Bucky X Reader - Blog Posts

Loving how they used the comic design for the new red star ⭐

HE NAKEYYY🤺

Spicy Brownies

18+ 

High Bucky x reader 

Remember Spicy Plants ? Here’s spicy brownies. Welcome to another crack fic. 

Imagine the first time Bucky tries edibles. He knew they would hit differently than smoking but he didn’t think much would happen so he had another. Then another. He was a super solider so he’d be fine. So he had one more. 

He was fine.

He was totally and completely fine. 

“Y/N!”

“Y/N Y/N Y/N!!”

“Oh my GOD!”

You and Steve sat in the living room, giving each other panicked looks hearing Bucky yelling from your shared bedroom. You both sprinted to the elevator and ran down the hall, bursting through the door, unsure of what was going on. 

“What is it Buck- oh my god” 

“What the hell…” Steve blinked, slowly backing away while you cocked your head to the side, observing a very naked Bucky looking at the mirror. 

“He nakeyyyy” Bucky whispered, staring at himself in the mirror wide eyed, cupping his own cheeks in utter shock. “Y/n, there’s a naked man in our room” 

Keep reading

I need to be his controversialy young girlfriend 🏌🏻

babydoll ⋆.𐙚 ̊

cw: age gap

He feels like a creep. Plain and simple. Bucky knows that any woman would be considered “younger”, but you just take the cake. He momentarily feels how hot hell is when you delicately push his hair to the side, clipping in into place with pastel beret. The rest of it gathered into a cutesy scrunchie. “Okay, this one is for wrinkles.” You say, clambering onto his lap. His girl isn’t the most graceful.

The bottle makes him grimace, but the feel of your cute butt in his lap makes it tolerable. He has wrinkles older than you—yikes. “It smells.” He grumbles as he feels you rub skincare product into his skin. “It’s supposed to be lilies!” You say lightly patting his cheek. “This is stupid.” He deadpans, he wraps his arms around your middle when you loop your arms around his shoulders. “It’s not stupid, you’ll thank me someday mister.” You chide very seriously, yelping when he smacks your side. It’s not fair, when you pout like that he wants to kiss you senseless. “Don’t call me mister, ‘m not some stranger you little brat.” He grumbles, being particularly gentle as he slides his cool metal arm under your shirt, just over your tummy. “Sorry baby.” You croon, taking the moment to steal a kiss.

His mental crisis is not helped by the pet name. Baby? If anything you’re the baby here, he gives you a look, it makes you laugh. He finds you to be soothing. You’re a modern woman sure, but those little pj’s you have on with your hair all done up in rollers make him remember a simpler time. He’ll deal with the weird glances whenever you two walk down the street together. He’s not embarrassed anymore to pad over and ask you whatever slang word he’s picked up while people watching. Best of all, he’s finally stopped being stubborn about using his reading glasses to read your texts and see all the cute little selfies you send him.

You pat lotion into his skin, and smile at him. He kisses you, scratching you with stubble. It’s a welcomed itch. When you pull away and kiss the tip of his nose he can’t help but squeeze you. You make him want to smother you. It’s the same when you hear a kitten mew or a baby coo. He likes the feeling. He likes you.

a/n: its almost been an entire month LOL anyways… i think dating a woman under the age of 35 would send bucky into crisis mode and make him feel like a total scumbag (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

credit to @aquazero for dividers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

---

Y/N sat on the rooftop, knees drawn up to her chest, a thick hoodie wrapped around her. The stars were faint, blurred by the city lights in the distance, but still visible if you looked hard enough. She liked it here—above everything, where the air was just a little colder and a little clearer. Where she could breathe.

She didn’t expect to hear footsteps. But she knew whose they were and her heart began to beat faster, her cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. 

“I figured I’d find you up here,” Bucky said, his voice low, carrying just enough to reach her without shattering the quiet.

She didn’t turn around right away. “Can’t sleep either?”

He chuckled, sitting beside her. “Do I ever?”

She glanced at him. He was in a black Henley, sleeves pushed up, metal arm glinting faintly under the moonlight. He looked tired—but softer. Like maybe he found a kind of peace in the stillness too.

“I like the quiet,” she said after a while. “When everything slows down.”

“Yeah.” His gaze followed hers, out toward the faint skyline. “Me too. It's easier to think.”

“To feel?” she asked, careful with the question.

Bucky looked at her then. Really looked. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That too.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was warm. Safe.

“You don’t have to talk,” Y/N said, resting her head on her knees. “Not if it hurts. But if you ever do... I’ll be here.”

A breath left him—soft, like it took weight with it. Then, after a beat, he reached out and wrapped his metal hand gently around hers.

It was cool, careful, but steady.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“The news?” Y/N questioned. 

“Yea…I just can’t believe that Sam would give up Steve’s shield like that.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment. “Do you think maybe he’s just not ready?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just continued to stare ahead. “I just- it makes me think that if Steve was wrong about Sam then maybe he was wrong about me.” 

Y/N turned her body towards Bucky. She reached out and grabbed ahold of his hand-the flesh one- and squeezed it. “Please don’t say that. I didn’t know Steve and don’t know Sam but I’m sure Steve knew what he was doing when he gave Sam that shield. He also was not wrong about you, Bucky. I’ve known you for a few months and you’ve been nothing but kind to me. I mean sure maybe you can be a little grumpy but you’ve never made me feel threatened or uncomfortable.” 

Bucky looked at Y/N. “Grumpy?”

Y/N chuckled and gave him a playful smack on his arm. “Only a little and only sometimes.” 

Bucky’s hand brushed gently against Y/N’s, the faintest touch sparking something quiet and familiar between them. Neither moved away. Instead, their hands lingered, fingertips grazing in a silent understanding—an unspoken comfort that had settled between them like second nature.

----

The last of the customers trickled out of the bar, their laughter fading into the night as the door clicked shut behind them. Y/N made her way to the front, fingers brushing against the slightly smudged glass as she flipped the sign to Closed, the quiet of the empty room settling around her like a soft exhale. It had been a long shift—steady, a little chaotic at times—but now all that remained was the comforting rhythm of cleanup before she could head home, curl up on the couch, lose herself in a feel-good movie, and dig into some well-earned takeout.

But just as she turned to grab a rag from behind the bar, the front door creaked open again. The bell gave a soft chime as it swung closed, and Y/N instinctively pivoted, ready to let the late straggler know they were done for the night.

The words caught in her throat.

A slow, surprised smile bloomed across her face when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, his frame slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure he should be there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. There was something uncertain in his eyes, the kind of vulnerability that made Y/N’s heart squeeze just a little.

“Hey,” she greeted softly, drying her hands on a towel. “How did you know where I worked?”

He gave a small shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that almost resembled a smirk. “I have my ways.”

That earned a quiet laugh from her, but the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, familiar. He made his way over to the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down with a quiet sigh, resting his arms on the counter. His fingers traced absent patterns on the worn wood, eyes downcast.

Y/N turned back to her cleaning, though her movements had slowed. She kept stealing glances at him, watching the way he sat so still, like he was trying to sort through a storm in his head. She wanted to ask if he was okay, the words right on the edge of her lips. But instead, she waited—giving him space, hoping he’d let her in on his own terms.

“I know that look,” Y/N said gently, glancing over at him as she wiped down the last bit of the counter. “Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”

Bucky shook his head almost too quickly, eyes darting away. “Nope. Nothing’s wrong.”

She didn’t push, just gave him a quiet, knowing look. “Alright. I’m almost done here, then we can head out.”

He gave a small nod, the kind that said he was grateful she wasn’t pressing him. Y/N tucked the last few bottles back into place, the clinking of glass the only sound between them. Then she bent to grab her bag from beneath the bar, slinging it over her shoulder with a tired but content sigh.

