Want to see you,” he muttered, and you nodded softly, the movement pulling tighter against your scalp and coaxing a moan from your lips. His head tilted at this, just slightly as he analyzed your reaction, the way you’d clenched against him and something flipped… and it wasn’t just you. 

“You’re not delicate anymore,” he hummed against your lips, hips snapping harder against yours and you tugged at the strands of his hair, just like he had with you.

“Never was,” you managed to get out but words were lost when he grabbed a leg and hooked it over his shoulder. Your nails raked along his skin as he took you, and you were never more content to submit to anything in your life. For just a brief moment you could pretend this was it. You were Bucky’s girl, and nothing more. You weren’t a spy, constantly on the move, on the run. You weren’t headed for a mission you may never come back from. For just a brief moment, you got what you always wished for. You and Bucky and a bed, nothing else.

You unraveled when a hand rested on your throat, featherlight but steadying against the motion of your bodies, and he wasn’t far behind. You locked yourself around him, keeping his hips flush against yours as warmth coated your walls, not wanting to let go of any part of him, and he let his forehead rest against yours as you both tried to catch your breath. Your hands softly traced every inch of him, moving from his back, to his chest, his shoulders, then his face. You held him against you, fingers splayed across his jaw, “I am so in love with you I think I’d throw it all away to run away into these woods right now, if you asked.”

He shifted the two of you slightly, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, hooking your leg over his hip and not letting himself pull out of you… not just yet. He wanted to keep the two of you as close as possible, for as long as possible. “I’m so in love with you I’d say yes if you did,” he murmured, hand carding through your hair as he gazed down at you. “Are you asking?”

You took in a deep breath, “I don’t think I can.”

He nodded, “I don’t think I could mean it if I said yes.” You dragged the pad of your thumb across his lip and he kissed it softly, pulling a smile from you. “How long are you staying?”

“Until first light,” you answered and he sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t enough, but it never would be.

“Where are you going?”

“North. Austria.”

“That’s deep,” he replied, pain evident in the way his voice stretched, like it was about to crack. “How dangerous?”

“I might not come back,” you said, deciding not to lie to him. Part of you wanted to, to give him hope that everything would be just fine, but you thought that was cruel… to not prepare him for that possibility. 

His grip on you tightened, “then stay.” he said. “We’ll find a place for you, a job that’s worthy of you. Frankly, we could use you here, Button.”

You smiled softly, “you don’t even know what it is I do,” you said, but he shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. We need it. We need you.”

“You know I can’t,” you said, pressing your forehead against his. “We all have jobs to do, Bucky.” 

“You’ll come find me when it’s all over?” he asked and you nodded, pressing your lips to his. Telling him everything you didn’t have enough words for, and when you felt him twitch inside you, you just pulled him closer, deeper, and let that be enough.

The camp was quiet as you moved through the shadows between tents, the kind of hush that felt like the world was holding its breath. Like it knew today was a big day. You thought this would be easier, leaving the same way you’d made him promise to back then, but it wasn’t. Each step felt like a betrayal, felt like a painful sludge through molasses, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. If you’d seen the way he looked at you, not fully awake but eyes full of admiration, you wouldn’t have been able to do it at all. There was still a war to be won, and you played a part in that. You couldn’t abandon when it seemed you were so close, even if some part of you thought you deserved to be selfish now. You’d given enough, let someone else do the rest… but you couldn’t. You had to see it through.

Steve was already up, because of course he was. He sat near the dying fire, poking the embers with a stick and a cup of steaming coffee in one hand. He didn’t even look up when twigs cracked beneath your boots. He knew it was you, that’s why he was here. “You could’ve stayed long enough to let him wake up.”

You hesitated, then lowered yourself beside him, letting your bag hit the ground with a thud. “It hurts less this way.”

He nodded slowly, “that’s what Bucky thought, too. When he left you.”

You gave a dry laugh, no real humor in it. “We’re great at running away, the two of us.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “But not from each other.” That sat between you for a while, warm and honest. You reached for his mug and took a sip without asking, and he let you. He’d let you take anything he had to offer.

He didn’t press you for details, even though he wanted to. He just sat beside you and watched the sky shift from violet to gray, until finally, he said, “you gonna come back?”

You didn’t answer right away. “I want to.”

“That’s not the same as will.”

You looked down at your hands, “no. It’s not.”

Steve glanced towards the tent, “he’s gonna wake up and be furious.”

“I’m counting on it,” you said, trying not to smile. You turned to look at him, to really soak him in and without even thinking your hand trailed along his arm, feeling the expanse of muscle and you breathed a soft laugh. “It’s unbelievable.” you said. “Almost didn’t when I caught a photo of you in a newspaper. Thought someone pasted your face onto someone else.”

“Feels that way sometimes.” You let your hand fall but you found his instead, wrapping your fingers around it and pulling it into your lap. You clung to it like you would a life raft, and he gave you a soft squeeze, but you could still feel the strength beneath it.

“I knew I was right to believe in you,” you said softly. “You’ve made me prouder than I was back then… which is a lot.” 

“You always were,” he said with a slight chuckle. “And you always knew just what to say… When it felt like nothing made sense anymore I thought ‘Button believes in me, believes I can do this, and she’s always right’. Kept me going.”

“I’m scared,” you replied, more honest than you expected to be but Steve knew how to pull it out of you without even trying.

“I know,” he said, hand still firm in yours. “But I’ll be here when you get back, so will Buck.”

You smiled, barely. “So, that’s your job now? Waiting around for the people who run?”

He looked at you now, and his voice was quiet but sure. “No. But it’s what I choose.” Something about that made your chest ache, for just a moment. “Ten minutes before the whole camp’s up. Not enough, is it?”

You shook your head, not wanting to get up. Not just yet. Just like you had back on that tiny cot somewhere in Brooklyn, you turned and threw your arms around him, hugging him so tightly he could feel how strong you’d become since he last saw you. 

“I love you, Steve Rogers, you know that?” you asked, the words the exact same, but with a different kind of weight.

“I feel it no matter how far away you are,” he replied, slightly muffled by your hair. “I hope you feel it, too.”

You nodded against him, pulling away and cupping his face to press a soft kiss to his cheek, committing him to memory the way you had Bucky. “I’ll see you on the other side?” 

“See you on the other side.”

prev / next

[deakyjoe]

Free Use With Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Reader (afab)

Warnings: 18+, smut, free use, somnophilia, stressed Bucky, sex as stress relief, unprotected sex, all consensual

A/N: Me trying blurbs 😃

It was an idea you had come up with after Bucky had expressed how much pent up energy he had now that his Winter Soldier days were over. Being just a congressman meant that he was a lot less physically active than he used to be. And all of the stress that came along with the job didn't help. So it had only seemed the most logical solution. You'd had to explain to Bucky exactly what you were talking about and initially he was hesitant. He didn't quite love the idea of using you however he wanted. But when you'd told him he had your very enthusiastic consent and you'd put a safe word in place, he stopped arguing with you and agreed.

It started out slow, with the two of you sitting on the couch one evening watching something on TV. He'd placed a hand on your leg, tracing it up and down your thigh to ease you into it, but once you'd sent him a glance to give the go ahead he jumped straight into it. You were suddenly flipped onto your stomach, face pressing into the couch cushion below you. You didn't fail to notice how he'd turned your head so you could still watch the TV. Bucky then straddled the backs of your thighs and pulled your pants down, gave your ass a couple of light spanks and then slid into you. He came pretty quickly as you continued to watch whatever late night show was on. After that first time, Bucky couldn't get enough.

