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thischubbydumpling · 1 day ago

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Let Me Remind You

Summary: After a mission forces Bucky to become the Winter Soldier again it hits him harder than he expected. You notice the change and remind him that he’s not that man anymore.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Category: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Kissing, mention of Buckys past obviously

Word Count: 1,4k

Author‘s Note: I’m so back in my Marvel Phase after watching Thunderbolts, I love this movie SO much, I just had to write something with Bucky. I hope you like how this it turned out!! :)

The hallway is quiet. The hum of the overhead lights barely registers as you stop in front of his door. It’s ajar, just slightly, enough to tell you he didn’t care to shut the world out completely, but not quite enough to invite it in either.

You hesitate for a second, heart beating just a little faster. You know he's hurting. You saw it in his eyes the moment the mission ended. He slipped away before you could say anything, disappearing like he used to, like a ghost returning to old habits.

You push the door open softly. He doesn’t turn. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on his knees. He’s still wearing the mission gear, the black tactical suit, the combat boots, the gloves. The silver arm catches the low light, a cold gleam against the muted shadows of the room.

You step inside and close the door behind you. The click echoes slightly in the stillness. “Bucky?” you say, gently. He glances over his shoulder, just enough to acknowledge you, but his gaze doesn’t linger. His eyes are tired. Not physically, but deeply, in that way that comes from carrying too much for too long.

“I was looking for you,” you continue, walking toward him. He exhales, short and shallow. “Didn’t want to talk.” You sit down beside him, not too close, not yet. You don’t press, not right away. You let the silence sit between you for a moment. It’s heavy, but not unbearable.

You can feel the emotion radiating off him like heat - restrained, simmering just under the surface. “You’re still wearing the suit,” you say softly. He glances down at himself, like he's only now aware of it. His gloved fingers curl into a fist, then relax again. “Didn’t notice.”

“That’s not true,” you say. Your voice is quiet, but certain. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t need to. The silence is answer enough. You shift, turning toward him, and slowly, carefully, you reach for his left hand. His real hand. Warm, a little rough, fingers slightly calloused.

You wrap both of yours around it and give it a gentle squeeze. At first, he doesn’t react. Then his thumb twitches, barely brushing against your knuckle. “I saw the way you looked after the mission,” you say, your voice soft but unwavering. “Like you weren’t really here. Like part of you went somewhere else.”

His eyes flicker to yours, just briefly. There’s something there. Guilt, shame, maybe even fear. You take a breath and continue. “What do you think? Who do you really believe you are? The Winter Soldier? Do you still see yourself like that?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. His grip in your hand tenses, but doesn’t pull away. You lean closer, gently resting your forehead against his shoulder. Your voice lowers, tender and steady. “Because the man I know… he’s not a weapon. He’s not a ghost. He’s someone who fought like hell to come back to himself. Who’s still fighting, every day, to be better. To help people. To heal.”

You lift your head and look at him, really look. “You didn’t vanish back there, Bucky. You didn’t lose yourself. You did what had to be done and you came back to me.” He looks at you now, fully. His eyes are glassy, uncertain. Like he’s afraid of believing you.

Like a part of him still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be held this way. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he murmurs. “Wearing that suit. Speaking Russian commands like I used to. It felt… wrong. Like I was letting him back in.”

“You weren’t,” you say firmly. “You’re not him. You’ve never truly been him. Not in your heart.” He exhales, slow and shaky, and finally lets his shoulders drop. You see it, the exhaustion beneath the mask, the weight he's been carrying alone for so long. You slide your fingers between his, intertwining your hands.

“You’re not alone anymore, Bucky. You don’t have to carry that version of yourself like a curse. You get to rewrite the story now. You already are.” He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are on you, really on you now. There’s a flicker of something softer in them. Not quite peace, but the beginning of it. A thread of light pushing through the cracks. You lift his hand to your lips, press a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“I see you. All of you. Even the parts you think you have to hide from me.” He swallows hard. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “You make me feel like maybe… I’m worth saving.” You shift closer, resting your forehead gently against his.

“You are. But you don’t need saving anymore. You just need to be reminded of who you are.” A beat of silence passes. Then, slowly, Bucky wraps his arm around your waist - the metal one, cold at first against your side, but steady. Protective.

His other hand squeezes yours like he’s grounding himself, anchoring to something real. You stay like that, forehead to forehead, breathing in sync. And for the first time that night, you feel him begin to let go. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The silence between you stretches, but this time, it doesn’t feel heavy, it feels full. Like something has finally shifted. You feel his breath on your lips, warm and uneven, and when his forehead leans a little more into yours, you don’t pull away.

You let him take his time. You give him the space to come back fully, not as the soldier, not as the ghost, but as Bucky. His voice is rough when he finally speaks again. “I keep thinking about the things I’ve done,” he says, his eyes flickering down. “Even if I know it wasn’t really me… it feels like it was. Like the blood is still on my hands, even now.”

You press your hand to his cheek, turning his face gently back toward yours. His stubble brushes against your skin as you cradle him there, softly. “Then let me remind you of what else you’ve done,” you whisper. “You’ve saved lives. You’ve stood up when it would’ve been easier to disappear. You’ve protected people, including me.”

You can see it in his eyes, that quiet war he fights within himself. You lean in just enough for your nose to brush his, barely a touch, just a breath. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his lips part like he wants to say something more, but no words come.

So you close the distance. The kiss is slow, hesitant at first - not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s still afraid he might break something delicate between you. But you don’t let him retreat. You stay close, fingers threaded through his hair now, drawing him gently into the warmth of it, into you.

