#enchanced!reader

It surged through you in an instant, stealing the air from your lungs, making your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. The sharp bite of a knife slicing through flesh. The suffocating grip of restraints against metal wrists. The echo of voices shouting commands in Russian, the chilling sensation of being stripped down to nothing but a weapon. The screams. The red star. Blood, so much blood—on his hands, on his soul, dripping onto snow-covered ground. The sensation of metal replacing flesh. Terror. Rage. Regret. The unbearable weight of loss.

You ripped your hand away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Bucky was staring at you, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, but his concern was genuine.

You force a smile. A lie. “Yeah. Just—just got a little dizzy.”

It’s the first of many lies.

You avoided touching him after that. It was difficult. Bucky's a tactile person, more than he realized. A hand on your back when guiding you through a crowded space. Sitting beside him on mission briefings, careful not to let your knees brush. You handed him files with your sleeves pulled over your fingers. You trained in the same room but always kept your distance. It was exhausting, this careful, deliberate avoidance, but you had no choice.

He was kind, in a quiet, unassuming way. He made you coffee in the mornings when you were both in the compound kitchen too early for anyone else to be awake. He told you about the books he had been reading when sleep didn't come. He listened when you talked, really listened, like what you were saying was the most important thing in the world.

He made you want things you shouldn’t.

But you knew what was inside him. You felt it. You felt him break, over and over again, and you didn't know how to hold that without breaking too.

Bucky wasn't just the things Hydra made him do. He wasn't just the broken memories and the pain. The way he always waited for you to enter a room first. The way he softened when he talked to Sam’s nephews. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

He remembered things about you, little things you barely noticed about yourself. And it terrified you because you were falling for him.

And worse? He was falling for you, too.

“You don’t like touching me.”

You froze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. You were both sitting in the compound’s common area, the glow of the city outside casting long shadows across the floor.

“I don’t like touching anyone,” you corrected.

Bucky didn’t look convinced.

"Steve told me you have some kind of.. gift or whatever he called it." He huffed.

"A gift," you shook your head. It was all but a gift. "i can see.. and feel... memories of a person, whenever I touch them."

“What did you see, when you shook my hand that first time?” Bucky questioned, not knowing if he really wanted to hear the answer.

You hesitated. He deserved an explanation, an answer, but how could you explain something like this? How could you tell him that touching him had nearly broken you? That you’d spent weeks trying to separate your own thoughts from the pain you’d absorbed? That even now, sometimes, you woke up gasping, ice spreading through your veins, memories that weren’t yours pressing against your skull? He didn't deserve that. After all he'd been through.

"You were quite a skirt-chaser back in the day." You shrugged, hoping he'd let go of the topic.

Bucky let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what you saw?”

You forced a smile, lifting your cup to your lips. “That’s what I’m telling you I saw.”

You weren’t sure if he was buying it, but either way, he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, stretching his metal arm along the back of it, close but not touching.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I might’ve been a flirt, but I was always a gentleman.”

You raised a brow. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked. “Always asked for a dance first.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “How chivalrous.”

Bucky chuckled, but you could feel the shift in the air. He hadn’t forgotten your deflection. The momentary ease between you wasn’t enough to erase the unspoken weight of his question.

What did you see?

What did you feel?

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

The ice-cold metal of an operating table. The burn of a shock collar. The sting of a fresh wound being ignored, a voice barking orders in Russian. The absolute, gut-wrenching terror of realizing—over and over—that you weren’t in control of your own body.

And beneath it all, buried so deep it nearly went unnoticed—loneliness. A yearning for something, someone, anyone to remind him he wasn’t just a weapon.

You couldn’t tell him that.

So instead, you clung to the lighter pieces, the moments before the pain, before the war. The golden haze of 1940s Brooklyn, the warmth of laughter, the way the air used to hum with the promise of something better.

“Steve always said I was a pain in the ass back then,” Bucky mused, snapping you back to the present.

You glanced at him, offering a small smile. “Some things never change.”

That made him laugh, real and genuine this time, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lightened.

The next few days were a blur of subtle moments, quiet exchanges, and the uncomfortable tension that lingered between you and Bucky. You tried to keep your distance, pretending that everything was fine, but the truth was far harder to swallow.

Every time Bucky walked into the room, the pull was undeniable. You’d find your gaze drawn to him, and when he caught your eye, you’d quickly look away, as if your body was betraying you, desperate for something you couldn’t have.