He quickly became obsessed with the idea of using you when you were doing household chores; bending you over the kitchen counter as you cooked, bending you over the dryer as you did laundry, bending you over the edge of the bed as you changed the sheets. Anywhere he could, Bucky would bend you over something and fuck you. When you would just carry on with the chore at hand, he would try harder to get your attention and break you, his metal and fleshing fingers bruising the skin of your hips with how tight his grip was on you. It was fun, how hard he would try to make you come even though that wasn't part of the agreement. You had yet to break.

It was most difficult to maintain your composure in the middle of the night. Something you had agreed upon early on in the arrangement with Bucky was that he was free to fuck you when you were asleep if he wanted. It wasn't something he had tried right away but after long days spent as a congressman, where he would come home and you would already be asleep in bed, he realised it was something he needed. He would be careful as he pulled your shorts down, cautious not to wake you, and tugged your panties to the side so he could slide into you from behind with ease. Once or twice you had woken up due to the desperate sounds he would make as he pounded into you. Very often you would wake up as he came deep inside you, your own moan slipping free at the feeling. That was when it would usually lead to round two where you were more actively participating as well. A few weeks into the arrangement, Bucky couldn't believe why he had ever hesitated to begin with. He'd never been so stress-free in his life.

[system-to-the-madness]

Next Time - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Pairing: James Buchanan ‘Bucky‘ Barnes x fem!Reader AU: StarkTower!AU Genre: fluff Word Count: 3 149 Warnings: mentions of food, mentions of injury (neither Bucky nor reader), implied sexism (against Reader, not by Bucky), no use of “y/n”, Bucky calls Reader “doll”, flirty!Bucky (that’s a warning) Summary: Working at a career fair was somewhat ruining your day, until Bucky showed up A/N: First half is me ranting about my part-time job, second half is (obviously) me daydreaming about getting saved from my part-time job (no, the coworker isn’t this bad irl. he’s worse)

You weren't entirely sure what annoyed you more: your aching feet, the constant scratch in your throat or the dull, thrumming pain in your head.

Working career fairs was brutal, unexpectedly so. Especially because you had no idea why you of all people had been sent here, feeling like you were lacking social skills more than most other agents currently employed at Stark Industries. What made things somewhat worse was that while you were an agent, you were still expected to dress in a tight skirt, white blouse and a blazer that made the whole outfit a few levels too warm for the overheating exposition hall.

Worst of all were the shoes though. Where you were used to comfortable sneakers or heavy military boots on missions, you now were forced to wear a pair of cute heels that felt like they were several numbers too small for you. But they, just like the other clothes, were part of the uniform you had been given by the PR department of Stark Industries for this fair, so you wore them. But you'd make sure to complain to Tony personally afterwards. And to Steve, even though he was not involved at all. And to Bucky, of course. 

For a moment you stumbled over the phrase you were in the middle of reciting, the thought of Bucky interrupting the flow of words you were repeating for the at least 100th time since yesterday morning.

The young woman before you opened her mouth as if to say something, making you interrupt yourself and raise your eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes," you asked, inviting her to ask the question that obviously seemed to have risen to the top of her mind.

"Actually, would I get to work with Steve Rodgers?" 

She was far from the first person to ask you this since you had begun supervising the stand at the fair, and you were certain she wouldn't be the last inquiring about work with the Avengers themselves. You had made sure to avoid mentioning that you personally joined them on missions regularly, worried they thought by following the same path as you, they’d get into the same position.

Truth was, there were hundreds of agents just like yourself working at Stark Industries, which had become the non-corrupt replacement for SHIELD, but hardly any of them ever got to work with the Avengers. The only reason you were, was because you had been (un-)lucky enough to be in the training room the one time one of the training dummies had malfunctioned while Tony was working out, and if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, your knowledge of mechanics and your fighting skill, Bucky might not be the only Avenger with an arm prosthesis now. After that, Tony had decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep you around, and now you were the Avengers’ backup. 

Of course, you had known you would get asked about how people could start working together with the Avengers when you had - albeit reluctantly - agreed to work on the career fair, but what was annoying was that people didn’t ask outright. They always told you all kinds of stories, mostly revealing in these stories already that they wouldn’t make it very far in Stark Industries, before they finally pulled out the “Would I get to work with (insert Name of Avenger) in combat?”. 

By now you had found a decent mixture between heartfelt-seeming regret and professional distance, a voice you had, today alone, used at least a dozen times. 

“Mr. Rogers is currently working on establishing a brand-new rehabilitation clinic for veterans and low-income households, so we are uncertain when he will return to combat,” you informed the young woman before you.

Looking at her, you should have seen it coming, really, especially the question for Steve specifically. Her hair was curled in a way that reminded you of the movies of the ‘40s, her lipstick an unusually bright red. She had clearly dressed up as if she were to meet Steve here personally.

“If you are interested in working with Mr. Rogers,” you continued, pulling a leaflet from one of the stands on the small table you were standing at, “I can recommend you looking into our social program, where we make top quality health-care available for those people who otherwise could not afford it on their own. It’s a program Mr. Rodgers and Mr. Sam Wilson are both very passionate about.”

You continued explaining to her how to apply to an internship program, since she lacked experience in any of the fields that would have been required for her to be able to apply for a job, but you could tell she had lost interest in it the moment she had seen the one eyed veteran who was smiling up at her from the cover of the leaflet, and a few minutes later she left, taking the leaflet along for politeness only.

Sighing quietly and rolling your shoulders, you reached for your thermo-cup, which was standing hidden away on a lower level of the table, only to open it and realise it was empty. 

“Oh, what’s that? Where’d you get that? Can I have some?”

With some people it would have been endearing to get asked so eagerly. Peter Parker for example. Or maybe Scott Lang. But your coworker was neither, and it wasn’t quirky or cute either, for multiple reasons. The first one being that it was not even noon, you were not even halfway through the day, your throat was burning from the dry air and talking basically non-stop, and now your tea was empty. Then there was the lack of food being provided at the fair. Yesterday there had been catering, but this morning you had learnt the catering company had messed up and there was no lunch being provided. There were no proper breaks either, which would allow you to go shop for take-out, so you would have to go until the evening without any more food. Or tea. Bleak prospects.

The most important reason why you were closer to ripping your co-worker's head off than to smile at him, was that since yesterday morning he had barely done any work. While you had talked to hundreds of people, handed out leaflets, explaining sectors of the company and and and, he had strolled around the fair, grabbed goodies left and right, strolled off to buy coffee (without bringing any back for you), had napped in a corner and taken the only chair available to lounge around in. And the little time he was at the stand, he didn’t bother talking to the people who asked him questions, instead sent them all your way so you barely had the time to take even a single sip of your beverage. All in all, he was less useful than a brick would have been. At least a brick would not have interrupted you mid-sentence while you were attempting to explain to a seventeen year old how to apply for a scholarship to study medicine.

While you still were trying to gather your patience, Matt, your coworker had already plucked the thermo-cup from your hand and sniffed it.

“What are you having,” he asked again.

“Nothing, it’s empty,” you answered coldly, taking the cup back out of his hands and placing it back down with more force than necessary. 

“Hi, could I ask you guys some questions?”

The somewhat unfriendly bickering between you and Matt got interrupted by a visitor and the moment you looked up you wanted to bolt. It was obvious what his real question was, considering he was dressed in a black leather jacket with too many straps over his chest. The left sleeve of the leather jacket had been removed and replaced with some cheap, metallic-silver fabric and a red star had been stitched onto the upper arm.