When he kisses you back, it’s different than before. It’s not rushed or driven by adrenaline. It’s careful. Vulnerable. Real. He exhales into the kiss like it’s the first full breath he’s taken all night. When you pull back, just slightly, you rest your forehead against his again. Your voice is soft.

“You’re not broken, Bucky. Not beyond repair. You’re allowed to have scars. But you’re also allowed to heal.” His hand drifts to your back, pulling you closer, and this time he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. Not like a shield. Not like a soldier. Just like a man who’s tired of running.

You shift both of you gently back onto the bed, not to sleep but to simply lie there, together. His arms wrap around you from behind, one flesh and bone, the other cool metal. You let yourself settle into him, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his forearm.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel normal,” he says quietly against your shoulder. You turn slightly, so you can see him. “Then let’s not aim for normal. Let’s aim for real.” He lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle - the kind that sounds like it hasn’t had much practice lately. It’s soft. But it’s a start.

You press a kiss to his temple, then to the spot just beneath his jaw. “You’re real. And you’re mine. I love you,” he says and his arms tighten around you just a little more. “I love you too,” you say and lean into his touch. For the first time in a long while, he lets himself close his eyes and rest.

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thischubbydumpling · 2 days ago

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What Is Left Of Me . . . bucky barnes

The Red Room barely knew her, and HYDRA never considered her as one of their own. In a few years, there would be a vague memory that a girl had once tried to free the Winter Soldier. And then, that would be forgotten too. Goodbye, White Swan. We hardly knew you.

pairing: wintersoldier!bucky x russian!assassin!fem!reader

timeline: right before the events of captain america: the winter soldier (2014)

synopsis: it’s the soldier’s mission to kill you, but the man under the mask can’t bring himself to kill the one and only love of his life.

warnings: omnipresence of suicidal tendencies, mention of death, blood, guilt, assassination, angst++, alcohol, drug, mention of world war ii, NO SMUT.

song rec: peace, taylor swift

word count: 6.4k+

Working for the Russian secret services did, we can say, build you as a woman. Everything you do, from choosing a piece of clothing to choosing a way of eliminating a target is still deeply influenced by your past as an FSB—or, to be honest, what we can still call KGB—agent.

You decided to stop it all in 2009 when one of your missions was killing an entire family to protect the government from what they were about to accuse it of. Corruption, tax fraud, assassination, dictatorship... Having blood on your hands is something you were—are—used to. But children’s blood is a line even you aren’t able to cross. That’s too much you can handle, even back then when you were known for being a heartless assassin.

Alesya, Ania, and Klara were the kids of the family you were supposed to take down. They are still alive today. The two oldest graduated from college last year, and the younger one is in middle school. If you had killed them back in January 2009, none of that would've happened. Boris and Varya, their parents, wouldn’t have celebrated their twentieth marriage anniversary, nor would they have seen Alesya give birth to their first grandson.

They remind you of your own family, in the most twisted way. Your parents aren't the best out there. Your mom drinks too much and she often gets angry because of it. Your father doesn't talk and spends most of his time reading the news and smoking his cig while your younger brother has been sent to rehab twice. But blood is blood, right? Leaving them is the only regret death would give you.

You think you have nothing to offer the world anymore. How could someone like you deserve anything, after all the crimes and the horrors you committed?

But your path led you to the Winter Soldier.

You worked with him. You killed with him. You stalked with him. But when you see him today, now that you have stopped working, his eyes are different. To be honest, you could stay here and wait for him to eliminate you right now. That is what he is sent for. Foolish is the one who thinks they can leave the FSB without facing the consequences of their act of cowardice.

“Soldier,” you whisper as he stares at you from the other side of the crowded street. Any normal human wouldn't hear you, but he does. Because he is not a normal human. He is the Winter Soldier, and there is as much—if not more—super serum than blood coursing through his veins. “Didn't expect to see you so soon.”

It reminds you of the first time you saw him, in Switzerland. Your hair was soaked, so was his. You ran for nearly fifteen minutes before he caught up to you, little did you know he wasn't about to kill you—he had been sent to work with you. But his reputation clung to him and you—the White Swan—were terrified of him.

Even from a distance, you can see the subtle shift in his eyes. You can swear he’s conflicted. No one around notices the two of you, standing from each side of the street, staring at one another. That is until he starts walking, shoving away some civilians with his metal arm. You hear their screams before you see them running, but your legs aren't moving. They should be.

Honestly, you didn't expect to be so ready to die so young. You never wanted to die, and always fought your way back to life. But now that you're facing death wearing James Buchanan Barnes’—or at least what’s left of him—face, it almost feels peaceful.

It takes him ten seconds to reach your level and be in front of you. His fists are clenched, and his flesh hand is gripping his M249 SAW, his signature light machine gun. You don't know if time is moving slower now or if the buzzing in your head makes you feel like it and you don't even care about it anymore because all that matters now is that you are on a tightrope. Your life is a tightrope you’re clumsily walking on.

The Winter Soldier isn't made to talk, he never does. Except with you. Because there was once a time when you could share his cell if you both succeeded in a mission. He could remember, despite the numerous brainwashings, how your fingers were working on his back muscles and made him feel a second of peace after a long day. The relationship between the Winter Soldier and the White Swan was something even HYDRA never could put words on.

You hate storms, always did. When, during a mission in New-Zealand, you were trapped with him in a cabin for the night, he held you for the first time. You were the one who used to cradle him, but his hands—no matter how blood-stained they were—felt safe and grounded, even more than anything you've ever experienced.