And then there were the little things—the way his presence seemed to fill the space around him, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like he was trying to break through some invisible barrier that you’d put up.

You didn’t want to feel that pull. You couldn’t afford to. Because no matter how much your heart ached to close the distance between you and him, you knew the consequences.

That afternoon, when you were leaving the training room, you almost collided with Bucky in the hallway. He stepped back just in time, his eyes flashing with surprise as you tried to regain your balance.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice low but steady, his hand brushing your arm to steady you.

You froze. The moment his fingers made contact with your skin, everything came rushing back. The sharp pain of a bullet slicing through muscle, the flash of a bomb exploding too close, the heartache of losing everything that had ever mattered. The memories of the wars he’d fought, of the things he’d been forced to do, filled your mind so quickly you barely had time to breathe.

You pulled away instinctively, your body trembling, your chest tightening as you fought to keep it together.

“I—I’m sorry,” you gasped, avoiding his eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you might just break, and you couldn’t do that. Not with him. Not when you already knew the kind of pain he carried inside him.

Bucky took a step forward, his expression softening as he reached out, his hand hovering just shy of yours. “You’re not okay,” he said quietly, his voice full of concern. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head, willing the storm inside you to settle. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just… tired. Long day.”

Before either of you could say anything more Steve appeared at the end of the hallway, calling out to Bucky.

“You coming, Barnes?”

Bucky hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer, as if he was torn between walking away and staying.

Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said to Steve, before turning back to you. “We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

You noded and you couldn’t breathe until he was gone.

The next day, Bucky found you in the courtyard, sitting by yourself, your eyes distant as you stared at the horizon. He walked up slowly, as though unsure of how to approach you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a free country.”

Bucky settled next to you anyway, the quiet between you comfortable for a moment, but not for long. He was too aware of everything. Too aware of you.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice low.

You shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His tone softened, and you finally turned to meet his eyes.

“I told you, I don’t like touch. And it’s not something I can just turn off. And it's hard to be around you... when all I want to do is touch you, for you to touch me, kiss me..”

You got up on your feet but before you could turn, you felt the weight of his hand on your arm, gentle, but firm. Your breath caught, heart pounding in your chest. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the icy remnants of war that had scarred him, but you still felt the sharpness of his past pressing against you like a shadow.

You looked down at his hand, at the way his fingers barely brushed your sleeve. It was a simple gesture, but to you, it was more than that. It was the invitation. The risk. The question you both had been dancing around.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sudden wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. But when you met his eyes, the vulnerability there, the honest want for connection, it nearly broke you.

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to stop, to keep him at arm’s length, but something inside you shifted, and you found yourself taking a step closer, just enough for your fingers to brush against his.

The world tilted.

The memories flooded you—faster, sharper this time. The face of a man who wasn’t quite Bucky anymore, wasn’t quite the soldier he’d been. The ache of betrayal, the desperate longing for redemption. The faces of people he’d loved and lost, the quiet rage of a man who had been turned into a weapon and was still trying to find his humanity.

Your chest tightened as the memories crashed over you, and you gasped, pulling your hand away, stumbling back like you’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice ragged. “I—I can’t…”

Bucky’s face twisted, a flash of pain crossing his features “I’m sorry if I—”

You hated the fake pretense. The political chatter, the deals and transactions veiled in honeyed words. But what you hated more was the way your heart beat a little faster each time your eyes met Bucky’s. The way yoy wanted to forget the truth behind the touch of his hand, the memories that would always haunt you, that you could never escape.

It was after you’d both moved through the crowd, gathering intelligence, that Bucky’s gaze found you across the room. His lips quirked upward.

Before you could look away, he was at your side, his presence sweeping over you like a tidal wave, suffocating and comforting at once.

“Wanna dance?” His voice was low, calm, like he was making a casual suggestion.

Your stomach twisted. Dancing meant touching, and touching meant memories. The last time you'd brushed your fingers against his skin, you'd been thrust into a whirlwind of horrors that almost shattered you—wars, pain, isolation.

“Bucky, I—” You hesitated, your voice faltering. Your heart was already in your throat. "We need to stay focused. The mission—"

“I’m aware,” he interrupted, the steel in his tone only half-veiled by his casual smile. “But if we're going to make this look convincing, we’ll have to get close. And you are wearing gloves... thought they'd stop you from seeing or feeling things.”