You did your best not to show your distaste for the fashion choice the visitor, a man in his early 30s, had made, but it was hard. You didn’t mind the fact that people came dressed up like their favourite heroes, even though there was a time and a place for everything, and career fairs were not necessarily the time and place for superhero costumes. You could even get the people who put effort into recreating the Winter Soldier uniform and their bizarre way of sympathising with the unimaginable terror Bucky had gone through, even though you doubted they would feel so comfortable wearing it if they knew the way Bucky’s screams from nightmares echoed through the hallways of the tower, or how during training, sometimes if you grabbed him in a certain way, there was a flicker of terror in his blue eyes. He never let up, never gave in, but it was there, and it haunted you even weeks later. So yes, in your personal opinion, since you were confronted with Bucky’s suffering first hand, there would have been better cosplay choices out there. Bucky Barnes for example, instead of the Winter Soldier. But the jacket you were looking at was cheap, and made without much thought to detail like a real cosplay would have been, and somehow that was even more upsetting. Still, you swallowed down your personal feelings and put on the smile that was faker than the plastic imitating real leather on the guy’s jacket.

“How can we help you,” you asked instead, fighting through the urge of turning away when the guy stepped closer and the scent of obscene amounts of aftershave started filling the air.

“So, actually I’m interested in how to become an agent,” he told you, his eyes flickering over to Matt momentarily.

“Oh really,” you noted, feigning surprise. “Do you have a college degree or any military experience?” Those were standard questions, and depending on the answer, there were different possibilities to apply to get taken into the program.

“Not really,” the man answered, “It that necessary?”

“No, it’s not, it will just take longer before you’ll-”

“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Matt interrupted you. Again. “She just makes things seem more difficult than they really are.”

The man glanced at you before he turned to Matt, both of them ignoring your disbelieving and unnerved raised eyebrows.

Turning away and shaking your head slightly, you reached for a small bag of gummies, the only food you’d have access to until the day was over, when suddenly a voice behind you spoke up.

“'scuse me, ma’am, a minute of your time?”

You didn’t have to see who had spoken to recognise the soft Brooklyn accent, the smirk in the voice.

“What are you doing here?”

The smile on your face was instant and real, for the first time today. Leaning against the table, just a few inches away from the man in the bad Winter Soldier outfit, leant nobody other than Bucky Barnes himself. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, a blue henley and a leather jacket pulled on top, looking rather unremarkable, just another guy in the crowd. 

“Thought ya might need some lunch,” he smirked, placing down a paper bag on the table between you, watching your eyes widen as you recognised the logo.

“Is that from this bowls shop I’ve wanted to try,” you asked, getting on your tiptoes and unfolding the paper bag to glance inside.

“Yeah, I made a proper fool out of myself, tryin’ to order there,” Bucky admitted, but watched satisfied as you looked up at him with a beaming smile. “I just had them pack all the things I know ya like.”

“You’re an angel,” you sighed, looking up at him where he was leaning against the table smiling down at you. The temptation to get up on your tip toes again and press your lips to his was rising, but you held back, and instead leant a bit away, getting yourself out of the danger-zone were you were starting to loose trust in your self-control. Bucky, who had leant in a little, seemed to realise you were drawing away and leant back a bit, too.

“Oh, and I forgot this-” 

Reaching into his back, he pulled out a thermo-cup, one that you knew definitely belonged to him personally.

“I made some tea, the kind my Ma made for me whenever I had a sore throat,” he explained as he placed it down next to the paper cup. “It doesn’t taste quite right but it’s drinkable.”

It didn’t matter how it tasted; you didn’t give a damn. Bucky Barnes had made the effort of cooking tea for you, driving to a popular restaurant to pick up some salad bowl you had maybe wanted to try eventually and then had taken everything half-way across the city for you. And now he had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I overheard ya telling Steve yesterday that ya throat was sore from talking so much so I thought… yeah, well.”

“Marry me.” It was a joke, or at least you told yourself it was, but in this moment you really doubted anyone could ever be more thoughtful and perfect than Bucky.

A hint of red spread over his nose and he laughed the kind of laugh that made him seem carefree, but underneath you knew he was flattered.

“Any day, doll,” he grinned, reaching out and flicking his thumb over your chin in a flirty gesture that you would have allowed nobody but him and drove heat to your cheeks. “When are ya gettin’ off?”

He was leaning against the table again, and with how he was looking at you it was not hard to imagine that this was the exact way he had once used to chat up girls for dancing. Back then none of them had ever been really special to him, but ever since you had first trained together over two years ago, he had been unable to think of anyone other than you. Maybe that was the reason why it had taken him so long to finally relax around you enough to really flirt with you.

“When I'm getting off,” you repeated his question. “At six, why?”

“‘cause I was thinkin’, we could grab somethin’ proper to eat, at a restaurant,” he suggested, and if you had known him any less, you might have missed the way his eyes scanned your face carefully for any hint of objection as if he were scared you’d decline.

“At a restaurant,” you echoed, an ache setting in your stomach at the conflicted feelings that were overcoming you at the invitation. “I-”

“Ya really don’t have to, it’s just a question,” Bucky laughed, but you could feel how he was already drawing back into the shell it had taken you months to draw him out of. 

“No, Bucky, I do want to go,” you denied, quickly looking around if anyone had heard you mention the hero’s name. “It’s just- Okay, listen. These clothes?” You pointed to your blouse. “They look great, but they are uncomfortable as hell.”

It almost seemed like Bucky barely noticed the second part of the sentence, because his eyes were still wandering up and down your body with an appreciative smirk.

“Uncomfortable,” he repeated, as if to prove to you that he had listened, his eyes snapping back to your face.

“Yes, and I really don’t want to go out in them. But the clothes I have, to change into, are… not something I can wear to a restaurant.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Hoodie and sweatpants,” you explained.

“Ya look hot in hoodie and sweatpants,” Bucky replied without hesitation.

“Thanks, but- not the- not the point,” you shook your head, trying to ignore the way your heart jumped at his nonchalant compliment.

“So… not restaurant,” Bucky nodded, as if thinking to himself. “Okay, I’ll make ya a deal, doll.” He leant in as if conspiring with you, the mild smell of his cologne and deodorant hitting your nose. It was strange how the calming effect of his presence took the tension off your shoulders immediately. “Tonight, we’ll go to a diner, instead of a restaurant, but next time, I’ll take ya out properly.”

“Next time?” You were painfully aware of how you had to look like a deer caught in the headlights. Next time?

“Next time. Dinner and dancin’ and all. I’ll take ya out like ya deserve, not just diner dinner and,” he motioned to the paper bag, “take-out salads.”          

“Dancing,” you repeated, still stuck on that part, feeling increasingly like a parrot.

“Dancin’,” Bucky confirmed. “The proper way. I’ll be in a suit and ya- just wear whatever ya feel good in. Ya look amazing no matter what ya wearin’. And then I’ll show ya how to dance the foxtrot, and the tango.”

“I do know foxtrot,” you reminded him, slowly beginning to gain ground on him again after he had completely thrown you off with his sudden invitation. Leaning in a little closer, you smiled. “And Tango.”

It was easy to tell that Bucky liked your response, because a light flickered in his gaze. It was a shimmer you didn’t see often, but Steve had once told you the Bucky from the ‘40s had always had it in his eyes.

“Then it’s a deal. Tonight, we’ll do the diner, and next time dancin’,” he summarised, making you tilt your head at him.

“No offence, but why does this feel like you’re about to take me out on a date,” you asked, still not entirely sure if maybe you had just misinterpreted his cocky smiles and flirty demeanour for more than it was.

“‘cause that’s what it is, doll,” he grinned, pushing away from the table. “And I promise ya, ya won’t regret it.”

It was fascinating, watching Bucky so confident and cocky all of a sudden, a shine in his eyes, his shoulders relaxed, lips drawn into a victorious smile.