White Swan is the name they gave you when the FSB sent you to HYDRA to support and help their soldier. They chose it to keep the same initials and make it easy to remember for the public. They chose ‘white’ and not ‘black’ because you were surprisingly elegant and effortless when you worked, more like a dance than a fight. Swan Lake used to be your favorite ballet.

“Mission,” is the only word you hear coming from his mouth. But he doesn't move. “Execution.”

“I know,” you nod, but he stays immobile again. “Do it.”

There is a pause. You stare into his icy blue eyes, the very same you used to drown in back then when you allowed yourself to let your mind wander about what kind of man this soldier used to be when he was still himself.

“I can’t,” he whines in a brittle voice. And that’s enough to make your world collapse.

You can feel your bottom lip tremble, and you get lost in his eyes. The man looks like he’s fighting a battle in his mind, conflicted between the order he's being given and his feelings.

Whatever is left of Barnes is unable to hurt you, even the slightest bit. He would lose his mind again and again and would spiral into even more pain if he had to be the reason you were injured, or even worse, dead.

He lifts his weapon again, as if he's searching for the strength he would need to complete his mission—his duty. You stare at him, not even flinching at the sight of the gun dangerously close to your ribcage because deep down, you know he won’t do it and it kills you even more to know even the world’s deadliest assassin is too human to murder you.

“Please,” your voice comes in a ragged breath, an almost pleading tone. You need it to stop. You cannot live with the knowledge of what you did, what you spent years doing. “I need you to end it, I won't be brave enough to do it myself...”

The Winter Soldier’s eyes are cold and unwavering now that he knows you want to die. How ironic it is that the only human keeping him alive is also the same one who wants to die? Life is cruel, but some people are its punching bag. He needs you though. He needs your warmth, your presence. He needs you to be here when he has nightmares, to run your hands through his hair like you always do, and tell him it’s going to be okay even if you both know it won’t be okay anytime soon.

“I’m sorry,” the man whispers in a defeated sigh.

He lowers the weapon and you close your eyes, understanding today won’t be your last. It won't take long for HYDRA to notice the mission is taking too long, your time is counted.

Silence is something you’re used to. Most of your missions were done in silence, coming back home was silent, and the Winter Soldier was silent. The only mess you could often hear was the incessant buzzing in your head, the one you tried to drown with alcohol or soothe with drugs. None of that worked though.

The man is silently watching something you can't quite see through the only window of the room in the hotel you decided to stay in, and to which you had to drive six hours to reach. Escaping HYDRA is something you don't even think is possible, but when you saw the glimmer of hope in the Soldier’s eyes, you knew you had to try. Maybe you wanted to die, but there was a man behind the Winter Soldier who desperately wanted to live.

You make your way into the room, drying your hair with a towel. The hotel isn't fancy, it doesn't have much space or drawers, one single bathroom and room, not even a TV. It still feels like the coziest comfort for people used to the dusty hard ground of a cell in Russia.

When you look at him, you notice how nothing is moving. Not his leg, not his arms, not even his eyes when he glances outside. You can almost think he is a statue.

Your chest tightens while you watch him. You've spent countless hours staring at him before, and it was like you were always seeing a different person. When the Winter Soldier was standing in front of you, the memory of Sergeant Barnes, a few nights earlier, begging you not to leave because he couldn't bring himself to stay alone in his cell felt so far away. And when he did show you weakness, his face was so soft and his touch so gentle that you couldn't even remember how many lives he took.

How could such stained hands be so gentle with you?

“Are you okay?” you mutter, watching how his shoulders ease at the sound of your voice.

He nods, though you know he doesn't mean it. You walk closer, until you're standing next to him, and watch through the window as well to see what he’s looking at.

On the other side of the road, in the dim light of a street light, is a group of kids—around the age of 13, maybe more—playing football. Their laughter fills the room, and without even noticing it, a tired curling of the lips appears on your face.

You don't remember what childhood looks like. The oldest memory you have is when you were 7, and you were playing in the garden of your parents' house. You heard a scream, and when you ran back in, they were fighting over something stupid. Your dad had a rifle, and it was the first time you heard the burst of a weapon. It didn't hit your brother, nor your mother, just the old vase on the table which exploded and sent a piece of glass right to you. It’s also your first scar, right below the left elbow.

“I’m tired,” you add with the same softness in your voice, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the intimacy of the moment.

“You can rest,” his tone is surprisingly gentle. “I’ll make sure they didn't follow us.”

“You should sleep too,” you remind him. He isn't a big sleeper, that’s for sure, but he is still a human who needs rest.

“I’m alright.”

You don't fight it. He won't let you anyway. You nod, whisper a ‘goodnight’ almost audible—but the slight nod of his head is enough to let you know he heard it—and climb into bed.

Falling asleep isn't easy tonight. Your eyes keep finding the man’s standing figure in front of the window. He makes you feel safe. He makes you feel like you have someone who cares. Your mind eventually drifts off to sleep, after long hours of overthinking about everything.

The Winter Soldier hears your respiration become even and slow, which makes him turn his head. You're asleep. Your usually serious expression is now replaced by the soft peacefulness that only comes with sleep and he finds it endearing. He knows he’s staring, but he doesn't stop. He can't help it. You're the only human interaction the man has.

Eventually, he allows himself to sit down on the floor, resting his head on the edge of the bed. He could've lain down next to you, he knows you wouldn't find it weird. But truthfully, he isn’t used to the comfort of a mattress. He doesn't deserve it. The floor is what he’s used to, and he can't change his habits when he's spent decades building them.

He doesn't sleep more than two consecutive hours, waking up from nightmares every now and then, always making sure he doesn't wake you up as he stands up to grab a glass of water.