As they stepped outside, the night air wrapped around them—cool, crisp, and a little biting. She grinned, nudging him playfully. “So… did you really come all the way down here just to walk me home from work?”

Bucky’s lips twitched with a trace of a smile. “Maybe.”

A chill danced up her spine, and she shivered without meaning to. Bucky noticed immediately. Without a word, he tugged off his hoodie and held it out to her. She blinked in surprise, hesitated for a second, then took it. As she pulled it on, the sleeves hanging long over her hands, she caught the scent of him—clean soap, leather, and something warm that was just him. It made her chest ache in the sweetest way.

“I was thinking we could grab something to eat,” he said casually, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “Or… whatever you want.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I was planning on takeout and a movie.”

He tilted his head. “Unless that sounds boring to you,” she added quickly.

His smile came easy this time—gentle, genuine, the kind that lit up his whole face. “That sounds perfect.”

-------

Y/N led the way down the quiet street to her favorite little pizza place, the one she always ended up craving after a long shift. The familiar scent of garlic and melted cheese hit her the second they stepped inside, instantly lifting her mood. She placed an order for her go-to pizza, the one she could eat a thousand times and never get tired of.

“Are you sure you don’t want your own?” she asked, glancing up at Bucky with a raised brow.

He just shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m good. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

When the total popped up on the register, Y/N instinctively reached for her wallet—but Bucky was quicker. He slid his card across the counter without missing a beat.

“Hey—come on, I’ve got this,” she protested, nudging his arm.

He just gave her a look. Steady. “Next time.”

With the warm box of pizza in hand, Bucky carried it like it was something precious as they walked the short distance to their apartment building. Inside the elevator, the hum of machinery filled the space as he hit the button for her floor. The moment was quiet, but not awkward—just a soft kind of stillness that felt easy between them.

Once inside her apartment, Y/N headed to the kitchen, pulling out two mismatched plates from the cabinet and handing one to Bucky.

“I’ll be right back,” she said with a smile, before slipping down the hallway to her bedroom.

She changed quickly, trading her work clothes for a pair of well-worn leggings and her favorite oversized t-shirt. After a moment’s pause, she grabbed Bucky’s hoodie from where she’d left it earlier and slipped it back on—it still smelled like him, and the extra weight of it around her shoulders was oddly comforting.

When she padded back into the living room, Bucky was already seated on the couch, the pizza box resting on the coffee table in front of him. He sat back with his arms crossed, muscles stretching beneath the tight fabric of his t-shirt in a way that made Y/N pause in the doorway a second longer than she meant to.

She shook herself out of it and moved to the couch, settling a safe-but-not-too-far distance from him.

Grabbing the remote, she pulled up her favorite comfort show—one she’d seen a hundred times but never got tired of—and hit play. She reached for a slice, the warmth of the food matching the growing ease between them.

Bucky grabbed a piece too, and for a while, they sat side by side, the glow of the TV flickering across their faces, saying nothing at all.

But the silence was anything but empty—it was filled with the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from being with someone who feels like home.

As the night wore on and a few more episodes passed, Y/N realized—somehow, without even noticing when it happened—that she was sitting much closer to Bucky than she had been at the start. The gap between them had gradually disappeared, replaced by the easy lean of shared warmth. She knew he usually shied away from touch—but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t flinched or pulled back. If anything, he seemed… settled.

The credits of the latest episode began to roll, the soft background music filling the quiet room.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, his voice low and almost hesitant.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, her brows drawn together gently. “For what?”

He gave a small shrug, blue eyes fixed on the screen like he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “For letting me crash your night. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t,” she said softly, her lips lifting into a smile. “I like hanging out with you, Bucky.”

And before she could overthink it, she reached down and slid her hand into his—his flesh one—her fingers curling gently around his. She gave a soft squeeze, grounding and sincere.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “Even if you don’t want to talk. We can just sit. Be. I’m okay with that.”

For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Then she felt his hand tighten around hers, not possessively, just… steady. Reassuring. And he didn’t let go.

The next episode began to play, the familiar theme music rising again, but neither of them really paid attention. They stayed just like that, fingers laced together, hearts quietly aligned in the shared silence—trying, and failing, to focus on the screen when all they could really feel was the presence of the other.

---

Y/N stirred slowly, her eyes fluttering open as the early morning light filtered softly through the curtains. For a moment, she blinked against the haze of sleep, her brain sluggishly trying to piece together where she was. The couch. Her living room. The remnants of the night before flickered back into focus like a warm dream.

What she hadn’t expected was the weight wrapped around her—the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of two strong arms encircling her.

Bucky.

Her head rested against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded in a calm, even rhythm. His breath was slow and steady, lips slightly parted in sleep, completely at peace in a way she rarely got to see. And somehow, over the course of the night, they’d both melted into one another, tangled up on her small couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She should’ve been surprised. But she wasn’t. Not really.

Y/N shifted slightly, her body stiff from sleeping in one position for too long. Carefully, she reached out, fingers brushing against his arm as she tried to slip out of his hold without waking him.

But before she could move more than an inch, Bucky’s arm tightened around her waist—gentle but firm. His other hand came up sleepily to rest at the small of her back, and without opening his eyes, he pulled her right back against him with a quiet, content sigh.

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, caught between amusement and something far softer, deeper. Her lips curled into a sleepy smile as she relaxed into him again, letting her eyes drift closed once more.

If this was how mornings with Bucky felt—quiet, safe, wrapped in warmth—she wouldn’t mind waking up like this a lot more often.

“Don’t move. I’m comfortable,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. 

Y/N let herself relax against him again, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside didn’t exist—not the mission reports, not the news, not the ghosts that sometimes lingered in both their silences.

Just the two of them.

She felt Bucky shift slightly, just enough to rest his chin lightly on the top of her head. His hand—flesh and warm—brushed slow, absentminded strokes along her arm. It sent a tingle down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You’re warm,” he murmured sleepily.

She smiled against his shirt. “That’s because I’m wearing your hoodie.”

“Keep it,” he said, without hesitation.

Y/N tilted her head back slightly so she could look up at him. “You sure?”

His eyes met hers, blue and unguarded, still heavy with sleep but clear in a way that made her breath catch. “Yeah,” he said, softer. “Looks better on you anyway.”

That made her cheeks flush, and she quickly looked down to hide the smile pulling at her lips. His fingers brushed her jaw gently, coaxing her gaze back to his.

“You always do that,” he said, voice quiet.

“Do what?”

“Look away when I’m staring at you.”

“That’s because you stare,” she teased, her voice a little too breathless for her liking.

“I do,” he admitted. “And you never seem to notice how much I like it.”

She blinked. The teasing vanished from his voice—replaced by something quieter, deeper.

Her heartbeat stumbled.

“Bucky…” she started, unsure of what to say. But he was already leaning in, his hand moving up to cup her face with infinite care—like he was afraid she might flinch or vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he murmured, eyes flicking from hers to her lips and back. “Unless you tell me not to.”

She didn’t say a word.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she nodded, just once—barely a breath of movement—and then he was kissing her.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded or rushed. It was the kind that lingered, like he had all the time in the world. His lips moved against hers with a careful sort of reverence, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and she kissed him back just as softly, pouring into it every quiet moment they’d shared—every time he’d sat beside her in silence, every word he hadn’t needed to say.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

“Well,” she whispered, her lips still tingling, “that was... worth staying up for.”

Bucky gave a small huff of laughter. “Yeah?” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I think I just did,” he said, and this time, the smile that curved his lips was real—and a little smug.

Y/N shook her head, grinning as she nudged his chest playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he said, pressing another feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

Loving how they used the comic design for the new red star ⭐

Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.

A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)

-

Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra. 

He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.

He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.

It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.

And yet …

“Not too tight, Bucky.”

Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.

Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.

“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.