“I should hope so,” you answered, glad that underneath his confidence you could see the excited giddiness that proved to you that him asking you out was something he meant with his heart.

Bucky grinned and waved, before turning around, and even though your well-trained eyes tried to follow him, he had already disappeared in the crowd without any of the visitors, who were so keen on working with the former Winter Soldier, recognising him.

On his way out, he pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the chat to Sam, punching a message into the keyboard before pressing send.

Bucky: that was a trap

Sam: wahtd i do? jst told you to get her lunch!

Bucky: you knew i’d have to ask her out when i'd see her in that uniform. before some douche does.

Sam: so youasked her?

Bucky: yeah. diner today, next time dancing

Sam: uuuuhhh. knew the skirt would get you there

Bucky: never think about her wearing a skirt again

[cacrowphony]

Imagine being Bucky's baker girlfriend.

Bucky loves your pastries. In fact, he had stopped buying pastries in the supermarket. He only eat yours now.

He always watches you bake in the kitchen, he loves seeing you in that cute apron, your smile on your face, the flour on your cheek.

He loves being your beta tester when you try new recipe.

But what he love more ? Licking the cream or chocolate off your fingers once your done. He'll take your hand and bring each fingers into his mouth, licking them until they're spot clean. All while looking straight into your eyes, groaning in pleasure.

After that it usually end with you on the kitchen counter wearing nothing but your cute apron as Bucky fuck you senseless, whispered and grunting to your ear how good and tasty you are while his huge cock pounds you and his balls slap your ass. He'll make sure to cum fully in you, to fill you each of his enormous loads.

Because after all, Bucky may adore each of your pastries, but you remain his favorite of all time

[frostironfudge]

Labyrinth - Bucky Barnes - Epilogue

Summary: labyrinth (noun), a complicated set of paths and passages, through which it is difficult to find your way. Bucky and You would do anything for Steve and Wanda, your respective best friends. In an attempt to avoid a tradition Steve and Wanda come up with a lie involving their best friends.  A lie, that involves building a labyrinth. Bucky and You begin to build but will you two find your way out or be caught in it?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, (Modern AU)

Word Count: 7.3 k || Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Warnings: chapter contains 18+ moments, minors DNI, fluff, sm/ut, dir/ty talk, p in v, hot bucky, swearing, soft bucky, protective bucky, feels, family drama, bucky is a whole green forest, bucky is the cutest, animal adoption, feels, family issues, tox/ic family dynamics.

Main Masterlist || AO3 || Fic Masterlist ||

“Allow me to understand this,” The tone carries disappointment and anger in differing proportions.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, for once his composure is not maintained. The nerves that wrap around him as if a python is going for the slow kill. He nods.

“You lied to all of us.” Yusuf Khan stares at his stellar employee. An employee he began to view as family after the night they all interacted.

Bucky wants to give a reason, explain it all but he chooses to say the one worded truth, “Yes.”

Yusuf contemplates, tapping on his desk, “And your fiancé?”

“She’s my girlfriend now.” He responds, eyes moving between the tapping digits of his boss and his own feet.

“Is it because you wanted to get in my good books?” Yusuf is on the brink of disappointment.

“No, it is a long story actually… Steve Rogers, my best friend–,”

“Steve Rogers the acquisition lawyer?”

“Yes, well about several months ago he proposed to his long time girlfriend and well, it um, it sounds really stupid to my own ears…” Bucky runs a hand over his jaw, moving up to tuck his stray strands of hair back into place.

“I’ve got time, sit.” Yusuf gestures to the chair. 

Bucky takes a seat and begins to recount the events that began in the diner all those months ago. 

“So it was an elaborate plan to get the two of you buttheads–,”

“Kamala.” Muneeba chastises her daughter.

“It wasn’t even a bad word!” The youngest Khan complained only to sigh at her mother’s stern expression.

“Yes, it was their elaborate plan to make us,” 

‘Buttheads’ Kamala mouths and you nod, she grins.

“To make us realise and act upon our buried feelings over the unresolved miscommunication.” You explain, Bucky returns with your plate filled with appetisers. 

“They played us.” He shakes his head, still not understanding how he did not catch onto the lies. You pat his knee to keep him from getting grumpy about it. 

Though it was adorable when he started getting a little pout on his lips. You kept that little information to yourself.

“Thank you for allowing us back into your home.” Bucky adds, even though the remainder of the staff wasn’t there that night. Yusuf had requested Bucky and you to join the Khans for dinner. 

Once they all heard what exactly was the history the two of you shared, the lie or as Muneeba put it, ‘The two of you got your chance to fall in love again.’

You liked that point of view. 

Sharing a glance with Bucky observing as his shoulders did not have the slight droop which indicated his distress over telling the full truth. It made you happy he wasn’t dismissed or treated coldly as one of his co-worker had experienced.

The dinner passed by in a blur of laughter and happy memories. A part of you glad you had the experience and opportunity to interact with a family as warm as the Khans. Tayesha and you had taken an immediate liking to each other, talking much more in depth than the opportunity previously provided. 

Dessert was fast approaching you had brought over cookies, the dinner invite came at the very last minute amongst the other orders you were fulfilling. Muneeba suggested making tea but Yusuf sweetly kissed the back of her palm, called her Jaan (life) and told her the men would do it. 

Drawing a very reluctant Aamir away from a game of Monopoly Deal he was winning against his sister, much to her delight. Yusuf nodded towards Bucky to follow them into the kitchen.

“You know, the reason you are welcome back here is because of your honesty.” Yusuf explained as he brought out the containers of ingredients. Bucky watched as Aamir drew measurements based on feeling; a contrast to the meticulous way he had observed you measure. 

“I didn’t want to keep it from you, it's just that day in front of everyone I got cornered and well…” 

Yusuf nods, “You couldn’t damage control as much as you preferred and I put you in a tight spot.” 

“Sort of and I didn’t want to disappoint you. It would be true had Sunshine and I—I mean had Y/N and I gotten together earlier.” 

“Always refer to them by their nicknames; they love it.” Yusuf advises with a smile. 

“And they love you more for it.” Aamir brings out the tea cups. 

Bucky grins then, “I’ve always thought of her as Sunshine.”

“It shows how she brightens your life my dear boy.” Yusuf then says a word in Arabic, “We say it when we do not want the evil eye to befall on anything.” 

“I see.” Bucky smiles, “Thank you, I didn’t think I’d find more people to consider family.” 

Aamir grins at him, “The first time dad mentioned you, I knew you’d become his little protégé.” 

Yusuf chuckles, “Well, you know I have a healthy gut.” 

Aamir groans, “Not that joke again.” Exasperatedly running his palms down his face. 

Bucky laughs, “Your gut is healthy so your feelings are all right?” 

“Precisely.” Yusuf winks at him. 

The tea is strained into the cups, Bucky holds the biscuit box and the cookie box as they re-enter. There are photo albums opened across the coffee table. 

You’re sitting cross legged on the floor with Kamala as she shows you the Khan family through history. Bucky observes as you delicately trace your fingers over the photographs. When you look up at him, your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

He frowns, Muneeba distracts the two of you by asking about future plans. 

It has been two weeks and you find yourself opening the chat with Bucky scrolling to the shared media page and staring at the picture with the Khans. All seven of you squished onto the couch. The camera set on a tripod, you leaning against Bucky because the two of you were balancing on the armrest. 

The same as Tayesha and Aamir on the other side. You trace the picture yet again and shut the message thread. Your heart cautions you yet again from saving the picture, the permanence of family was not a privilege awarded to you. 

Alpine brushes herself across your ankles. You pick her up and pepper her cute squish-able face with kisses. She chirps in happy approval till she has had her fill and then leaps out of your arms. Bucky emerges from his post workout shower, finding you in the kitchen absentmindedly stirring the saucepan. 