Around 5, he decides not to try to go back to sleep. The man stands up and walks to the bathroom, turns the water on, and fills his hands with it to refresh his face. He spends a couple of seconds like that, eyes closed, face in his hands, letting the cold drops fall on the floor. With a sigh, he turns the water off and goes back to the room to see you stirring awake.

“Slept well?” his voice is still dry with sleep.

You run your hand through your hair, trying to fix the mess you made while sleeping.

“Yeah,” you lie. You heard him waking up every time, but decided not to let him know.

The morning is chilly, but you open the window nonetheless. He looks at you as you walk to the bathroom, and is still at the very same spot when you walk out of it. You both change into the casual clothes you bought yesterday to go unnoticed, and decide to take the road again. You don't really know where you're supposed to go when you're on the run, but having the Soldier with you is somewhat easing your anxiety. You wish you didn't have to call him like that, but none of you know his actual name.

You've been sitting on the passenger seat for three hours now, your elbow resting on the edge of the window as the wind lifts your hair. The man doesn't talk, nor do you, and you're headed nowhere. This is a shitty plan. Then, an idea hits you. It’s dangerous, probably reckless and stupid, but there’s a chance it works.

“Hey,” you start, hesitation in your voice. “I might know someone who can help us.”

His face turns to you for a few seconds before his focus returns to the road.

“We can't trust anyone,” he grunted, almost scolding you for even thinking of involving someone else in your run.

You look away, frustrated. You know it’s dangerous, but isn't what you're doing already reckless?

“We can handle a little danger, we've had worse,” you insist. “And… I trust my contact. I've met—”

“No,” he cuts you off.

“Listen to me—”

“I said no!” he snaps, making you flinch.

To hide the frustration in the redness of your cheeks, you turn your head in the direction of the window, staring at the horizon like it holds the answers you're looking for.

The man feels like a jerk. He didn't mean to yell at you, but the idea of bringing someone else terrifies him. It took him years to finally trust you, so giving his trust to anyone else seems impossible. But at the same time, he does trust you. So, by analogy, he should trust the ones you trust, right?

“Who’s your contact?” he asks, his voice gentler and quieter than before. It's not an apology, yet you know it means he’s sorry for the way he talked to you.

“Someone I used to work with. She owes me a favor, I think she can help us. She's trustworthy.”

The man hesitates, but eventually, he parks the car on the side of the road. There is a silence in which he seems to be thinking about it, and then he turns his head to see you. He stares into your eyes, and you show him all the confidence he needs to see to approve of your plan. You show him the unwavering trust you feel for your contact, and pray that it’s enough for him to agree.

“Where can we find her?”

“Washington D.C, probably. This is the last location known to the Black Widow.”

Washington D.C is just like it was the last time you came here, three years ago. Except that it was sunny. Today is a cloudy one, the kind to end in rain and thunder. The car died around noon, so you're both walking in the streets, jackets closed. He wears a cap and gloves and even if it looks cliché, it works. No one looks at you long enough to be suspicious. You don't exactly know where Natalia Alianovna Romanova is, the last time you saw each other was in Moscow and she wasn’t an ‘Avenger’ yet. You've heard of them, the superheroes fighting evil forces. When they first appeared on your screen, you scoffed. They're all a bunch of killers, liars, and manipulators, but since they fight for the sake of America, they're considered heroes.

You really like Natalia—whose name is now Americanized and turned into Natasha—but you feel some repulsion for her team and what they represent. However, if keeping your mouth shut will help you get her help, you are willing to do it.

The rain starts falling on you. It starts with small, tiny drops, but soon enough, it’s showering.

“We need to find a shelter,” you say, lifting your forearm to stop the rain from blurring your vision.

He follows as you enter the nearest building, from which dozens of people are leaving. The place is slightly crowded, but the more people there are, the fewer chances to be recognized there are.

“Where are we?” he asks.

You take a glance at the sign at the entry. “Smithsonian Institution,” you read carelessly.

It’s a museum. A war museum. Even if you're only here because of the rain, you can't deny that it’s captivating. Photos of soldiers during wartime cover an entire wall, and even their letters are exposed. You remember that back then, your father used to tell you bedtime stories about your grandfather, a soldier who fought during World War II. He was Soviet though, which means the stories weren’t saying the same things as the American ones. But when all is said and done, you think that every soldier was brave. Whether they were American, Soviets, European, or even Germans, they were brave. It’s the kind of bravery you never experienced, because you used to kill for your own sake, or just for some rich folks who paid you enough. Even the FSB wasn't something you could be proud of, because nothing feels braver in your heart than fighting for peace. Fighting to protect the weak, the civilians. Being an assassin will never be something anyone can be proud of, and no amount of redemption can change that.

As you dig deeper into the museum, you walk into a room dedicated to Captain America, also known as Steve Rogers. You start reading about his life, about his friends, his family, the experiment that made him become the face of the country. In Russia, it is almost a duty to despise him and what he stands for. At least, as Captain America. It’s hard to remember the time when the United States and the Soviet Union used to be allies.

Then, your attention turns to the screen on which a film of some of his sequences is shown. You cross your arms as you watch, hearing some kids in front of you mutter things about how brave he is, and how lucky the world is to have him.

The films keep on going and you stare absent-mindedly until a familiar face lights up the screen. Could it be…? Captain America is laughing with a man. A man who looks a lot like the one you're here with. The subtitles introduce him as Steve Rogers’ best friend, James Buchanan Barnes. His eyes are the perfect shade of blue,—which you recognize even despite the dirt on the film—the one you love drowning in. His face is the same, except that he is younger and his hair is shorter. He has two flesh arms. He is a man. The kind of man whom people could see buying bread in the morning, and drinking at the bar.