“Perfect.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.

“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.

“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.

“Would you mind running to the store later?”

“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.

When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.

“What do you think?”

Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.

When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.

“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.

-

Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.

Granola

Eggs (2 dozen)

Apples

Tomatoes

Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)

Toothpaste (2x)

Tampons

Ice cream (!!!)

He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.

By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.

He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.

Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.

Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.

-

The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.

He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.

She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.

“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”

Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”

“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”

Bucky frowned.

It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.

“There’s nothing I could take?”

She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.

“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.

Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.

“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.

They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.

“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”

It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.

Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.

“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”

Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.

Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.

“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”

Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.

“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”

She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”

“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”

-

“I can’t believe this!”

There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”

Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.

“How about this snowy one next?”

At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.

“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”

Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”

Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”

Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.

“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.

He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”

“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”

“Sure, it does.”

Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.

At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.

“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.

“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”

“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”

She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.

But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.

-

Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.

She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.

For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.

With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.

Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.

“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.

“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”

Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.

“I’m—”

“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”

Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”

Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.

“What were you going to say, then?”

She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.

“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”

“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”

A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.

-

“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”

Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.

“It rains a lot in Scotland.”

“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”

“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”

An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.

“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”

Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.

“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”

“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”

She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.

“I thought you didn’t like heat.”

“What made you think that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”

Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”

She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”

“Deal.”

After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.

“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.

The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.

-

A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF

Just give Buck his baby

Sarge? 🪖

Well..

Twisting the knife 🔪

nowhere for you to stay (bucky barnes x reader)

content warnings: angst, allusions to depression (bucky, not reader), sad bucky, mental health, lack of self-care, female reader, this is basically just me venting about the terrible ending that they gave steve (he didn’t deserve this and neither did bucky nor me)  word count: 1.5k a/n: so, i promise, i really am trying to finish my wips, but this came to me today while listening to renegade, also sorry for being m.i.a. for like three weeks but I spent easter with my family and had to recharge lol and then uni started again, so that kinda kicked my ass a little also, i watched thunderbolts* yesterday and it was great!!! (dw, this is spoiler-free)

You knocked on his door – three sharp, distinct sounds – and waited.  For a few seconds you entertained the thought that Bucky wasn’t home. That he was out and about, doing something with his life. Maybe he had picked himself up and gone to the gym, or maybe he had finally deleted the various food delivery apps and instead had gone grocery shopping. But there was a faint whirring, locked behind the old wooden door to his apartment, a sound that belonged to a light turned on. The complex in which Bucky resided was old – not as old as the man himself but certainly bordering on it. Windows creaked when the wind was strong, the lighting flickered, and pipes groaned during the coldest months.   He had moved here after returning from Wakanda and you had helped him set up his living space. You had begged and pleaded with him to rent a place closer to you, or to maybe even move in with you. But he had just shook his head and had looked at you with those heartbroken, empty eyes that seemed a little less blue and a little more grey since Steve was gone. So, you had helped carry the sparse amount of furniture and décor he had up to the fourth-floor apartment, had sorted spice containers of which you were sure that he hadn’t used them yet and had presented Bucky with a plant as a housewarming gift. He had smiled sadly and thanked you and you had known that the plant was not going to make it more than a week. Every day you called, every day he answered – for a limited time. Sometimes, the exchange was as short as thirty seconds, just enough for you to hear that he was still alive and not planning on changing that.  Once a week, on Saturdays, you took the subway to visit him, to stay with him for a few hours. You never managed to convince him to get out of the apartment with you but at least you saw him.  The last week had been different. He hadn’t answered your calls, only sent short messages (“I’m fine – can’t talk right now” or “let me call you back later”) and your heart ached every time the busy signal had echoed from your speaker. Of course, you hoped that it meant that he was actually busy, distracted, doing something.  But the faint buzz of a burning lamp in his apartment told you that he was home. No matter what, Bucky always made sure to turn off all lights and close all windows before he left his place, so he must have been ignoring the knocking.  To his credit, you were a day earlier than usual. It was Friday instead of Saturday, and you hadn’t announced yourself either, so he wasn’t expecting you. The silence, the unanswered calls had given you anxiety induced stomach pains, so you had taken the day off from work and had gotten an Uber to his place.

You knocked again and lightly cleared your throat – a chance for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to place you and for him to open the door. Still, the knob didn’t twist, the many locks he had put on additionally didn’t rattle and you could have sworn that the whirring of the lamp you had heard earlier died down. “Bucky,” you called out, “It’s me. Can you please open the door?” You waited. Seconds that felt like minutes ticked by and your hands got clammy as you shifted on your feet. “Bucky, you gave me a key. But I don’t wanna use it, so, please just let me in. Bu-,” before you could finish his name, you heard a series of noises. A pair of feet shuffling over creaky old floorboards, and what sounded like dishes being set down in the sink. Then you heard a window being ripped open – the frame squeaked terribly – and then the footsteps came closer.  One lock was unlocked, then the second one. A metallic clank sounded and then the doorknob turned.  The door opened with a squeak that made your teeth hurt.  The apartment was dark, and despite the cold breeze that the recently opened window let in, it smelled dusty and faintly like old takeout food.  “Hey.” One thing about Bucky is that he just could not lose his charm. He stood before you, eyebags darker than ever, brown curls unkempt and knotted, and his scruff on his cheeks a little longer than usual and asymmetrical – as if he had laid on one side for too long. 

Despite his appearance, he leaned against the doorframe with a trace of his characteristic smile turning up his mouth corners.  “Hi,” you replied, slightly perplexed.  “I didn’t realise it was already Saturday,” he said after a few seconds of silence and attempted to swipe his hair from his forehead until he realised that it was too unbrushed to run his fingers through it.  He awkwardly dropped his hand but gave you another smile. “It’s not,” you answered and peered past him. Before you could properly glance into his apartment, he moved into your eyeline, a determined look in his eyes.  “Oh. Then what are you doing here?” He asked, shifting again when you tried to steal another glimpse into his living space. You took a few seconds before you replied during which you struggled not to be offended by his question.  “You never called me back,” you explained then, and locked eyes with him. Heat rose on his face as you bluntly called him out and his hands again found their way into his hair, and again, he had to drop them back to his sides as he couldn’t nervously run them through.  “Yeah, no, I meant to, but I… I was busy,” he stammered, blocking your third attempt to look past him.  “Okay,” you murmured slowly, “Can you… would you mind letting me in?” Bucky chewed on his lip for a few seconds, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to find a way to let you down gently. “Uh, now’s not a good time.”

Your heart sank even further as you tried to come up with reasonings with his behaviour. “Are you-,” you began, and stared at your feet instead of meeting his eyes, “Is someone in there with you?” His eyes went round with surprise before he composed himself.  “What? No, no, I’m… I’m alone in here, but it’s just not, uh, a good time, like I said.” A little bit of the tightness in your chest loosened as he genuinely looked shocked at your implication. But you still couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let you in. “Are you leaving? Like, are you going somewhere?” You inquired then, trying to find a reason that would satisfy you. Bucky stayed quiet before he shook his head.  “No, nothing like that. Listen, doll, I just… I haven’t really prepared for visitors, or anything like that, so it’d be great if… um –,“ before he finished speaking, you could tell that he was having a hard time sending you back home. He knew how long the ride here was and that you usually worked on Fridays. “it’s just not a good time,” he concluded.