“Are you going to tell me?” He broached the subject the very night of the dinner as the two of you drove back home.  

You declined him then, put on a front that he saw right through but didn’t mention. He let you stew in your mind because you weren’t willing to see the hand he extended towards you. Into the void that was labelled ‘crappy family’ but you weren’t willing to be brought out. 

Bucky has had enough of you drowning yourself in sadness. He can taste it on your lips. He can feel the cracks on you deepen when he holds you close. He’s had enough of you letting this eat at yourself. 

“Soare, I’ve let you take your time with this but you’re falling into a deep pit and I do not know if I will be able to pull you out. So I’m willing to go down with you, so I can help you climb back out.” Bucky steps closer, shutting off the stove and turning you to face him, palm cupping your cheek. “Let me in, please.” 

You meet the beautiful eyes that anchor you. 

Concern and worry brimming in them as he looks into your eyes, knowing there is a sadness looming. Knowing he wants to protect you. You grab at his arms, blinking but the tears form. Your mind, body, heart and soul know he is your safe space. 

He is your everything. 

The one you can be authentically yourself and he will love you. 

He still held onto you when he thought the worst of you. 

You still held onto him when you thought the worst of him.

Bucky feels the same way about you, the love you share is unconditional. Allowing each other to grow individually and together. 

“Sunshine, you gotta talk to me sweet girl,” He gnaws at his bottom lip watching you. 

Your hands rest on his chest and the damned dam breaks. Your hands move around his neck pressing yourself to him and you begin to cry. 

Bucky’s warmth surrounds you and he pulls you closer. Arm around your waist and the other holding your head, keeping you pressed to the crook of his neck. 

Sobs wrack your body, he doesn’t hush you, the soft movements only encourage you and allow you to know that he is here. He is here for you and you should let it all out. 

“My strong Sunshine, let it all out okay? We can fall apart in front of each other okay? Such a strong girl, my sweet Sunshine.” He whispers through your breakdown. 

When your sobs turn to sniffles and he presses the cool water bottle into your palms, helps you drink it. Bucky wipes away the tear stains, kissing your entire face. 

“You okay Sunshine? You wanna head to bed?” He questions and you shake your head with a sniffle. 

“Take your time baby.” He encourages, rubbing his warm and loving palm along your back. 

“It's just, I miss my family? Being around the Khans that night? Kamala showed me the pictures. I didn’t think I’d be sad for this long, I’m so sorry, I know you’re trying to help. I just thought I could handle this alone. That I’d get over it. I always have but, I, they accepted you back and me after we made mistakes and hurt them and, and Bucky that is what family does…. Why couldn’t mine do the same? Was I that bad? Am I that irredeemable?” You blurt out, gingerly taking more sips as he brings the bottle to your lips again. 

“Sunshine, you haven’t committed any mistakes ever that are non forgive-able. Your family has treated you like crap. Basing your worth—making you think and believe that your worth is tied to a fucking douchebag? Just for their gain and access to the guy’s bank account by extension? God, I want to punch your brother so bad.” His hands brush away your tears, 

“Look, baby, you can handle things alone, sometimes which is most of the time but you should not have to, I learned this pretty fucking late too. You have a support system in place. Wanda, Steve, their parents, Becca, my parents, and me. You can lean on us whenever you want, okay? We’ll catch you.” He nudges your jaw with his nose. It makes you smile.

Bucky’s heart eases as he watches your eyes light up after days of dark clouds.

“Pietro too…” You giggle at his responding growl. 

“Look, it isn’t wrong to want your family on that list, okay? If you want to mend your relationship with them I’ll drive you over myself and stay with you. You want privacy? I’ll wear noise cancelling headphones and sit in the kitchen. You want Wanda there? Steve? Becca? Even fucking Pietro will turn up for you in support okay?” He makes you look up at him, “You say the word, my love, Soare mi, I’ll make whatever you want happen. If it is in my capacity of bringing to fruition, I’ll fucking bring down the sun to worship at your feet, Sunshine.” He promises. 

You cup his cheeks, thumbs grazing over his stubble, “I love you so much. You all in my life, you’re enough okay?” Guilt eats at you for wanting more than what you have for being greedy. 

“I know we are but there’s nothing wrong with wanting more.” Bucky says, reading your mind almost, “You think about it, but don’t let it make you turtle all the way down. I need my girl to shine.” 

Your eyes mist again, kissing him before being tucked against the crook of his neck again. 

A few more days later Bucky drives you across the city towards the neighbourhood where your family lived. The hand rest under your intertwined palms is warm in the sun belting down overhead. It’s an unseasonably hot day. Good enough to blame the sweat pooling at the nape of your neck upon it. 

Ever so often Bucky raises your hand and kisses the back of it. You needed this, you wanted it and you were prepared in case things go south to leave them be in the past they wanted to remain in. Bucky was in correspondence with Steve and Wanda on a separate chat. The three ready to take over for you in case you needed to just be though they were rooting for a happier outcome. For your sake only. 

Walking up the pathway of the house is bittersweet and nostalgic. The house is in good enough condition. Lawn mowed and kept in compliance with the HOA. 

Your grip on Bucky’s arm tightens, “You’re the second man they will be meeting.” You try to lighten the conversation. 

“Well they’ll know you got it right this time.” He chuckles, heart twisting as you laugh but the nerves begin to claw at you. 

He wonders if he could shield you from this the way he shielded you from the cold. He wraps an arm around you. You’re tucked right against him. Your head rests right at the spot of his tattoo dedicated to you.

The doorbell rings. 

There is shuffling and a bit of yelling. A common occurrence. 

Your brother opens the door, his eyes move to Bucky and then to the arm at your hip. Then at you, “This your trade in for the rich fucker? This is—,”

“He is an upgrade from the cheater.” You cut him off, “Are mom and dad home? I wanted to talk as well as introduce James.” You look up at your man, Bucky squeezes your side in encouragement. 

Your brother scowls and then pads inside, from the doorway you see him gesture to come into the hall. Your mom and dad sit on the couch. He takes the chair that leaves the smaller loveseat open for the two of you. 

The five of you sit in silence for a few minutes, Bucky observing them and they observe Bucky. He watches as they take in the kind of clothes he wears, the brand of his watch already caught their eyes. He wonders if this is why you were worried that they would judge him. 

Your eyes however are all over the old home you had. The wall with your heights marked. The smear of nail paint they could never get out from one of the walls. The ceiling that was the floor of your room. 

“So,” Your dad begins, “This is?” He vaguely gestures towards Bucky. 

“Wait a minute. You, you’re fucking married!” Your brother points to the wedding bands.

“Are you serious? Y/N, fuck I had hope you’d marry the rich dude. God, do you never think about the benefit of this family?” 

“Do you ever let her speak or do you all always walk all over her?” Bucky seethes at the three of them. 

“Who the hell are you? To talk to us in this manner.”

“James Barnes—,”

“That scholarship idiot who she was pining behind? So pathetic. Mom, remember I told you about finding her one day crying over him that weekend she came back?” Your brother says looking at your mom who looks at you with disappointment. 

“Sweetie, don’t you think about us? Our needs?” Her tone may be soft but her words are fully inducing a guilt trip you do not deserve. 

“Are you fucking—,” Bucky shuts up when you squeeze his thigh. 

“I’m running my baking business now—,”

“There goes the money, do only I have to do the work around here?” Your brother groans. 

“It’s doing well enough, I thought we could mend things after the horrible way I was treated.” 

“You?” Your dad scoffs. 

Your mom snorts, “If anything you got us into this mess and now you want to sell Betty Crocker with your name on it.” 