You frown. The Winter Soldier is old, everyone knows it, he started being an assassin before you were even born. It’s even one of the reasons why people think he is a legend more than an actual person. But could he be that man? Could he be a soldier who fought with Captain America during WW2?

You look around, trying to find him, but he’s not on your side anymore. You didn't notice until now that it’s been a while since he stopped following you. You make your way out of the room, glancing at each hallway, trying to find him but he is nowhere to be found. You can feel your palms becoming sweaty as the minutes stretch, but you don’t stop looking for him. If he saw the same thing as you, God knows how he is feeling right now. You look at each man wearing a cap, sometimes even walking to him, thinking it’s the one you’re looking for, before turning back and searching somewhere else.

You walk past a darker room and read the sign quickly but don’t stop until your mind processes what you just read. ‘Bucky Barnes’.

Immediately, you stop on your tracks and turn around to enter this room. It’s less lit up than Captain America’s, but it isn't less filled. There is a cardboard cutout of him wearing a navy blue army uniform, and when you stare at it, you have no doubts anymore. He is the man you know.

He’s standing in front of another screen, one on which Sergeant Barnes is shown talking to a troop—the Howling Commandos, you read. He isn't standing still like he was back in the hotel room, his shoulders are now low and tense. His hands are slightly shaking. No one else would notice, but you do. You always do.

You know better than to speak. He needs to be alone, and you have to respect that. You stay in the corner of the room, watching as he discovers more about his own life.

He eventually turns around and looks at you. He doesn't speak, but you can see he’s trying to. The words just don’t come out. You read what is written about him, and you both learn a lot of things. You learn—and he does too—about his identity.

James Buchanan Barnes was born in 1917. He was Steve Rogers’ best friend, and together they served with distinction in the U.S. Army during World War II as part of the Howling Commandos. Sergeant Barnes was reported killed in action during a mission in 1944.

Barnes is remembered as a brave American who gave his life in service to his country.

You bite the inside of your cheek as you read this sign. That man used to be a hero. He still is a hero to you.

“The rain stopped,” he mutters, leaving the room.

You stare a bit longer at the smile on James’ face through the screen. You've spent so much time thinking about who he used to be that now, knowing almost feels like freedom.

You both decided it would be wiser to wait for the night and the rain to pass before going back to looking for Natasha. The Soldier—Bucky—talks even less than he used to. You lock the door of the motel and steal a glance through the window. It might be your paranoia kicking in, but you're pretty sure you've been seeing shadows following you ever since you left the museum.

You eventually turn around and sigh before you see the man sitting on the edge of the bed. You grab a chair and sit on it, facing him. The rain pours against the windows and you stare at it for a few seconds even though your main focus is finding words steady enough to talk to him.

You've been wanting to say something, but he is dead silent. After a while, you dig your hand in the pocket of your hoodie.

He looks at your face while you search for what you hid in your pocket a couple of hours ago and wonder if you would see him differently now. His gaze falls on your palm as you hand him something. A small metal dogtag. It makes him frown in confusion, but you insist so he takes it in his flesh hand and reads the inscription.

BARNES

JAMES B

32557038

T42 43 A

He stares at it longer than anyone has ever stared at dog tags. While he does, you're still looking at him. You see his jaw clench, his breath becoming quicker, and you even notice the slight biting of his cheek. Tentatively, you reach for his knee. Your hand stays there as he closes his hand around the tag, only letting the chain swing. He whispers something that sounds like a thanks to which you nod.

“It feels weird,” he starts, but stops. You encourage him to keep going with a light squeeze on the knee. “Reading about him… about me. I had some kind of—some glimpse of what my life was,” he trembles. “I feel foreign in my own body, like I took the place of someone else. Like someone was there before and I just—intruded.”

Without realizing, your hand had moved from his knee to his back, which you rub in an attempt to soothe him.

“You've been changed,” you start, “and you're now… you're the same, but only entirely different. You're not an intruder, James.”

His head snaps up, his gaze finally meeting yours. You stop rubbing his back.

“Sorry, was that okay?”

The man stares at you, his eyes moving between yours as if he's trying to know the answer himself. The blueness of his eyes is even more breathtaking under the moonbeam that pierces the window of the room to light up his face.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

As he opens his hand again, you delicately take the dog tags, your touch feeling like a feather-light when your fingers brush his. You stand up and extend your arm with a softness that only comes with the quiet and aching respect you feel for him before putting the chain around his neck with trembling hands.

He doesn't move. Until he does. His arms—both the fleshed one and the metallic one—wrap around your waist. His touch, a trained assassin’s one, is oddly tender against your warm skin. Before you even notice, your hands are around him as well, your fingers moving slowly in his hair with the carefulness of intimacy.

You don't hear any sob, you don't feel any tear on your t-shirt. He simply inhales a bit more shakily than before, and that’s enough for you to know he needs to cry.

No words can describe the unspoken understanding of your souls, which, knee-deep in chaos, find comfort in one another.

No one else would hear that sound, but you and James do. You stare at the door. Someone is there. With his metal arm, he makes you step back as he walks to the door, watching through the eyehole. The silence that once felt comfortable is unbearable right now. Just then, he motions for you to go to the window, and you know you've been spotted before he even says it out loud.

You close the gap between you and the window in one and only step, and push it open. The cool air makes you shiver but you don't back down and swing your leg over the edge, trying to gauge the height. The Soldier mutters something about going first to catch you and soon enough he’s already outside, waiting for you to jump. You swing your second leg over the edge right when the door snaps open. Even if your adrenaline makes you jump from the window immediately, you feel the sharp pain of a bullet nestling in your shoulder. James catches you, and he feels your warm blood on his flesh hand as he does. His eyes widen, but you swear you’re okay and you both start running.