There was a faint line, so thin that it was barely visible, that you were threatening to cross right now. A line between what Bucky allowed you to see on the Saturdays when you visited him, and the rest of his life.  “Just let me in,” you whispered. “Let me… help you.” The conflict in his eyes played out like a storm. Vulnerability and stubbornness raged against each other, as he seemingly weighed his options: allowing you in or pushing you away. Both seemed to frighten him as you heard how his metal arm whirred while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Alright,” he mumbled and slowly stepped back. His apartment was in a terrible state. For someone who had very little furnishings, a tiny amount of clothes and basically no personal belongings it should have been easy to basically produce a clinically clean space. Instead, you saw instant food packaging, empty beer cans and ripped paper shreds sprawled across his couch table. You recognised the paper as an article about Steve – honouring his legacy and paying tribute to his sacrifice. You had read the same one a few days ago and had cried until your head hurt. The sofa cushions were crumbled up and uneven. A thin blanket laid on the floor as if it had fallen off or been pushed off in a hurry. He must have slept there instead of in his bed.  The kitchen door was half closed, and through the gap you saw dishes towering dangerously, a towel haphazardly slung over them in an attempt to hide them. You turned to face Bucky, who refused to meet your eye. Instead, he clenched his jaw so tight that it must have hurt and stared out the opened window. “Bucky,” you whispered.  “Like I said, I didn’t know you were coming.” His tone was defensive and sharp, but his eyes glistened as the shame burned in him. “Bucky, look at me,” you pleaded and took a few steps towards him. “This place is a mess,” he croaked, his voice heavy with unshed tears, “There’s nowhere for you to stay.” “But I’ll stay anyway,” you murmured and rested your hand on his cheek. “I’ll stay and help you.”

Wyatt being the new extrovert to Sebastian while Anthony is away😭

😭😭HELP KAKSKSKS

In tears😭

Hey darling! I loooove AHMBI (and fuck you Ophelia, you bitch). But I'm not doing very good, my dog is really sick and I'm heartbroken💔. If requests are open, can I ask for one where reader's pet is sick and how Bucky comforts her or something? ( could be Alpine too, if you want). If not, that's okay, I'll love you regardlles♥️ I always look foward to your fics 🥰♥️

I’m so sorry this took me so long to get to, my darling. It has been in the back of my head since you sent the ask and I just haven’t taken the time to get it out. So, Hurricane Ida has freed up some time for me to work on it. I hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader

Trigger Warning: Death of a pet

Despite the rain, you cracked the window leading out to the fire escape, knowing your visitor would be here soon. Technically, your dog’s visitor. Your fifteen year old daschu-huahua-terrier, Sir Didymus (Didy for short) had fallen in love with a beautiful white cat that would show up on your fire escape nearly daily. They would sit on opposite sides of the window and calmly watch each other.

One beautiful day, you had the windows open to air out your apartment when the cat dropped right in and curled up with Didy on the couch. They had napped together, played, and cleaned each other before a gruff voice could be heard calling “Alpine!” The cat, who you now guessed was named Alpine, scurried out the window and down the fire escape. You had looked down to see if you could identify her owner but saw no one. From then on, you left the window cracked enough for her to shimmy through after you got home from work each day or around that same time on the weekends and, like clockwork, Alpine showed up. When her owner called out for her, she left again. She rarely missed a visit and you had begun to wonder about her owner after this went on for the better part of eight months.

Each time you caught one of your male neighbors at the elevator, the mailbox, or the laundry, you wondered if they were Alpine’s owner. You had finally determined that she lived in the apartment three floors below you and you knew her owner had dark hair as you had seen his head before he ducked back in once, but you thought it would be strange to follow her down. Your innate awkwardness kept you from asking around but once you’d determined that he lived in 4E you began taking more notice. The mailbox said Barnes on it and you wondered if it was the absolutely gorgeous hunk that you’d only ever caught a glimpse of. He was elusive and the one time you’d ridden the elevator with him he had flashed a set of baby blues that could drop panties from 50 paces before asking you what floor. You had stammered your response and spent the rest of the ride with your face in your phone hiding your embarrassment.

Tonight, as you crack the window, you feel like the world is crying with you. You had taken Didy to the vet after she had seemed to sleep a lot more lately and wasn’t eating as much. Your longtime veterinarian had walked in with a somber expression that was not her usual demeanor and your stomach had dropped as your worst fears were confirmed. Your constant companion of the last fifteen years was dying and there was nothing you could do. The sweet pup who had seen you through so much in life, broken hearts, a new city, job changes, everything, probably wouldn’t last the night. You nodded as tears streamed down your face and took Didy home for one last night together.

You heard a gentle “reow” as Alpine jumped through the window and cuddled up beside Didy. You petted her and explained the situation while bawling yet again. Alpine turned and licked Didy’s cheek as if understanding everything. You sat beside them, petting them both and telling Didy how much you love her. Alpine purred as she lay with her dying friend and you knew that somehow the sweet cat did understand.

“Alpine!” the call came from your neighbor but, unlike every time before, Alpine stayed put. Her head turned to the window for a long moment and then she nestled in beside Didy for a nap. His voice called her name several more times and even though you felt bad for him, you just couldn’t bring yourself to leave them.

Forty-five minutes later, there is a knock on your door. You keep one eye on Didy as you answer it and are not surprised when your neighbor is on the other side.

“Hey. I’m Bucky. I live on the fourth floor. This is kind of awkward but I thought I’ve seen my cat come out your window before and she hasn’t come home. Have you seen a white cat? Her name is-”

“Alpine. Yeah, she’s here. I’m sorry I heard you calling but I didn’t want to leave-” your voice broke and the tears started again. You covered your face for a second to gather yourself before continuing, “Sorry, um, your cat has befriended my dog. She comes and hangs out with him every evening until you call for her. Um, but, we got some bad news today and Didy, my- my dog, probably won’t make it through the night. I’m sorry, please come in. I don’t mean to keep you out in the hall while I bawl in front of you trying to explain.”

“That’s okay, doll. If you need her to stay, I understand,” Bucky says softly.

“Really, please,” you back away from the door and wave him in. You tell him your name as he follows you to the couch where you sit next to Didy and Alpine.

“So, uh, how did this happen?” Bucky asks as he looks at the two curled up together.

“About eight months ago, Alpine showed up and just sat by the window watching him,” you say as you pet the sleeping dog, “One day the window was open and she came right in. They’ve been fast friends ever since.”

“I’ve been wondering where she disappears to everyday.”

“Yeah. She, um, she seems to understand what’s happening and doesn’t want to leave him. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Gotta ask, though, doll. You always invite strange men that show up at your door into your apartment?”

“Your Alpine’s owner. She’s a pretty good judge of character,” you smile at the cat who is sleeping peacefully.

“That’s true.”

“She gave me very clear advice about my last boyfriend,” you chuckle at the memory.

“You gotta tell me,” Bucky grins.

“He came by for a visit and she was hissing at him everytime he got near me, her, or Didy. Which made Didy start barking every time. That was strike one. Then he turned to me and said how he hated animals. Strike two. Then he went on to say that if we move in together I’d have to get rid of them. Strike three. Threw him out immediately. And then ate all of the pork dumplings and Thai food we’d ordered by myself. Well, they might have helped me eat some of the drunken noodles.”

Bucky was chuckling as you told the story. You turned back to look at Didy and your face fell, knowing how little time you had left with him. Seeing your sad face, Bucky stood up saying, “I’m gonna go grab Alpine’s food. Do you mind if I come back in a bit?”

“Yeah, of course. Feel free to just come in. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Don’t you dare. This is a dangerous city, doll. Lock it behind me and I’ll knock when I get back.’

“Okay,” you smile at his sweet chivalry.

Thirty minutes later, Bucky knocks. You open the door to find him holding a cat bowl, cat food, a bag full of Thai food, and another bag filled with several types of treats.

“What’s all this?” you ask, surprised.

“Food for Alpine, food for us, and some sweets. Oh, and a treat for Didy.”

“That’s so nice of you. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Plus, if you’re anything like Alpine you get cranky when you don’t eat.”

“It’s like you know me already.”

Bucky stays on the couch with you through the night. He makes sure you eat something, tells you stories about Alpine, asks questions about you and Didy, and consoles you when Didy crosses the rainbow bridge around 3 in the morning.