Your breath caught in your throat as he reached for your hand. For a moment, you debated pulling away, but you knew it would raise suspicion. Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his. The warmth of his touch sent an immediate ripple of tension through your body, but the second his fingers closed around yours, you froze. Gloves helped, memories weren't as vivid as they were the first time, yet the feeling of them still lingered somewhere in the back of your mind.

"Focus on me," his voice broke through the haze in your mind. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, a gentle motion that grounded you, kept you tethered to the present. “Focus on this moment. Just the two of us.”

Yoy looked up into his eyes, finding them softer now, the playful edge replaced with something deeper, something that made your chest tighten.

The music swelled around you, a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to match the beat of your own heart. Reluctantly, you let yourself be swept along.

As he led you across the floor, his hand never leaving the small of your back, you couldn’t ignore the warmth of his touch, the way your body reacted to him, the way he made you feel more alive than anything else.

But as you danced, one thing became clear. The line between you and him was starting to blur.

And in that moment, you realized you were falling in love with the man who was both a stranger and someone you knew better than anyone.

"How are you holding up?" Bucky asked, his breath warm on your skin.

You stiffened at the question, the warmth of his hand on your back sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m fine,” you lied, but the tremble in your voice gave you away.

He pulled you in a little tighter, his hand settling at the small of your back, his chest brushing yours with every step.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he said, so quietly you could barely hear him over the music.

You swallowed thickly, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry, to scream, to pull away. But instead, you nodded, your fingers clinging to him, your chest aching with the weight of everything that had come before you, and everything that might come between you.

"I know," you whispered, "But I can’t keep doing this, Bucky. Not when it feels like I’m drowning in your past."

"I can’t stay away from you."

The music swelled around you both, but it felt distant, like the world had narrowed to just the two of you in that moment. The weight of Bucky’s words hung heavy in the air, and despite every rational thought screaming at you to walk away, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

You let your gaze slip up to meet his.

You shook your head, trying to focus on the present, to anchor yourself in the here and now. The memories of his past swirled just beneath the surface, and the longer you stayed close to him, the harder it became to keep them at bay. His pain was still there, in every line of his face, in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hand rested on your back like he was afraid you’d slip away.

"Every time I touch you, I feel it all—the weight of everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been through. I can’t bear it, Bucky.”

His expression faltered, and you saw the flash of regret, of guilt, cross his features. “I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want to drag you into this.” His voice trembled. Bucky leaned in, his lips grazing against your forehead in a gentle, almost hesitant kiss, like he was testing the waters—afraid of the flood of emotions that might follow.

You felt a new layer, something you hadn’t expected. A tenderness, something fragile and human. You could feel his fear, yes, but you also felt the love he was capable of. The longing. The need to protect, to be seen, to not be alone.

You blinked, trying to pull yourself together, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.

His forehead rested against yours, and for a moment, you let everything else fade away—the mission, the pain, the history that weighed you both down.

“I can’t stay away from you, either,” you whispered.

“I don’t know what we’re doing here,” he admitted quietly. “But I can’t stop wanting to be close to you.”

The music faded entirely, but you were no longer aware of the room, the people, the mission. All that mattered in that moment was the way he held you, the way you felt safe despite everything.

The night had stretched on, its quiet hum now almost deafening. The mission was over, and the city outside the hotel room window was nothing more than a blur of lights, its life continuing on without a care for the world you both were trying to keep hidden from it.

You were alone in the room with Bucky, and the weight of the silence between you felt heavier than any mission brief you’d ever read. The door was locked. The lights were dimmed. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the corner, the faint sound of his breathing, the sound of your own heart racing.

Bucky was standing by the bed, his arms crossed loosely in front of him, his eyes flickered over you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your skin. He was trying to read you—trying to figure out if you were ready, if you wanted this. His fingers flexed before he stepped closer, kneeling in front of you as he reached for your hand.

Slowly, so slowly, he took off your gloves. His fingers brushing against yours, as soft as he could manage.

"I can’t keep pretending like nothing’s there.” he whispered, his fingers twingling with yours.

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding in your chest.

A battlefield, smoke curling from the ruins of what was once a city. Gunfire, screams, the bite of metal and blood staining the air.

