#wakanda

You left books by his door. Sat nearby during meals without pushing conversation. You offered him simple things—tea, an extra blanket, help braiding his hair when it fell into his face during sparring. Sometimes he accepted. Sometimes he didn’t. But you never forced it. You let the silence grow soft between you.

Eventually, he began walking with you in the mornings.

Then he started sitting near you during evening meals.

He still didn’t talk much, but his presence shifted—just slightly. Less rigid. Like his muscles had stopped bracing for impact. Like he was finally letting the quiet sink in.

And somewhere between the long silences and careful smiles, a rhythm formed.

You stopped seeing him as an assignment.

And he started looking at you like a tether. Something grounding. Familiar.

Something safe.

That’s what tonight was supposed to be. Just another quiet evening. Another layer of slow trust.

You made dinner—something simple with vegetables from the garden, rice soaked in ginger broth—and he came to your quarters without you asking. He always did now. He never knocked anymore.

You sat close on the floor cushions afterward, sipping tea and listening to the rain as it whispered against the window panes. You’d put on a movie for background noise—something old and grainy, all velvet tones and longing stares—but neither of you had been watching.

You were too aware of him.

The weight of his thigh near yours. The fall of his hair over his cheek. The scarred line where his metal arm used to be, shadowed by the low flicker of lamplight.

And then—

His hand brushed yours.

Fleeting. Unintended.

But it lingered.

And that was when you knew: something had changed.

It wasn’t in his posture—he still sat stiffly beside you, legs pulled up, red tunic falling loosely around the slope of his shoulder. It wasn’t in his breathing, though that had gone quiet, shallow. It was in his stillness.

Bucky only got still like that when something in him was breaking.

The movie flickered across the wall, all forgotten dialogue and soft music. You sat cross-legged, a mug of now-cold tea cradled in your hands, and you could feel the weight of him beside you. Tense. Heavy. Waiting.

And then, softly—like he wasn’t sure if the words were real or not—

“I want to touch you.”

You blinked.

Your head turned slowly to face him, and his blue eyes were already on you, wide and glassy and afraid. Like the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

“Bucky,” you said gently. “What do you mean?”

He flinched. You felt it ripple through him, a shudder just beneath the surface of skin. He sat up straighter, pulled his knees in a little tighter. Like he was preparing to run. Or disappear.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

“No,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut down. Talk to me.”

“I just—” He looked away. His jaw clenched. “I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

You reached for him slowly, not touching until you were sure he wouldn’t flinch—and when you rested your hand on his arm, his only arm, he froze.

Not pulling away.

Not leaning in.

Just still.

The fabric beneath your hand was soft and worn from countless washings, still warm from his skin. You felt the tension beneath it. Felt how tightly he held himself together.

“Where?” you asked plainly.

“What?” Bucky’s voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed. “Where do you want to touch me?”

Then, he turned his head toward you. His eyes flicked up, searching your face like he didn’t believe this was real. And then—without a word—they dropped to your lips.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

“Oh,” you whispered, the word catching softly in your throat. “Oh.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

You leaned in slowly—so slowly he could’ve stopped you a dozen times—and you kissed him.

It was soft at first. Barely there. A test. A question. But then he answered.

He pressed back with a quiet desperation, the barest tremble running through his lips. His hand came up—not sure where to go, not quite touching you—and then dropped back down to his lap, like he didn’t trust himself. You shifted closer, let your fingers slide up the side of his neck, into his hair. He gasped, and the sound shot straight through you.

The kiss deepened.

His breath hitched, and you could feel the way his body reacted, the way he leaned toward you like it was involuntary.

When you finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes fluttered open, dazed.

“Is that what you meant?” you asked.

He nodded, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

“Was that your first kiss since…?” you asked gently.

He nodded again, slower this time.

You cupped his face with both hands, warm and steady. “It was nice.”

Bucky’s cheeks flushed crimson. “Okay.”

“I thought…” You paused, hands now folding in your lap, unsure how to finish the sentence without breaking the spell. “I didn’t think you were interested.”

That caught his attention. You’d positioned it like it was something you’d considered before. Something you’d thought about.

His brow furrowed, lashes sweeping low, lips parting with a breath you weren’t sure he’d meant to release.

“Interested?” he echoed, voice faint.

You gave a gentle, awkward shrug. “I just mean… you never said anything. Never looked at me like that. I thought you didn’t—”

“I did,” he interrupted, and then flinched at his own urgency. His cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable pink.

“I do,” he corrected, quieter now. “I just… I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

You stared at him for a moment, stunned by the fragility of his voice. The way he looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

“Bucky…” you whispered, breath catching.