Over the next couple of weeks, Bucky and Alpine visit every day. Often with food. The two of you talk, learn more about each other, laugh, watch movies, and just enjoy the building of a friendship. Of course, you also develop a massive crush on the gorgeous man. The first night they don't show up at your apartment, you knock on their door with a pizza.

"Hey! I have this large pizza and I was thinking you could help me eat it," you smile but then notice the blond man standing behind him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company."

"You must be the neighbor he's been going on about. I'm Steve. This jerk's best friend," he smiles broadly at you while Bucky's cheeks turn pink.

"Hi. If it was good things, then yes, definitely me," you wink at Bucky.

"All good things. He's pretty enamored with you," Steve smirks.

"You're such a punk," Bucky growls. "Come on in, Doll."

You grin as you start to walk past him but pause long enough to whisper in his ear, "The feeling's mutual."

Bucky finally did ask for that date after Steve left for the night. You dated for six months before moving in together. A year after that, Bucky proposed with the help of Alpine and an adorable rescue puppy that you named Ambrosius.

And Didy smiled down on you as he watched from across the rainbow bridge, knowing that he had held on long enough to bring you the love of your life.

This way...

Masterlist

Find me on:   AO3     Ko-Fi Updates and taglist:  Updates for series will be made weekly. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and t

Piece of art 💓🦇

unsolved masterlist

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse.

(Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, horror/paranormal elements

Disclaimer: no plot just vibes <3 it's just another banger dynamic that i loved and therefore had to write a garbage fic about. This is, in no way, a literary masterpiece so just be warned.

Here’s my Ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Pretty flowers for a lovely boy

Flower Bouquet

Summary: You buy him flowers.

Word count: 1811 Words

Warnings: No one.

Bucky Barnes X Reader

You walk into the flower shop, your footsteps quiet on the polished floor. The moment you open the door, a wave of floral scents greets you, sweet, fresh and calming. You pause for a second, just to take it all in. Flowers have always held a special place in your heart. They’re simple but full of life, just like the way you feel when you’re with him. Bucky.

You glance down at your phone. It’s been a few months now. Time has flown by, but in the best way. You and Bucky have found a rhythm, a connection that grows deeper each day. He’s no longer the stoic man he once was. Not entirely. And you… you’re no longer the person you were before he came into your life.

A smile tugs at your lips as you begin to peruse the shelves. The roses are beautiful, but not today. Not for him. You want something different, something that suits who he is, not just the conventional symbol of love. Your fingers brush against a bunch of white lilies, their petals delicate and pure, and you stop.

Perfect.

You pick them up carefully, admiring their simplicity. Their fragrance fills your nose, soft but with just enough sweetness to make your heart flutter. You take your time, adding a few sprigs of lavender and a couple of purple irises to the mix. It’s subtle, elegant.. like him. You know he’s not someone who needs grand gestures, but you also know how much he appreciates when people show they care, when they take the time to think of him.

The florist wraps the bouquet in soft tissue paper, tying it with a simple satin ribbon. You thank her, your hands cradling the flowers like they’re something precious, because to you, they are. You’re giving them to him.

When you reach his apartment, the nerves start to settle in. They’re not nerves from doubt, but more from the excitement of wanting to make him feel special. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten him something, but it’s the first time you’ve given him flowers. It feels like a big deal, like you’re taking another step together. You’re not even sure why you decided to do this, maybe just maybe because you saw them at the flower shop and thought of him, or maybe because you just want to see him smile.

You knock on his door and wait, your heart thumping in your chest. A few seconds later, the door opens and there he is. Bucky. Standing in his usual attire, a simple T-shirt, jeans and his leather jacket that fits him perfectly. The way he looks at you, his blue eyes lighting up when he sees you, makes everything inside you settle.

“Hey” he says, his voice warm, low and familiar. His gaze flickers to the bouquet in your hands. “What’s this?” he asks with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

You grin, a little shy now, but trying to keep your cool. “For you,” you say, holding them out to him. “Just because.”

Bucky blinks, his gaze dropping to the flowers. His metal hand twitches slightly at his side, like he’s not sure if he should take them or not.

“…You got me flowers?” His voice is cautious, like he’s expecting a punchline.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that’s usually how this works.”

His brows furrow slightly in surprise, his lips parting as if he’s not sure what to make of this. His hand hesitates before he takes the bouquet from you, fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low but filled with genuine gratitude. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, though your heart is racing a little. “No occasion. I just thought you’d like them.”

Bucky stares down at the flowers, his expression softening as he takes in their delicate beauty. “They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “But, uh… I’m not used to getting flowers.”

He looks at it like it’s some kind of unfamiliar artifact, turning it slightly in his hands, inspecting the mix of blue delphiniums, white lilies and a few sprigs of lavender.

“No roses” he murmurs.

“You don’t seem like a roses kind of guy.”

His lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile. “And I seem like a…?”

You shrug. “Delphinium and lavender kind of guy.”

Bucky lets out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s a first.”

You chuckle, stepping closer to him. “Well, consider it as our first,” you tease. “I figured you could use something to brighten your day.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, do I get a ‘thank you’ or are you just gonna stand there looking at them like they’re a bomb?”

He huffs a laugh but looks back down at the bouquet, his fingers tracing one of the petals absentmindedly. His expression softens, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“I… yeah.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Thank you. I just… no one’s ever given me flowers before.”

You tilt your head. “Never?”

He shakes his head. “Not really something guys like me get.”

You frown slightly. “Well, that’s dumb. Flowers aren’t just for girls. They’re for people you care about.”

Something in his expression changes, something subtle but deep, like he’s trying to process the weight of your words. He looks back down at the bouquet again, then exhales softly, almost like he’s letting himself accept it.

He smiles again, this time with a hint of something vulnerable. He looks up at you, his gaze searching, before he clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t really know how to handle this.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s simple, Bucky. You just accept it. No need for a big speech or anything.”

He lifts the bouquet to his nose, inhaling deeply. For a moment, his eyes flutter closed and a quiet sigh escapes him. You watch him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s a simple thing, this gift, but you can already tell it means something to him. Maybe it’s not the flowers themselves, but the thought behind them. The fact that you were thinking of him, that you wanted to give him something. You know that his past has made him wary of affection, of kindness, but moments like this show that he's willing to let down his guard just a little more each time.

After a moment, he looks back up at you, his expression softer, more open than before. “Thank you. This... really means a lot to me,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite name.

You smile, relieved to see that he’s not rejecting the gesture, but genuinely appreciating it. “I’m glad you like them. I thought they suited you.”

He chuckles, a small, almost awkward sound and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just not used to this. People... doing nice things for me, just because.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Well, you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. And these” you gesture to the bouquet “are just a small way of showing you that.”

Bucky’s eyes soften and you notice the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you in a new light. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe, like he’s trying to process it all. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Your heart skips a beat and for a second, you don’t know what to say. You just stand there, looking at each other, a thousand unspoken words hanging between you. The vulnerability in his voice, the warmth in his eyes… it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Well” you say, your voice teasing to break the tension. “Now that I’ve made you blush, I’ll take my leave.” You make a move toward the door, but before you can step past him, Bucky grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait” he says, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I want to thank you properly.” He pulls you back toward him, not forcefully, just enough to close the distance between you. His eyes search yours and before you can even react, he steps closer, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.

You freeze for a second, your breath catching. He pulls away slowly and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You glance at the flowers in his hands again, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you.

“You didn’t have to do that” you murmur, though you know it’s a lie.

“I wanted to” he says quietly, his thumb gently brushing the back of your hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me. You’re making me believe in things I didn’t think I could anymore.”

You look up at him, your heart full. “I’m glad,” you whisper.