It’s late, it’s dark, you don’t know where you are or where you should go. As you run, the pain in your shoulder is becoming less and less bearable. You've survived worse though. Running is tiring, especially for dry and sore muscles like yours, which were asleep ten minutes ago. However, you push yourself, challenging your own limits. Behind you, you can hear HYDRA’s soldiers running, trying to catch up to you. Some of their bullets graze the trees around you, some even bounce on the ground and almost ricochet on your legs.

You don't know how long you and James are running until he grabs your wrist and makes you hide in a tiny alleyway. You both hold your breath as you hear the soldiers pass down the street, not stopping where you are. You are out of sight. You finally allow yourself to breathe, and your chest rises and falls at a quick pace. You're out of breath, and the sting in your shoulder doesn't help it. Yet, when he asks you if you’re okay, you say yes because you don’t mean to be a burden.

Just then, tires screech and a black SUV stops right at the entrance of the alleyway. Your breath catches in your throat again, and you feel your legs shaking. This is not the model of car HYDRA uses though, so you have no idea who it is.

Until Natasha Romanoff walks out of it. Bucky reaches for his hand knife but you stop him.

“It’s Natasha.”

He squints, and when recognition flashes on his face, his grip on the knife loosens. The woman walks in their direction, making sure there is no one around them. She only stops when she’s in front of them.

“I got your signal,” are the first words she says. “What’s happening?”

“We don't have the time to explain properly,” you pant, “but we need your help.”

Her stare falls on James, then she looks back to you and notices the slump in your shoulder. You aren't exactly known to be the kind of woman easy to shoot. Natasha understands it’s something serious, something bigger than whatever mission they accomplished together.

“HYDRA’s after us,” you continue. “When they catch us, they’ll… take him back. And take me down.”

“Damn, what shithole did you two fall in again,” she asks with a sigh, but it sounds more like a rhetorical question than an actual one. “Come here, we have to move before they find you.”

The woman motions for you to follow her, and you both enter the SUV, sitting on the backseat as she grips the steering wheel.

It’s quiet at first. Your shoulder hurts like hell and you try to bite your lip every time Natasha takes a new direction a bit too abruptly. James’s hand finds a place on your thigh, right over your knee. He stares at your face, noticing the quiet pain you're hiding. He doesn't ask, but his expression lets you understand he wonders if you’re okay.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” Natasha breaks the silence. “I didn't expect to see you alive again, to be honest.” You catch her glance through the rear-view mirror.

“Yeah,” you shrug with your left shoulder—the untouched one. “I didn't expect to be needing you either. It’s been like, what, eight years?”

“Ten,” she corrects you, which makes you mutter a small ‘oh’. “We need to get your shoulder treated.”

You nod and stare through the window. Ironically, it starts raining again. It’s like the water is following you everywhere lately. Natasha parks her car next to her apartment, and you all enter the room quietly. Whatever you expected, it’s different. The place is filled with plants. Real, alive ones. There are framed pictures on the walls, burnt candles. The place is so human that you almost feel uneasy.

Your eyes land on a picture of her and her new team. You only recognize Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, the popular billionaire. Natasha turns on the living room light and shows you where the bathroom is, as well as the first aid kit.

“Can I talk to you?” You look at her, hoping she'd say anything but no.

The redhead nods and follows you as you enter the bathroom. She orders you to take off your shirt, and you do it without asking any questions. She grabs the bottle of alcohol and a cotton, and slowly taps it against the bleeding area around the bullet, warning you that taking it off will sting.

There is some silence for a while before you find the right words to say.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “About what I did back in the Red Room.” Natasha doesn't answer, so you follow. “I’ve been thinking about it for years and it killed me to just… live with myself. I didn't mean to betray you, or any of them. I've been selfish and—I don't know, I was… scared, I guess.”

You stare at her through the reflection of the mirror as she cleans your wound. She doesn't even look back at you. You look away, shame flooding your entire body. Natasha throws away a red-covered cotton and grabs a pair of tweezers which she dips in alcohol.

“You know,” she whispers in concentration as she tries to find the bullet in your flesh. “I've never thought you're a stupid person. You're an intelligent woman who does stupid things for even stupider reasons.” She pauses long enough for you to think about her words. “But I don't judge people on their worst mistake.”

You flinch, your eyebrows furrowing. You don't know if it's because she manages to grab the bullet deep in your shoulder or if it’s because of her words.

It takes a long time for her to stitch you up, and Bucky hears each one of your cries from behind the door but doesn't intervene, knowing he would make things worse if he did. When you're finally patched up, Natasha looks at you in the mirror, still standing behind your back.

“Since when do we trust the Winter Soldier?” she whispers. “Last time, he almost tried to kill me.”

“He’s not the Winter Soldier right now. Not ever again, I hope. I trust him, he trusts me.”

Natasha nods and looks at your reflection while you put your tank top back on.

“You’re a grown woman now,” she smiles shakily.

That comment makes your lips curl. You've met Natasha in the Red Room. You didn't stay in here long, you managed to escape at 15. You never helped any other widow to leave. But to stay out of Dreykov’s reach, you offered your services to the FSB. Working for the government, even to do their dirtiest and darkest work, was better than being a Widow.

“Alright,” she runs her hands through her hair. “I’m going to get some takeaway food, it won’t take long. Go back with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you roll your eyes at her teasing look.

“You'd better tell him that.”