He shook his head, not in disagreement, but like he was trying to shake something loose. Shame, maybe. Fear. Whatever tightly-wound thread had kept him holding back until now.

“I didn’t mean to confuse you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a shaky hand. “I just—I’ve been quiet so long I forgot how to ask for what I want. And with you… I was afraid if I said something, it would ruin this. Whatever this is. I mean, it’s probably nothing. I just overthink. I’m so used to being in my own head all the time. I know Steve sent you to watch me… and that I’m just an assignment to you. I’m so stupid, I—”

“Bucky, stop.”

You looked at him, really looked. The slope of his shoulders under the red tunic, the way he held himself like he was always bracing for rejection. You’d known him long enough to understand the signs. He didn’t trust easily, not even himself.

“Do you really think I would’ve pushed you away?” you asked, gently.

He hesitated. Then nodded. A tiny, reluctant motion.

And there it was—the heart of him, cracked open in a single gesture.

Because this was the version of Bucky that few ever saw. Not the assassin. Not the ghost Steve mourned or the asset Hydra forged. But the man in-between. The one still learning how to occupy his own skin. The one who watched your hands when you spoke, not to scan for weapons, but because he liked the way you moved. The one who hadn’t touched anyone in years—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t believe he deserved to.

He was confident once, you knew that. You’d read the files. The charming kid from Brooklyn who could smooth-talk his way into any bar or out of any fight. The man who’d winked at nurses and swaggered into battle like death had no teeth. But confidence was a muscle, and war had atrophied it. Hydra had severed it completely.

Now he was relearning. Piece by piece. Hesitant. Vulnerable.

But still—he was trying.

“I didn’t think you’d want someone like me,” he said suddenly, gaze fixed on the floor. “Not when I’m like this. No arm. All this history. All these… cracks.”

You moved before you could think, reaching for him. Your hand found his knee, grounding, steady.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re not broken.”

He glanced up. Just barely. His throat bobbed.

“I don’t feel whole,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said. “You don’t have to be whole for me to care about you.”

He exhaled then—like a storm letting go of the wind. His hand reached for yours again, trembling less this time.

“Every time you touched me,” he murmured, “I wanted more. Even if it was just the brush of your hand or the nudge of your shoulder… I… I felt it everywhere.”

You brushed your thumb across the back of his fingers, voice barely audible.

“Then take more.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

So you leaned in, kissed him again—gently, slowly, no pressure.

And this time, he didn’t pull back.

He leaned into it.

Opened his mouth under yours with a small, aching noise that shot heat straight down your spine. His hand curled into the fabric at your waist, tugging you a little closer, still unsure but needing something—needing you.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter how long he’d been silent. Or how many pieces he still hadn’t put back together.

Right here, with the soft press of his lips and the low, desperate catch in his throat—

He was present.

He was real.

And he was yours to hold.

He kissed you like he was afraid it wouldn’t happen again.

Slow, aching, breathless—like the taste of your lips was something he’d memorised in dreams but never believed he’d actually have. His hand—his only hand—moved from your waist to your side, unsure, then back again, like he didn’t know where to keep it. The fabric of your shirt bunched under his fingers.

You deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to part his lips and let your tongue brush his, and that was all it took—he gasped, a soft, guttural sound that punched from his chest and made your body tighten in response. His mouth chased yours before he realised it, breath stuttering.

His cheeks flushed instantly. “Shit—sorry—”

“Don’t be,” you whispered against his lips. “You’re doing perfect.”

That praise nearly broke him.

He looked dazed. His eyes were glassy, lashes fluttering, lips pink from kissing. You could see the war behind them—this tug-of-war between instinct and shame, between want and permission. His thighs were pressed together, rigid, and he kept shifting his hips like he couldn’t not chase friction.

“Can I…” he asked hoarsely, voice low, forehead almost touching yours. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, and he exhaled, like that one word cost him everything.

His palm slid beneath your shirt—bare skin to bare skin. Hesitant. Reverent. You felt the pads of his fingers trace along your ribs, the heel of his hand trembling as he moved higher. You kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the scarred edge of his neck. His hips jerked at that, and you felt the way his cock pressed against the inside of his pants—hard, twitching, aching.

“Fuck—sorry—I didn’t mean to—” He was already panting, already flustered, eyes wide and overwhelmed.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “It’s okay. Don’t apologise. That’s your body telling you what it wants.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “I haven’t wanted like this in so long,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not where it was mine to feel.”

Your heart cracked right open.