Bucky can’t take this anymore, half a mind to chew them out, your squeezing hand keeps him quiet. He stays quiet for you. Anger ebbing into a simmer. 

He knows where your brother worked. The boss is an old friend of Bucky’s dad. 

Small world. 

One little word and this man would be put on the midnight shift. 

“As I was saying, I came here to mend things. Clearly you have no place in my present or future. Also you do not get to disrespect the man I love. So what if he had scholarships? That means he had more brain cells than you three combined to get a degree.” You stand. 

Bucky stands with you, “I’m proud of him. I stand by him and he stands by me. He told me he would be there for me today so I wouldn’t have to endure the horrible crap you all say alone.” 

“Boo hoo you weren’t abused.” Your mom waves off looking at you without an ounce of guilt. 

“Abuse isn’t always physical. Neglect isn’t always physical. You all made me emotionally broken.“ You bite your cheek, you can’t cry. 

You won’t cry. 

“Finances aren’t ever the responsibility of a child. I went through it myself. It isn’t for us to grow the fuck up earlier than required because you as parents, failed miserably.” Bucky adds, squeezing your hand, “She did her best given she had to be an adult before she was required to be. When you,” he points to your mom and brother, “Were supposed to be adults. Not her all alone.” 

“Exactly, you made me grow up and then treated me as if I was a tantrum throwing child. When you all were the childish ones.” You point at all of them, “I did my best. With what I had, I did my best.” 

They all stare at you, baffled at you calling them out. They clearly weren’t ready to admit their faults. Nor were they prepared for civilised conversation. Your brother stares into his phone and then widens his eyes, “You drove Beck into a loss?” He asks Bucky.

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Is that all you people care—,”

“That means he got more than that cheater.” Your dad adds cutting him off.

You scoff, “Fucking rich.” You grab Bucky’s hand leading him towards the door. 

He follows while glaring at all of them as they watch on and then sputter into action.

“He has an expensive car too,” Your brother groans,

“You couldn’t be respectful?” Your mom swats the back of his head.

Bucky shuts your door, before rounding the car to the driver’s side. He keeps the door ajar so you can catch the conversation, “Do not expect to get anything from her. I’m going to make sure you cannot touch a penny she has to her name.”

“We’ll claim as family once she’s married, she has nothing to her name but a failing business.” Your dad informs him walking with his walker to the driveway.

Bucky settles into the car, he gives you a once over. You watch a calm demeanour take over him and his next words are in a voice you recognise he uses at work, “You seem to be curious people. I’ll tell you what, come after her. No seriously come after her and see where you end up. This cute three bedroom is spacious right?”

The three of them nod, still thinking they have a shot at something better. 

“Try and do anything remotely stress-inducing to my girl, even if it's a damn Christmas card. I’ll shove you three into a matchbox.” He rolls up the window and pulls out of the driveway. Exhaling loudly when the house is out of view.

You reach over, holding onto his hand, “Thank you.” 

“You need not thank me, Sunshine.” He kisses your hand. 

You’re too lost in your thoughts, the car stops and you blink. Bucky opens your door just as the door to Wanda and Steve’s home opens as well. The two stand at the door.

“Thought you’d need your family tonight.” He smiles as you look at him.

“We’ve got wine, take out, I’ve printed pictures of your brother to be a dart board.” Wanda pulls you into a hug, “Steve has the best thing though.” 

“I’ve checked the law, multiple times. They really can’t come after you. You’re above eighteen. In the event you do want to protect future and current assets we can put them into a trust.” Steve says, “But we can discuss this later on in depth for now, how about a hug and I ordered your favourite take out. Also, Wanda’s lined up your comfort show.”

You look at all three of them, heart bursting at the seams for all the love they have to offer you. You open your arms, all three, engulf you in a group hug. Bucky and Steve laugh when Wanda grumbles about them being giants.

Months further pass. 

A blur of date nights, date days. 

A haze of falling even more in love with James Barnes. 

The pink rivulet runs along his jaw, you lick your lips as his thumb prevents the further fall of the strawberry juice.

“You’re right, I should not eat these laying down.” Bucky chuckles, the sound of him sucking his thumb has your ears echoing your heartbeat. This man should be aware of what he does to you. You hope he does.

Reverting your gaze back to the book at hand, you try not to let your thoughts get side tracked. Bucky had planned this picnic date, his only request was your strawberry tarts and chocolate covered strawberries. Hence the devil incarnate side-tracking juice.

He sits up bemused looking down at you, you still remain laying, book open but the words are a blur.

“Hi, Sunshine.” Bucky greets, leaning over, lips brushing against your own.

“Hi Puffin.” You kiss him, he smiles against your lips, hand gently grasping the book from your hands. He pulls away slightly, finding the bookmark and placing it before shutting the book and returning to your lips.

The taste of chocolate and strawberry explodes upon your tongue. You cup his cheek, your left hand moves to his hair, undoing his bun is one of your favourite moments. A small laugh escapes between the two of you as his strands tickle your cheek.

Somewhere his phone alarm rings and you huff, he kisses your cheek, making you sit up, across his lap. 

“Sunset’s about to start, and I brought you here for that.” He explains yet again.

“Well you knew you would get horny hence the cockblock alarm.” Nipping at his jaw, you laugh as his hands tickle at your sides.

“Pay attention to the view, Sunshine.” He chastises with a grin of his own.

“I am, Mr. Barnes. You are a delectable view.” You coo as he blushes at your words and rolls his eyes.

Shaking his head, he grabs your jaw to make you face the view. The colours begin to change, dusk creeping into daylight. Bucky had found this view after driving around for the better part of his shitty day years ago.

He stayed there, only heading down the hill to pick up food from a burger place nearby, returning to watch the sunset. At first it was a shitty day relieving place, slowly it turned into a weekly thing. Now, he’d brought you here.

“It’s beautiful.” The colours change to pink and orange, you’re tucked right against him. Bucky drapes his jacket over you. Chin resting on your head after placing a soft peck. 

The two of you watch the sunset, his arms tighten around you. Your hands rest above his, “How did you come across this place? Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

“You know, how Dr. Cho said we need to tell each other about how we processed ‘the event’?” He keeps his gaze on the darkening sky.

You swallow, nodding allowing him the space to speak.

“I found this place in the aftermath, at first it was mostly to escape crappy days. I was here often when the two of us interacted. You know, sort of snide comments, glares, and disdain.” He sighs, shoulders slumping, “Then I came here on a night I did something that made me question things. Ultimately I realised the thing I did was a happy one.” 

The silence engulfs the two of you, the sounds of people packing their own picnics begins as night completely takes over. Solar lamps flicker on as pathway guides.

“What was it that you did?” You ask, playing with the ring on his finger.

Bucky says nothing, only smiles but you can’t see it. 

The proof of what he did is framed in your home in the name of Jamesetta Barnette. He would tell you eventually. The perfect moment was already handpicked.

“Bucky?” You look up, he brushes his knuckles over your cheek.

“I’ll tell you soon enough.” He promises, resting his forehead against yours. 

“It made you happy, that’s enough for me to be happy about as well.” Your eyes close, “I love you.” 

“I love you, my Sunshine.” 

The very bookstore café that Bucky and you frequent now houses your baked mini cakes and other dessert items. Your little logo plaque rests proudly above the display. A full six months went into this, you began pitching ideas to bookstore-café combinations a week after Steve and Wanda’s wedding. 

Bucky made sure to help you with the numbers aspect of your presentation, making it simplified. Staying up late surrounded by leftover food hearing you pitch to him over and over. Not once did he belittle you for asking questions, not once did he make you feel inferior for not understanding the integral aspect of finances. You knew enough to get by and file your yearly taxes but not this meticulously, while keeping your business in a growth mindset. 