Then another scene—this time in a dark room, the sound of chains scraping against cold stone. Bucky, no longer the man he was, was shackled and helpless, his body broken, mind twisted by memories of wars and men who had forgotten what it meant to be human.

The memories, the feelings—the weight of everything he had suffered—crashed into you. Every moment of pain, of fear, of loss, was yours now too. You felt it all, as if it had happened to you.

But then... something else crept in.

It was fleeting, like a whisper through a storm. It was him. The real Bucky. The man who had loved and been loved, who had fought for redemption, who had learned to smile again even though the world had taken so much from him. And somehow, amid all the pain, he had found a way to be more than just the Winter Soldier.

“I’m not sure I can be what you need,” you whispered, unsure if you were speaking to him or to yourself.

Bucky gently cupped your cheek, his touch tender, but there was something beneath it—something urgent. He was fighting something, too. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his breath hitched.

“You’re everything I need,” he murmured. His thumb brushed over your skin, a gesture that was almost too soft, too gentle for the man who had seen everything.

Your heart ached at his words. There was so much more to him than the man who knelt in front of you—more than the haunted eyes and the burden he carried. And there was so much more to you than the fear of getting close, of letting someone in. The world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you in that small, dimly lit room.

You couldn’t fight it anymore.

You closed the gap between you, your hands finding their way to his chest. His heart was beating beneath your palm, and you could feel the rawness in it, the way it raced in anticipation. Bucky’s breath caught as you slowly leaned to kiss him, your lips brushing against his, the moment your lips met, everything else faded away. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss as if he’d been waiting for this moment, too.

His lips were firm against yours, but his touch was careful, as though he was afraid you might break beneath his hands. It was a slow burn—gradual, tender, like both of you were hesitant to take that final step, but neither of you were able to hold back any longer.

Bucky’s hands roamed to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, feeling the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. He groaned softly at the feeling, his mouth trailing down to your neck, kissing you gently, as though savoring every inch of you.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough and low, lips brushing your skin.

You nodded, unable to find the words. You reached for the buttons of your shirt, your fingers trembling slightly as you undid them one by one. His eyes followed your movements, his gaze darkening with each step, but he didn’t move. He was waiting for you.

When your shirt finally slipped off, he inhaled sharply, his hands immediately finding your shoulders, gently tracing the curve of your collarbone. His touch was reverent, like you were something fragile, something precious. Maybe you were both fragile in this moment, standing at the edge of something neither of you could control.

You reached for him, unbuttoning his shirt with the same hesitant urgency. The moment your hands brushed against his chest, you felt the faintest flicker of memories from him—his pain, his darkness—but you didn’t let it overwhelm you. Instead, you focused on the man in front of you, the one who was here, now. You pushed his shirt off, your hands exploring the muscles beneath, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper, more desperate. His hands cupped your face as if he needed to hold on to you, afraid of letting go, afraid of this connection slipping away. You leaned into him, your hands sliding to the waistband of his pants. You hesitated, but he helped you, his movements slow and deliberate as he undressed you, taking his time as if savoring the moment.

Bucky’s gaze softened as he looked at you, and in his eyes, you saw everything—the weight of his past, the fear of not being enough, the longing for something real.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

You could feel the heat between you, a connection so strong it almost overwhelmed you.

You reached for him, pulling him into a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and filled with everything neither of you had said yet.

His hands slid down your back, tracing every curve, and when he pulled you closer, you felt him—felt everything he was. The kiss deepened, and he gently guided you, both of you sinking into the softness of the sheets. It was like the world had stopped, like nothing existed outside of the two of you in that moment.

Bucky kissed you again, his touch almost worshipful as he took his time, never rushing, never forcing anything. He was careful, patient. And you, too, were patient, letting go of the doubts, the fears, the weight of the memories, allowing yourself to feel him, to be with him.

When he finally entered you, it was slow, almost tentative, as if testing the waters once more. You gasped, your breath catching as your bodies finally aligned, finally fitting together in a way you never thought possible. The world outside ceased to exist, and all that remained was the overwhelming closeness between you both, the physical and emotional connection that bound you together in that moment.

And when it was over, when the world slowly came back into focus, you lay there in his arms, your bodies tangled together.

And for the first time ever, you could control what memories and feelings you absorbed.

Peace.

Happiness.

Love.

Note: This is the end for this storyline. For now. I might make a twist on things sometime in the future.

Thank you for reading.