And just like that, Nat leaves the room. You follow her as she grabs her jacket and leaves the apartment, leaving you and James the apartment key. When you turn around, you notice his gaze on your shoulder. Does it look that bad?

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll survive,” you joke lightly as you sit down on the edge of the couch.

It’s obvious that he's trying to say something but is restraining himself. You don't push him, you wait until he finally braces himself.

“I heard your conversation,” he explains quietly. “About the Red Room. I don't think escaping makes you a bad person. Especially if you already felt bad about it when you did it, it was just… survival.”

You fold your hands between your legs and stare at the floor for a few seconds. He's not wrong, but he's also far from being right. Just because you feel bad doesn't make you worthy of an apology from Natasha, or any other Widow you cowardly abandoned.

After thinking about it, and without even realizing it, your eyes are watery. Why were they? You haven’t cried in ages, the last time must have been at least 3 years ago.

“The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't. My guilt will not purify me,” you mutter through a half-forced smile and clouded eyes.

James’ gaze softens at the sight of your unshed tears. You don't know if his hands reach your face first or if you're the one to rest you're forehead against his chest but you end up in his arms nonetheless.

You hate the weakness in the slump of your shoulders but you also know you don't have to hide it from him. There aren't a lot of tears, and you quickly wipe them away.

“Before you were an assassin,” you sob, “you were Sergeant Bucky Barnes. I've never been anything else, I'm just… a Matryoshka doll.” He plants a kiss on your forehead, whispering to you to stop talking. “Below all the layers, an assassin. Nothing more.”

“There’s a lot more,” he contests. The Soldier feels a knot forming in his throat as he looks at her. He should despise her. Because she had a choice. She could've been a normal woman, lived a normal life. But she decided to be a killer. But he didn't hate her. He couldn't. “Below all the layers is someone who—” he cuts himself off when he hears his voice crack. “There is someone,” he tries again, hesitantly, “who saved me. Not only by helping me escape HYDRA, but also when I was trapped inside of it… You were, and still are, the reason I'm not scared of living. And if I were to lose you, I'd surely lose what's left of me.”

You swear you just heard your own heart shatter into a million pieces. Your dried tears leave their place to fresh ones as you purse your lips into a thin line, trying to quiet them. Blinking would make them fall on your cheeks, so you keep your eyes open and stare at him.

“You gave me a reason to stay alive,” you confess. “By saving you I’m saving myself.”

And just like that, Bucky feels a knot forming somewhere between his throat and his chest. That unspoken feeling crawls into the space between two tied souls who’d die if they were pulled apart.

back to my master list.

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thischubbydumpling · 2 days ago

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People who say "Women only like Bucky because he's played by Sebastian Stan and good-looking" are inexplicable to me. Have they actually spoken to any women? Ever?

Women like Bucky because he's female-coded. Women like Bucky because he's does't fit into traditional gender norms. He's not always in charge, in control, doesn't throw his weight around and doesn't use violence as a first resort.

Women like Bucky because his loss of autonomy and agency resonates with us in some way, but also his wish to regain that agency is aspirational.

Women like Bucky because a male character who speaks to the female experience is so rare.

(Also he's always polite and respectful to women and never objectifies them).

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thischubbydumpling · 2 days ago

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Accidentally on Purpose

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You barely have to touch Bucky to get him hard, and you decide to have some fun with it.

Word Count: Over 1.7k

Warnings: Dirty talk, grinding, dry humping, masturbation, implied unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), mention of oral sex (f. receiving), possessive behavior, bit of dom and sub vibes, bit of praise, slight feels, confident reader, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and sensitive thanks to the serum, okay?).

A/N: Inspired by a wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was an accident the first time it happened; a slight brush against Bucky when you squeezed between him and Yelena to walk down the hall.

“Excuse me,” you said, flashing a beautiful smile at Bucky when he went ramrod straight. He was thankful that you missed how comically wide his eyes were before you went on your way.

“Excuse me,” he repeated, bolting in the opposite direction before Yelena could stop him or say anything.

He had his hand down his pants the moment he was alone and it only took him picturing your beautiful smile again before he came, biting his lip and holding back a moan.

Having an erection was a natural reaction to stimulation, but one small touch from you and he practically erupted like a volcano. It was fucking ridiculous.

And it was all thanks to the serum.

It had enhanced his strength and senses, which helped in many situations. It was also a minor inconvenience since it made his cock more sensitive than he thought possible.

It wasn’t that he didn’t utilize mental and physical techniques to help maintain some sort of control, but his dick didn’t care about any of that when it involved you. He wanted you so badly that his cock straight to attention, begging to bury itself in one of your holes.

That was the reason why he tried not to touch you unless he had to. He didn’t want to freak you out.

What he didn’t know was that you knew exactly how he responded to you from that accidental brushing.

And you? Well, you fucking loved it.

“Hey, Bucky!” you called out from the kitchen sometime later. “You mind helping me for a sec?”

Like a dog ready to play fetch, he dropped whatever he was doing to join you. Of course, he tried to play it cool when he strolled into the kitchen.

His brain proceeded to shut down when he saw you by the stove wearing an apron and heels… and nothing else. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, the fabric covering everything he so desperately wanted to touch, and he couldn’t stop the blood from rushing to his cock.

You wiggled your fingers in a flirty wave and held yourself with such steady confidence that his knees went weak. Judging by your smirk, the tent he sported impressed you.

And, fuck, he could smell your arousal from where he stood. Sweet and tangy, he could taste it on his tongue, and he twitched with need.

“Is that for me?” you asked sweetly, pointing to his crotch before beckoning him over. “I sure hope so.”