Now seeing the signed contracts with a few cafés and especially the one where one of your risqué fantasies had come true really was the icing on the cake. 

Bucky deems a celebration is in order and the book buying journey turns into you both finding yourselves in the secluded section yet again. 

Only this time you’re the one tasting the dulce de leche off of his skin. The way he loses himself is sending you on a powertrip. His little whimpers and gasps, the groans that leave him. 

You’re straddling him, his head thrown back just at the teasing of your lips. Shirt unbuttoned and showing his beautiful skin. Surrounded by books and the promise of him recreating one of the scenes that had you go very quiet and calm as you read it. You smile as the blush that dusts his cheeks as he had read the scene is the same way right now. 

His pretty pink lips parted, large hands on your hips guiding you over his bulge. Sending shivers of pleasure thrumming through you in between your torture upon him.

“Sunshine,” His voice was hoarse, but you weren’t done. You smear another bit of the sweetness on his lips. Leaning down, the kiss is salvation and sin, heaven and hell. 

“Fuck, baby,” He groans.

Bucky’s left hand moves, gripping the back of your head, his knees bent and you hold onto him as he shifts the two of you with ease on the carpeted floor.

You’re beneath him now. He grinds against you, swallowing your moan of his name. Your nails clawing at his back, pulling him closer.��

“You know anyone could find us this way.” He teases, “You, fuck–, being a good girl for me, my pussy taking what she wants from me.” 

You moan at his words, your satin shirt unbuttoned. Bra unhooked, discarded somewhere. Fingers carding through Bucky’s hair as his lips latch onto your nipple, sucking hard. 

Your clit pulses demanding attention, he grinds down at the very moment sensing your need. 

“Fuck, Bucky, God—,” Your fingers tug on his hair, he moans against your hardened peak. Your hips move against him, demanding more. 

Bucky pulls away, his body covering yours, shielding you from prying eyes, he’s asked management to close off the section. He’d tell you afterwards he holds a stake in this store as an investment but not in the decision making. For now though you look so pretty and he can feel your arousal soaking the material of his pants and if he does not get even a little taste he thinks he might just die. 

Dipping his head to capture your sweet lips, he pauses brushing them, your nails—leaving a delicious burn in their greed. He loves it, loves all the marks you leave upon him. 

“Oh, oh fuck—what? Bucky? Y/N?! Holy shit!” 

Bucky stares down at you confused, you feel your body heat up and then tense. Then ice coats your veins. 

“Someone—,” You can’t complete your thought, Bucky’s hands are working at record speed, you now wear his henley. Your legs no longer wrapped around his waist but together and he pushes you behind him. 

You peek up from Bucky’s shoulder at the intruder and find a red faced Steve Rogers standing at the end of the aisle while staring down at his shoes. 

“Steve, what the fuck?” Bucky breaks the silence. 

“I um, I came for the books and uh, I’m going to go now…” He scratches the back of his neck. 

“What book?” Bucky looks at the aisle you both are, it begins at maternity books and ends on culinary books. Where the two of you are currently. 

“Are those pregnancy books?” You narrow your eyes at the books in his hand. 

“Uhm, yes the pregnant lady downstairs wanted another set of copies so I volunteered.” He explains with a cough. 

“How far along was she?” Bucky tilts his head at his best friend. 

“Um? I don’t know… Also I didn’t realise this was the way to get pregnant with a live demo aisle.”

“Wait a minute,” You look at the books again, then Steve and then recall the way Wanda had been the past two weeks. 

You lunge your phone while Bucky struggles to keep you covered. Steve just turns his back towards you both but remains standing in the aisle.

Wanda: 911 call me asap 

“Bucky!” You squeal, your man turns to you with eyes wide and confused. 

“What?” He holds onto his hoodie, you narrow your eyes at him. 

“You had your hoodie but gave me your henley?” You huff, typing back a response to Wanda. 

“Is that… relevant to whatever is going on with Steve and I suppose Wanda?” He hands you your jeans, you let the topic slide away for another day. 

“Can you both please get dressed?” Steve offers advice and plea. 

“Now you know what the two of us have to deal with when Wan and you are at it.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Jerk.”

“Idiot.”

“Punk.”

“Stupid.” 

“That's the only series of words you both say.” You comment. 

“That's because your Bucky has all the stupid with him.” 

Bucky snorts as he hands you your socks. Waiting for you to finish before he takes his clothes sans hoodie which you have conveniently stolen during his argument with his best friend. 

Right from under his nose. 

His heart somersaults nonetheless seeing his clothing on you. His dick however sends a very risqué image of you just in his unbuttoned shirt on top of him to his brain. 

You raise a brow at him, he only licks his bottom lip. Blue eyes sparkling with an intent you know all too well. 

He leans in, “Sunshine, I love fucking you and I fucking love you.” A sweet, innocent kiss is placed on your warm cheek before he puts on his shirt. 

“Finally.” Steve sighs with relief when Bucky taps his shoulder.

“So?” Bucky claps Steve’s shoulder as you head to your respective cars.

“So?” Steve repeats.

“Man, if you don’t tell me.” Bucky glares at him.

“Okay fine you remember her dream?” Steve grins.

Wanda’s call comes through, you move away from the two giggling boys.

“Wan?” You hear silence on the other end. Then a sniffle, “Oh Wan, what is it?”

“I don’t think I can do this?” She manages to breathe out just as there is clattering.

“You’ve been preparing for this, so what if it seems daunting?” You offer, concern washing over you, “I’ll be over in a few we can talk then okay?” 

Bucky lets you drive, following behind Steve.

Wanda is sprawled on the floor, instructions to make the crate covering her face.

“The adoption did go through, we’re picking him up tomorrow.” Steve informs.

“First of five?” Bucky grabs the misaligned crate parts.

“First of five.” Steve confirms.

You lay down near your best friend, the instruction sheet big enough that you too join in under it. 

“Hi.” You whisper.

“Hi.” Wanda whispers back.

“We’re in the kitchen okay, babygirl?” Steve calls out.

“Let me know if you both need anything, Soare mi.” Bucky pats your knee as they head to the kitchen.

“I will, Draega mea.” 

“Look at the blush.” Steve teases Bucky.

Wanda and you hear a swatting sound, it makes her chuckle finally. She looks over at you.

“I can do this right?”

“I have no doubt you’re going to be a great dog mom.” You smile at her, “Plus you bought that expensive baby stroller so of course my god-puppy is going to be spoiled rotten.”

Wanda laughs, she lets out a breath. Tears spring to her eyes, “I’m nervous.” 

Your hand reaching for hers, hiding under the blanket or your textbooks was a common theme.

“What have I told you, I believe about nervousness?” You remind her.

“It means I care.” She answers, breathing out, the instruction sheet flutters.

“Exactly, and your puppy is going to love you, along with the other random animals you will end up making Steve adopt.” You chuckle.

“I saw a rat in the basement, he was so tiny.” She gushes and gestures with her free hand the size of the rat.

“What did you name it?” At this point you know she potentially adopted it already. Setting up non-hazardous traps for it.

“Rara or Bugsy.”

“Hey, Bugsy is reserved for the hamster you adopt.” You need to set your foot down on the matter.

“You’re right, probably Remy. Yeah that makes sense.”

You shake your head but decide to sit up, immediately your best friend hugs you.

Steve approaches the entryway, a smile on his face. Mouthing a thank you to you.

“Oh by the way Wan, I caught them fucking at the bookstore.” He says with a shit eating grin.

You glare at him, Wanda screeches.