“Come inside” he says after a moment, stepping back to let you in.

You follow him in, watching as he moves toward the kitchen, still holding the bouquet with a sort of hesitant reverence. He sets them down on the counter, staring at them for a second before glancing at you.

“So… what do I do with them?”

You snort. “You put them in water, grandpa.”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I know that.” He pulls a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water before placing the flowers inside. It’s not the best makeshift vase, but it works. He stares at them for a long moment, then, almost absently, lifts one of the lavender sprigs and twirls it between his fingers.

“They smell nice,” he mutters.

You smile. “Yeah. Figured you’d like that.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second before he leans against the counter, looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. “You really just… got these for me? No reason?”

You shrug. “Do I need a reason?”

He shakes his head slowly, his thumb brushing over the lavender again. “No. I guess not.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten. You don’t push, don’t press him to say anything more. Instead, you just step closer, resting your hip against the counter beside him.

Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair before giving you a sideways glance. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You smirk. “I get that a lot.”

He huffs another soft laugh, then looks back at the flowers, something warm settling into his expression. “I like ‘em,” he admits, voice softer now.

Your chest warms. “Good.”

And as he stands there, quietly admiring the simple gift, you realize that this, this quiet, unspoken moment, is exactly why you brought them in the first place.

Bucky is gorgeous and he needs to be reminded everyday 💓‼️

More to Love

Summary : Bucky marries you, someone who shows love through food. When his body changes, you show him he’s cared for no matter what.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x wife!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : FLUFF! Hurt/Comfort, Body Image Issues, Insecurity, Established Relationship, Weight Gain, implied sex, cursing, Food as Love Language.

Word count : 2.4k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky hadn’t meant to gain weight.

It wasn’t like he woke up one day and decided, hey, let’s pack it on.

It crept in, slowly, like moss between cracks, or rust under paint. At first, it was just little things: seconds at dinner, not skipping dessert, an appetiser here and there.

See, when you and Bucky first started dating, it didn’t take long for him to realise that food was your love language. You cooked like it was second nature—every ingredient always added with care. He’d come home from missions or long training days to find you in the kitchen with your sleeves rolled up, humming to some old tune while stirring sauce or kneading dough. And your smile always lit up when you fed him, like watching him eat something you made was its own kind of joy. And Bucky, who’d spent so much of his life surviving, hadn’t known how hungry he was for that kind of care until you started filling his plate and his heart at the same time.

Somewhere between your late-night pastas and Sunday roasts, his shirts started to fit tighter around the middle. The scale ticked up a few numbers. He still trained, but it was different now. He wasn’t on a calorie deficit, and he was doing things for functional and not aesthetic purposes. He focused on Pull-ups, sparring, lifting until his arms couldn’t take any more. He could throw a grown man across the room. Probably you too, and that wasn’t a fantasy you were opposed to.

But even when his body changed, and time went by, your cooking didn’t stop. If anything, after you got married, it grew more intentional. You experimented more— comfort dishes from his childhood, thick stews you imagined his man might've made, and big, carb-heavy meals to help him recover after a mission. You packed him leftovers in little glass containers, sometimes with a note tucked in the lid. You didn’t just feed his body. You fed his memory, his heart, his right to be human again.

Still.

He’d catch his reflection in the bathroom mirror, shirtless, sweaty from a workout, and stare at his stomach. 

He hated that it made him feel weak. Sloppy. 

“Used to be leaner,” he muttered once, toweling off after an especially brutal workout session. 

You rolled your eyes, but with love, and tossed another towel at his chest. “Yeah? Well, I used to think I liked abs, but turns out I like a powerhouse husband who can deadlift a damn car more.”

That earned you a faint smile, but it didn’t erase the dread in his eyes— the one that said you’re lying, or you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

You weren’t.

God, you weren’t.

Because Bucky Barnes built like a brick shithouse? Bucky Barnes with thick arms and wide shoulders and thighs like tree trunks and a stomach that was less abs and more functional muscle? He was the kind of man you could climb like a jungle gym and bury your face against to feel safe. That strength wasn’t just aesthetic— it was real. 

And every meal you cooked was another way of telling him so. Every tray of roasted veggies, every slow-cooked braise or pan of cinnamon rolls was a reminder: You’re still cared for. You’re still mine.

To be fair, he’d never been satisfied with his body, not really. Not when it was used as a weapon. Not when it was hyper-lean, a machine starving for control. And not now, when he felt like losing the only grip he’d ever had on himself.

Then came the movie night.

You were watching some dumb action flick, all glossy lighting and guys with chiseled jaws and ten-pack abs. The kind of thing that didn’t usually bother you. 

C’mon, watching a superhero movie while being married to one? It was kind of surreal, kind of stupid. 

You’d whipped up a bowl of nachos earlier, layered with roasted veggies, black beans, just enough cheese to feel indulgent, but still a net benefit for your body, the way Bucky liked. He’d been halfway through the bowl, one hand resting on your thigh, when he suddenly stopped eating.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was full. Maybe the movie was just boring. But then you felt the way he shifted like his body was trying to shrink.

You turned your head to see him.

His eyes flicked to the screen. Then to the bowl. Then to his stomach. And then away.

You paused the movie.

“Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t look at you. “I’m fine.” He said it too quickly.

You set the nachos aside and turned toward him. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated.

“Look at those guys,” he said, motioning toward the frozen screen. “All shredded. And I’m just—” He trailed off, letting the bitterness finish the sentence for him.

Your heart broke.

You reached over and rested your hand on his chest, right where his heart beat under your palm.

You frowned in that goddammit I love you, why don’t you see what I see? kind of way.

You didn’t say anything right away, but moved closer, settled into his lap, and rested your forehead to his. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice soft as a feather, “you could have abs again tomorrow and I wouldn’t love you more than I do right now.”

He swallowed hard. 

“You say that now,” he insisted. “But maybe one day you’ll wake up and realise you’re married to some washed-up vet with a gut and a metal arm.”

You cupped his face firmly and made him look at you.

“Hey,” you scolded playfully, “Don’t you dare talk about my husband like that.”

A ghost of a laugh bubbled out of him. 

“You carry people out of burning buildings, Bucky. You wrestle Walker for fun and win more than half the time.” That earned you another chuckle. “You’ve got a body that’s survived hell and back. And you still use it to hold me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world.”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to cry or pull you into his arms and never let go. So you did it for him— you held him close, kissed the curve of his neck where tension still pulled on his muscles.

“You are so hot, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered. “So fucking hot. Built like a damn tank. Fuckin’ making me feel like the luckiest woman alive.”

He buried his face in your shoulder then, arms wrapping tight around you, so you didn’t move for a while.

He held onto you like you were tethering him to the Earth. His arms were so big, so safe and real. 

Eventually, his rapid breathing slowed. Then, slowly so as not to startle him, you leaned back just enough to look at him. His eyes were pink, glassy, and still a little distant.

“C’mere,” you whispered, taking his hand.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going. He just followed you, quiet and trusting, fingers interlaced with yours. You led him into the bedroom, and he paused near the mirror at the side of your shared bed.

“I don’t—”

“I know,” you said. “But I want to show you something.”

You stood behind him at first, wrapping your arms around his thick waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. He tensed up at his own reflection. You could feel it in the way his shoulders were bracing for impact.

But instead of asking him to look, you slowly stepped around him, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled him gently toward you.

He didn’t resist.

You kissed the underside of his forearm first, the one made of flesh. Then his metal hand. You worked your way up, past scars and veins and muscle, until he was standing between your knees, and you lifted up his shirt and lowered his sweatpants just a bit, until you were kissing the stretch of skin just above his waistband.

Then, higher.

His stomach rose and fell under your lips.

You kissed the curve of it. One, then another. A third, right by his belly button. Your hands held his hips like he was loved. 