You climbed into his lap without thinking, straddling him gently, careful not to overwhelm. His breath hitched—sharply. His thighs tensed beneath you, his head falling back just slightly as your weight settled in his lap.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah—please.”

You cupped his face and kissed him again. This time he kissed back with more urgency, his lips parting beneath yours, his breathing already quickening. You let your hips shift, just a little — the barest drag of your body over his.

The sound he made was devastating. A low, desperate moan that caught halfway in his throat, as if it surprised him.

You did it again, slower this time. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“Feels good?” you murmured.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressing to yours. “Too good.”

You smiled against his mouth. “That’s the point.”

You rocked against him again, and the friction was undeniable — the heat of his body through the thin barrier of his pants, the way he shifted up into you instinctively. Each small grind pulled a different sound from him: a sharp inhale, a broken whimper, a soft curse under his breath.

“God—” he gasped, his voice rough and breathless. His hips twitched, chasing you without thought.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

His blush deepened, his jaw going slack as you moved against him in a slow, steady rhythm. You kept the pressure constant, the pace gentle, enough to let him sink into it without fear. But his body was already betraying him — trembling thighs, shallow breaths, the faintest, uncontrollable jerks of his hips beneath you.

“Fuck, I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t—”

You rolled your hips again, slower but harder this time, and his head tipped back against the cushions. A choked sound escaped him, high and helpless.

“Bucky,” you breathed, lips brushing his ear. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

His hand fisted in the fabric at your hip. “I—shit—no, I’m—”

“Let go,” you murmured, your voice firm and warm at once. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

That broke him.

He gasped — a ragged, desperate sound — and his hips jerked up into you in short, stuttering thrusts. The warmth spread quickly between you as he came, his whole body trembling violently. A strangled whimper caught in his throat as he buried his face in your shoulder, trying to hide.

You stayed with him, moving your hand to the back of his neck, holding him through every shudder.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good boy. So good for me.”

He was shaking.

His arm curled around you, fingers digging into your back, holding you like he was scared you’d vanish. His voice was wrecked against your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t think—”

You shushed him softly, stroking his hair.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured. “You needed that. Didn’t you?”

He nodded. Slowly. Breath still catching in his throat.

“I didn’t think it would feel that good,” he admitted, voice ragged. “I didn’t think I was allowed to have that anymore.”

“You’re allowed,” you said, pulling back to look him in the eye. “You’re allowed to want. You’re allowed to feel. It doesn’t make you weak.”

His eyes brimmed with something heavy. Gratitude. Relief. Grief.

You kissed his forehead.

“Next time,” you whispered, “we take our time. And I show you just how good it can be.”

He let out a small, wrecked noise in response. Something between a breath and a sob, though it never fully formed. You could feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin, the heat of his cheeks blooming pink under the dim golden light.

“I didn’t mean to make a mess,” he said quietly.

You kept stroking your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic.

“I like the mess,” you murmured. “It means you let go.”

He shivered—full-body—and you realised just how much he’d been holding in. Not just tonight. All of it. The months of silence. The years of suppression. The tight, angry coil of shame that wrapped around every thread of pleasure and told him he wasn’t allowed to want.

You leaned back slightly and cupped his jaw, gently guiding him to look at you.

His eyes were glassy. Red-rimmed. He looked undone in the most beautiful way.

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed,” you said, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Not with me.”

“I’m not used to… this,” he whispered. “Being touched like I matter.”

You felt it like a punch to the heart.

“You do matter,” you said, firm and low. “You’re not just something Hydra made. You’re not a soldier, or a weapon. You’re James Buchanan Barnes and you deserve softness.”

His throat bobbed.

Then—so quietly it nearly broke you—he asked:

“Can I stay here?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Of course you can.”

He exhaled shakily, and you could tell he was trying to keep it together. That old Winter Soldier reflex: contain, suppress, control. But it was slipping. He was raw and unguarded, and that was okay.

You kissed the side of his head. “C’mere.”

You helped him shift out from under you slowly, guiding him down to lay across the cushions. You tugged a soft blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his waist, then curled beside him, pulling his head into your chest. His arm wrapped around your torso automatically, instinctive, and the sound he made when you carded your fingers through his hair again was devastating—like he didn’t know people were allowed to be touched like that.

Like he hadn’t known until now that he needed it.

You scratched lightly at his scalp, whispered quiet affirmations as his breathing slowly steadied. Every once in a while, he’d whisper your name—not asking anything, not expecting a response. Just saying it. Holding onto it.

As if your name was the only anchor he had in a body that finally, finally belonged to him again.

You held him until he drifted off in your arms.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

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