Walking with a hard-on wasn’t easy, but he made it work so he could join you. “You… you want it?” he asked, dizzy from the way his blood kept flowing from his cock to his head and back again.

Before he could reach out and touch you, you positioned yourself between him and the stove. “I do,” you replied, his heart pounding in his ears. “And I don’t care who knows it.”

As much as Bucky wanted everyone to know, the possessive part of him didn’t want anyone to walk in and see you like this. “Really?”

“Really,” you smiled. That made his chest swell with pride. “But first things first…”

He gasped when you bent down, pretending to look into the oven as you pushed your hips back and gave him the perfect view of your ass. “Fuck…” he whimpered, holding onto you but making no move to stop you.

“You got hard when I brushed against you. It was an accident,” you explained, slowly grinding and getting the front of his pants all wet. “But this? This is all on purpose.”

“I was. You touched me and I almost saw fireworks,” he blurted out. He didn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed. “Fuck me.”

“We’ll get to that later,” you said, setting your rhythm and entrancing him. Was he dreaming? “How sensitive is that big cock of yours?”

Bucky inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. He wanted to take himself out and thrust so hard and deep into you that you’d scream. “It’s very sensitive.”

So sensitive that if you wrapped your lips around him or if he pushed into your warm pussy he’d lose all control. He wouldn’t always blow his load so quickly, but he knew it would happen.

You ground your hips a little harder. “The serum?” you guessed, moving like you were born to seduce him. “Is that why you’re always so close, but you don’t touch me?”

Bucky didn’t realize you noticed. He didn’t know that someone as amazing as you paid that much attention to him.

“Yeah,” he said through his teeth, trying to think of anything and everything so he wouldn’t let go. But you were there, wet and grinding on him, taking over his mind and senses.

“Do you get that hard with anyone else?” you asked, a hint of possessiveness in your tone that he seemed to like. Were you jealous at the idea of him getting instantly hard with someone else?

As much as he thought about teasing you, he didn’t want that to backfire. He could test that another time, if there was another time.

“Just you,” he admitted, flexing his fingers and bracing himself when you stopped moving. Why did you stop? “You’re the only one I want.”

It was there, out in the open, making the tension between you two so much thicker. It was beautiful relief and torture when you moaned and began to move again.

“That’s what I want to hear,” you said, giving him a sultry gaze over your shoulder. “And I want you to come in your pants for me.”

“You want me to…” His blown pupils almost drowned out the blue of his eyes. It was like you reached into his brain and pulled out one of his fantasies. “Do-”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘doll’, Bucky Barnes,” you ordered, stopping your hips again and making his breath stutter. “I’m not just a random girl, so you will give me a term of endearment that is special.”

“Please, don’t stop,” he whined, torn between maintaining control and letting it all go. His body felt so stiff and he needed that release. “I’ll think of something special,” he added hastily, but it was a promise.

You were right. You weren’t just some random girl, and you only deserved the best from him.

“Oh, I know you will because you’re a good man. You’re so good,” you cooed, drawing a needy moan from him when you moved again. You soaked his pants and he couldn’t believe he held on for as long as he had. “Do you need me? Need my tight wet pussy? Need me screaming your name?”

His vision nearly whited out and he swore under his breath. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. I need it,” he begged, but he still didn’t dare to move his hips and break your spell.

You bit your lip. “Then come for me,” you whispered loud enough for him to hear and pressed your hips back one more time.

His hoarse cry echoed in the kitchen, his body trembling from the intensity of his orgasm. His underwear was a sticky mess, his cock tingling and ready to go again when he registered you pulling away.

It took him a moment to come back to himself. Did that really happen, or did he simply imagine you wearing nothing but an apron and making him come in his pants?

You turned and glanced at the wet spot with a smile, appearing perfectly composed when you cupped his cheeks. “You know this means you’re mine now.”

He almost whined again. He was yours? You really wanted him?

His breath was shaky when you looked at his mouth and he stirred in his pants the second your lips met. You kissed him like you had been waiting your whole life to do so, like you’d never get the chance again.

The urge to put you on the island and eat your pussy like a starved man filled his mind. Maybe he could jerk off to the smell and taste of you while you gripped his hair like a lifeline.

He reached behind him to steady himself when you broke the kiss. “It means you’re mine, too,” he said, still catching his breath.

The thought of you doing that to anyone else or anyone else having you… No. He refused to imagine that.

You ran a finger along the wet spot and made him gasp. Your touch was sin wrapped in the package of a fallen angel. “I’ll be yours… once you get me off.”

You stepped out of reach and held a finger up when he tried to grab you. “I’ll get you off,” he promised. So why were you backing up more?

“I’m sure you will,” you said, turning and giving him a generous view of your ass again. “Oh, yeah. There’s nothing in the oven, so you don’t have to worry about sticking around here.”

He sensed that when he didn’t smell anything over the scent of your sweet cunt and gentle perfume. You put on a show just for him, and it flattered him.

“Wait,” he begged when you got to the doorway. He was ready to fall to his knees and beg you to come back. “Where are you going?”

“Well, unless you want someone to stroll in and see me like this, I’m going to hide while you think of a special pet name for me,” you said, winking over your shoulder. “Just follow the scent of my pussy once you’re ready to play some more.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. You were going to be the death of him, weren’t you? “Should I change first?” he asked, gesturing to his pants. “That’s up to you, but don’t keep me waiting long,” you answered, leaving one last parting shot before you left, “My pussy’s waiting for you to ruin it and I’d really hate to start without you.”

And once Bucky thought of that special pet name, he found you and ruined your pussy just like you wanted.