“Tell. Me. Everything.” She grabs your shoulders, “Also, Stevie you owe me money. I told you one time we’d catch them there.”

“How about I turn the cash into a cute purse?” Her husband offers to a very willing Wanda.

“Ya’ll bet on us?” Bucky feigns betrayal.

“Oh please, as if you both didn't place some bets on us.” Wanda points her finger at him.

“You told them?” You ask Bucky.

“Steve wondered where I got the cash for buying rounds at the bar.” Bucky defends, a sweet smile taking over his features, the crinkles by his eyes showing. Your heart beats harder, reminding you of your feelings.

“Smitten kitten.” Wanda whispers as she had years ago. 

You still swat her arm the same way.

“Bucky—,” Your quip is broken into a giggle. Strong arms encircle you. Bucky grabs onto the railing entrapping you against him. 

He brings his face close to yours, blue eyes bright and a smile on his face. 

“Sunshine.” He says happily, nose brushing against your own once, twice, several more times. You blush, heart roaring at the happiness you feel in this moment. 

A clamour of ‘oohs’ distract the two of you. Then the silence envelopes the small crowd gathered. 

Bucky gazes to the side, shifting slightly so you can see the view better. 

The snow capped mountains of Switzerland being embraced by the sunrise. Slowly taking over, your head rests upon his chest. His cheek upon your head as you both watch the dawn of a new day. 

“Beautiful.” You murmur, arms wrapping around him. 

“Not as beautiful as you, Sunshine.” Bucky chuckles, “I know I’ve told you this at every sunrise we’ve seen but it's true.” 

“All across Europe you’ve favoured me over the view.” You pull back to look up at him only to find him looking at you already, “That and the eskimo kisses.” 

Bucky laughs, “Oh remind me to tell you about that when we get home, tomorrow.” He cups your cheek, pulling you in for a kiss. You melt against him, the past three weeks were one of the best. 

After a year and a half of working hard to make the baking business take off. Bucky asked if you’d be willing to take a vacation. The business was better, you’d rented out a sort of studio space. Which could be versatile in its purpose on those weeks that you didn’t have many orders. Those days it was given to people looking for hosting their own classes or group sessions. 

Bucky had done the math, your next goal was owning a space as this, doing the same thing but you’d own it. He projected an achievable timeline. 

Progressing at his firm under the tutelage of Yusuf. Bucky himself was thriving in front of you. On some days you couldn’t believe you both were out of the labyrinth holding hands. 

Alas, the trip had come to an end. The memories would live on. Carried in the little photo album of polaroids. Negatives of films ready to be developed and the digital photos tucked away in memory cards and back up ones.

Sleepily walking into the apartment, you were hoping to crash on the couch itself. The small clock read close to five a.m. 

“Take a shower, you will feel better.” Bucky kisses your forehead. 

You whine in response, “Sleepy.” 

“Sunshine.” He uses the kind of stern tone you can’t fight against.

“Puffin.” 

“Cmon, you knew I’d help beat jet lag.” Bucky leads you to his and now your shared room. 

“Only because you have a fancy shower.” You grumble, allowing him to help you out of your coat. 

He only laughs, placing a sweet kiss to your jaw. 

“Join me?” You offer the most innocent expression on your face. 

“Tempt me all you want Sunshine, I am not going to shower with you again, you’re my angel but your water temperature can rival hell.” Bucky kisses your nose, squeezing your ass just as you pull away. 

Swatting his arm you head into the bathroom, “Don’t tell me later, ‘Can’t dick down Sunshine in the bathroom.’”

Bucky sputters the water he began drinking, “That was one time and Steve fed me weed brownies!” 

“I had those too! I didn’t say Bucky is a wimp during warm showers!” You call out over the sound of the lovely said warm water. 

“More like scalding.” He peeks into the bathroom, getting a good view of you. 

“Did you not want to unpack the chocolates we bought?” You remind him, he smiles nodding and heading out. 

After your shower you find your favourite hoodie from Bucky’s collection on the bed. You could cry because it was warm. 

“Hey Sunshine, are you out yet?” Bucky calls out. 

“Yeah, just a second.” 

“I wanted to know is the hot chocolate supposed to go in the fridge?” 

“You remember what happened to the Cocoa Powder of February don’t you?” You pause your stride to the kitchen. 

Several paper hearts line the floor to the little balcony. A balloon floats tied to the handrail. You pad over, Bucky not in sight. 

“Bucky?” You call out, pulling the balloon down, there isn’t anything written on it. 

Warm arms encircle you, just as they did at every observation deck, during every sunrise. As if he planned it down to the minute, the sky breaks into colours of dawn, you turn to face him. 

“Puffin?” You stare up at him.

Bucky leans in, eskimo kissing you. You smile as you always did when he showed his affection this way.

“One sunrise at home. More than a year ago, at sunset I proposed to you albeit it was a staged one. This one isn’t staged. I put something on our vision board. Maybe you hadn’t seen it.” His hands move to grasp yours, “Do you know puffins mate for life? They sort of peck their beaks to know their love.”

“Is that why you’ve been eskimo kissing me?” You wanted to cry.

He wipes your cheek with the back of his, your hands still intertwined.

“I haven’t even started the proposal yet.” He chuckles, but his own eyes are misty. Tears gathering. His cheeks turned pink.

“I got the chance to fall in love with you again. Maybe that is a blessing. To watch you grow and see you in different lights. Sunshine, I’ve seen you eclipsed, I’ve felt your warmth on cold mornings. I’ve dreamed of you when you aren’t near. I’ve dreamed of you when I have you in my arms. I’ve lost you. I’ve found you.” He pauses, taking a deep inhale.

“I’ve been the worst foe to you. I’ve had the honour to be your friend. I’ve had the honour to have your trust. You say I’m your home Sunshine but I’ve found my peace with you. I want you for the rest of my life. I’ve seen what an engagement to you is like, I want to know what marriage is with you.” He slowly gets down on one knee.

Tears flowing out of his beautiful blue eyes.

“Oh Bucky,” You blink the tears free.

“I know, I’m not perfect,” He begins, “I’m not either,” You remind him.

“But we, we fit right.” He smiles when you wipe the tears from his eyes.

“We do.” You agree.

“Sunshine, will you be mine, to have, to hold, to love, cherish, in sickness, in health, in life. Whatever may come our way, will you allow me to be your husband? Will you be my wife? I also promise to say ‘Where is my wife?’ just like those book boys of yours.” He chuckles.

“You’re way above them, I love you so much. I didn’t think I’d get to know what it is to be yours, once I had a taste. I didn’t think I could go back.” You kneel as well.

“Puffin, I’ve seen you grow and I want to grow with you, two trees in the same forest. Roots expanting, branches fanning out. Puffins mating for life. I didn’t think I could find happiness. Let alone find the happiness that I thought was lost between us. So yes, I will be yours, husband. To love, to cherish, in sickness, in health, in life. I love you more than my book boyfriends.”

“More than that one bodyguard book dude?” Bucky’s teasing you know it, you laugh and nod.

“Yes, even more than him.” Your forehead rests against his, Bucky slips something onto your finger.

“We had wedding bands but never an engagement ring, I knew you wouldn’t want those replaced. I had the ring designed to match the original band. So you could wear both.” He explains the beautiful piece of jewellery. 

“I love you, husband.” You grin as Bucky blushes, a shyness he only showed in front of you takes over him.

“I love you, wife.” Bucky cups your cheek, drawing closer. 

His lips meeting yours, the morning light shining bright around the two of you.

A.N: thank you for waiting, loving and reading this story, i find it very difficult to part with the worlds i create and labyrinth is so close to my heart so very close to my heart i will miss this fic so much im crying brb

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