“You think this makes you less?” you said in disbelief, your breath warm against him. “Because all I see is more. More to hold. More to love. More of you.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides. He was stock-still, as if when he moved, he might fall apart. You looked up at him and saw the tears gathering again.

“Every inch of you is mine to love,” you whispered, “and you don’t get to tell me which ones I can’t.”

A choked sound made it last his lips. 

He dropped to his knees in front of you and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your chest like he was starved for touch.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbled, voice breaking at the seams .

You kissed the top of his head.

“Tough,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re stuck with me. And so is that stomach. And that chest. And fuck— those thighs.”

He huffed a laugh against your skin. “You like the thighs, huh?”

“Obsessed.” You nuzzled into his hair. “Do you even know what it does to me, watching you exist in this body like it was built for loving me?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His cheeks were pink, and for the first time that night, you saw something wonder bloom behind the disappointment in his eyes.

You leaned in again, your lips brushing over his—soft first. It deepened the moment he kissed you back. It wasn’t desperate, not yet. 

Just… vulnerable. 

It was as if everything unsaid between you was being poured into it, every little bit of doubt and love and hunger bleeding through.

His hands found your hips, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe you were real. You felt him, too—not just the muscle, but the man who wanted, who needed to be seen, to be held, to be devoured.

“You drive me insane,” you whispered between kisses, your hands running up under his shirt, palming heat and muscle and that slight softness you loved more than you could say. 

He groaned low in his throat, and you felt it reverberate all the way down. 

You tugged his shirt up and over his head. You bit your lip as he fixed his posture, solid and built like sin.

God, you couldn't get enough of him. He had thighs thick enough to crush, arms big enough to cage you in. You ran your palms down his chest, over the swell of his sides, and kissed just above his waistband again.

“I want all of this,” you whispered. “Want to feel it. Fuckin’ climb it, baby.”

That did it.

He leaned forward before picking you up like you weighed nothing. You let out a gasp as he plopped you on the bed. His mouth was back on yours in an instant, kisses turning rougher and hungrier as his hands roamed  with that same desperate worship you gave him.

And when his thigh slid between yours, thick and commanding, you nearly whimpered.

“Bucky—” your voice broke on his name.

He pulled back just enough to growl, “You love this?” His thigh pressed harder, “Love how big and strong I am for you?”

You could barely think, could only nod, fingers tangled in his hair, body arching to meet his.

“Say it.”

“I love it,” you moaned. “I love the way you take up space. I want you to break me in half.”

His blue eyes darkened, his grip tightening just slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he kissed you again, and there was no more sound except for bodies moving like they were made to fit, made to ruin each other sweetly.

And when he finally, finally settled over you like the living embodiment of every gentle and savage thing you even loved—you whispered against his ear, “Don’t hold back.”

He didn’t.

—

You woke up to sunlight cutting through the curtains, the kind of light that felt too ethereal to feel real.

Bucky was already up.

He was standing, shirtless, hair still sleep-mussed, his sleep trousers hanging low on his hips, metal arm catching a glint of light as he rubbed at the back of his neck. You watched him from the bed for a minute.

He was staring at the mirror.

And not with that same bitter expression he usually did. This time… it was different. His brow was still furrowed, sure, but he looked… thoughtful. He looked like he was seeing something new.

Or maybe just seeing it the way you had all along.

There were faint bruises along his hips—your marks. Scratches across his back, red and already rapidly healing thanks to the serum, that they would be gone before the day. His skin was still flushed in places, the way it always got after you touched him like you meant it, like every inch of him was holy ground. 

You let the silence steep, just long enough to not startle him. “Staring at yourself like you’re in love, Barnes,” you finally mumbled sleepily from the pillows.

Bucky turned, but not ashamed. His eyes met yours across the room, and god—there it was. 

A smile.

“Maybe,” he said. His eyes dropped to his stomach, his chest, his body— painted in proof of your love last night. Then he looked at you, still tangled in the sheets, bare-legged, cheek creased from the pillow, looking at him like he was the answer to a prayer you hadn’t even known you wanted.

He shrugged, but it wasn’t dismissive. More like he didn’t know how to put it into words yet.

You sat up and let the sheet fall a little. His eyes flicked down and lingered, mouth parting, even after all this time.

“You didn’t seem to mind this body last night,” he said, quieter and teasing.

You gave him a look—are you serious?—then got up and walked across the room. You stood in front of him and slid your hands up the planes of his torso, over his stomach, then around to his back.

“Bucky,” you said, lips brushing his collarbone, “I wrote scripture out of this body last night.”

He laughed an open, sleepy-morning laugh, like you’d summoned it right out of his ribs. He ducked his head into your neck and held you for a second, arms around your waist.

When he pulled back, you kissed him once, then you glanced toward the mirror.

“Go ahead,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his stomach. “Smile at yourself again.”

He did.

And he didn’t look away.

-end.

Extra Notes : This was really special to write, especially with so many fics like this going around! I used to have an unhealthy obsession with working out purely for aesthetics, but a few years ago, after moving out of my home country, I started reconnecting with my culture’s food. Cooking and eating became a way to feel close to home, so my body changed! I also shifted toward weight training and functional exercise, and while I’m definitely more muscular than lean now, it took me a while to realise this version of me is so much healthier than when I was stuck in an obsessive calorie deficit. Remember, bodies change, and I find our inherent ability to be look so different and still be worthy of love wonderful!

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy

Wherever You Are, I’ll Be

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: He needs your touch like air, anchoring himself to you in every room, every moment, his hand always finding your skin as if you’d vanish otherwise.

Bucky Barnes had never known softness until you.

Not in the silk of a Sunday morning when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Not in the brush of a hand against the small of his back while he cooked eggs. Not in the way someone would instinctively lean into him instead of away. But now? He needed it like breath. Like blood in his veins.

He needed you.

And more specifically, he needed to feel you.

Your thigh draped over his on the couch. Your pinky finger curled into his when you walked through the city. His hand on the curve of your waist while you brushed your teeth, and the comforting press of your calf against his in bed. Even now—his arm lay lazily around your shoulders as you laughed at something Sam was saying across the room.

But Bucky wasn’t listening.

He was watching your profile. The way your lips tilted up at the corners. The crinkle beside your eyes. And, maybe more urgently, the way a man had just walked up to you from behind and tapped your shoulder like he’d known you for years.

And Bucky—without thinking—tightened his grip.

His vibranium fingers flexed slightly on your arm. A grounding pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable. You didn’t even glance at him, just reached over your shoulder and rubbed your thumb across his knuckles as if you knew exactly what that little squeeze meant.

You did know.

-

He never liked when people approached out of nowhere. Not when it was you. Not when he was already two seconds from spiraling.

“Sorry,” the guy was saying. “Are you Y/N? From the Stark internship program?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Yeah… That was years ago.”

“I thought so,” the stranger smiled. “I recognized you. You did a seminar on AI ethics, right? I was in the audience.”

“Oh, wow,” you said, ever polite, while Bucky’s jaw tensed beside you. “That’s a blast from the past.”

He had the gall to laugh, too charming for someone standing way too close.

Bucky’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist.

Not just touching now. Holding.

He kept his eyes locked on the guy, his chin barely tilted up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And sure enough, after another thirty seconds of awkward small talk, the guy politely excused himself and walked off—leaving behind the heat of Bucky’s jealousy simmering in his chest.

You turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to walk away from you,” you whispered gently, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes dark. “But it feels like you might.”

Your brows softened. “Buck…”

“Every time someone walks up to you, I think they’ll take you. I know it’s stupid. I know you love me. But the part of me that lived through losing everything…” He swallowed hard. “That part doesn’t trust anything.”

You traced your fingers along his jawline. “Then let me show you. Every day. In every way.”

He looked at you like you’d just promised to rebuild him.

Because you had.

Later that night, he didn’t let you go once.

You brushed your teeth with his arm slung low around your hips. He undressed you with both hands on your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And when you crawled into bed, he pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t leave the bed before me,” he murmured, his voice sleep-heavy.

“Even for coffee?” you teased.

He opened one eye. “I’ll get it for you. Just stay.”

You did.

And the next morning, when sunlight peeked through the curtains, Bucky was already awake.

He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting against your bare thigh. The metal one cradled your ribs under the blanket. Protective. Possessive. Gentle.

“Morning,” you whispered.

His lips curved softly. “Still here?”

“Always.”

Throughout the day, it was more of the same.

Bucky on your hip at the grocery store. His thumb stroking circles over your back while you chose tomatoes. He kissed your temple in the aisle, not because he needed to—but because he had to. Because the warmth of your skin beneath his lips told him this was real.

He didn’t speak much in public. Never had. But the world quieted around him when you were near. And he knew—knew—if he just kept one hand on you, he’d never lose you.

At the Tower, Sam clocked the way Bucky’s hand kept drifting. To your lower back. The nape of your neck. Your shoulder.

“You two glued together now?” Sam teased as he passed by.

Bucky didn’t respond. He just shifted slightly closer to you.

You smiled, not even trying to move away.

“Jealous?” you called after Sam.

Sam huffed a laugh but didn’t reply.

Bucky’s hand slid lower, resting on your hip bone as if claiming you in silence.

And for all his posturing—for all the brooding and quiet sulking—when the door finally closed and you were alone, the first thing Bucky did was pull you into his chest and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

You looked up at him, brushing a hand across his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, James,” you said, voice steady. “Even if someone offered me the world.”

He kissed you like it broke him to believe that.

That night, after making love slow and reverent and full of whispered promises, Bucky tucked his head into your neck.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.

His voice was barely audible when he spoke.

“Sometimes I think you’ll wake up and remember you could have anyone. And that you’ll leave.”

You pulled back, cupping his face so he had to look at you.

“I already have everyone I want,” you said. “He has blue eyes, a vibranium arm, and the softest damn heart I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked fast.

“Touch me,” he rasped.

You leaned forward, brushing your nose to his. “I already am.”

“No,” he said. “Always.”

And he meant it.

Because to Bucky Barnes, touch wasn’t just a way to connect.

It was a promise.

A silent vow that he wasn’t alone.

That this time, the people he loved—you—weren’t going to be ripped away.

And you, with your arms around him, legs tangled with his, fingertips dancing over his ribs, you were keeping that promise.

One touch at a time.

Want to join my taglist? Fill out the form at this link or drop a comment below!

Taglist: @avengersfan25,@doilooklikeagiveafrack, @hits-different-cause-its-you

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

It was so well written, and I can't stop reading it

Chapter 3 - Burning in the Lava

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Someone give Bucky a Xanax or something, he needs it.

Chapter Title from demons by Hayley Kiyoko

Word Count: 11.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bucky has a rough first week on the job, and you engage in psychological warfare. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Read on A03!

It’s easy to underestimate you. It’s a mistake people frequently make, because you want them to. The optimist is never pleasantly surprised.

And the docile animal is never sedated.

And you’ve practiced being that animal your whole life.

It’s part of the show. When you’d shaped yourself into an accessory, your smile had been sickly sweet and full lipped, you’d bow your head when you spoke, and you’d watch your feet as you walked, as if you’d been afraid you’d trip over yourself.

After you got the out—the job, the only thing you’ve ever been allowed to be good at—you’d become overly confident. All sharp words and raised chins and perfectly made masks, powerful but not approachable, commanding but obviously trying too hard to be so. 

It’s purposefully mistaken for arrogance. Someone who was a threat to people who couldn’t hurt you anyway—people who the show worked on, who overestimated you and never thought twice about how you’re hollow, and lonely, and would likely shatter with one wrong touch—didn’t know how to see your everything for the lie it was. They’d never even imagine that all it would take is one carefully crafted and aimed sentence, and you rip yourself apart from within.

And people who were a threat would take the arrogance for the overcompensation it was, and they’d still underestimate you. They’d see you as too little, but trying to be more, and never even think that there was something deeper. Something to be weary of. 

They’d think they were seeing right through you, and that the one layer they’d managed to peel away was the only cage you kept yourself in.

You’d been so sure Bucky Barnes would fall in the latter category. He’d already seen you without any mask at dinner, but he’d seemed to read you as nothing more than a rich, spoiled brat who didn’t understand the threat Hydra posed. You’d hoped that would make him think he’d worked you out, and that by caving so fast to Sam’s stupid order you’d gotten him to believe you’d just roll over.

But when you get to your office the next morning, he’s waiting for you. Standing with his arms braced on his hips in the lobby of your building, an equal distance between the stairs and the elevator, scanning over the area and ignoring all the stares in his direction with an obviously practiced ease.

You don’t know how long he’s been there. Likely too long, given the depth of his scowl, but that might just be his face. There are slight bags under his eyes, but they’d been there last night as well. It’s unreasonably early in the morning—barely past 6am, the only other people in the lobby being security and night staff—so Barnes can’t have been waiting a while, but he and Sam had beaten you to the restaurant last night, which means Sam might have blabbed about you always being early and if Barnes had been paying attention-

Fuck.

Barnes isn’t the latter group. He isn’t the former, either.

He’s a whole new beast. You don’t know quite what yet, but not what you’re used to. Not a shallow pretty-boy or old, slimy asshole who will fall apart for the giggling, glossy-eyed and pouting lips act.

Not a well-trained, proud agent or politician who thought they were smarter than you, and weren’t.

Something you’ll have to dissect and maneuver around with more effort than you’re used to.

And you’d known this wouldn’t be easy. You’d hoped it wouldn’t be barely ten hours in that Barnes started to be a problem, but there he is, waiting for you in the lobby like he’d already anticipated that you’d try something.

And just because he’s right—you’d absolutely been about to try something—doesn’t mean that it’s not annoying.

But you’ll be fine. You’ll adapt. Barnes may not be underestimating you the way you’d wanted, but he’s still underestimating you. He hasn’t spotted you, standing outside the building with a baseball cap and sunglasses—Happy may have told you to stop taking the subway until this was fixed, but he wasn’t your boss, so you’d done it anyway—and he doesn’t seems to be at all worried that you can easily see him through the glass.

He thinks he’s already won. That you’re going to just stomp into the lobby and fight him there, when that will so clearly be handing him the victory.

And you don’t know what Barnes thinks you are. 

But you’re well aware that, whatever it is, he’s wrong. 

It’s not as difficult as it should be to get past him. You simply turn on your heels, walk around the block to the parking garage entrance, and enter through there. Carefully. With the stairs up to the second floor, then the elevator up to your office. 

Once he realizes that he’s already lost you and works out where you are, you’re going to need to have a serious conversation with him about covering all his bases. Maybe a conversation with Sam about how, if Barnes were five people instead of one super solider, the garage would’ve been covered and this never would’ve happened. Or a conversation with Happy about how Barnes didn’t see you, but the cameras had, so maybe they were better security than he was.

You’ll find it. You’ll have time to find it, because it’s going to take Barnes at least an hour to figure out what’s happened, and by the time he does you’ll already be several more steps ahead.

Your assistant, a sweet girl named Grace who’s only been here a year, but you still trust more than most of the actual board, is already at her desk when you arrive. You drop her coffee on the desk before she can speak, raising your brows as she blinks up at you.

“You’re early.”

“You’re early. My schedule is your schedule, ma’am-” 

You roll your eyes, pushing the coffee further forward. “Don’t call me that.”

“Mr. Hogan call you that-“

“Happy is afraid of me, you’re not. How long have you been here?”

“Only for like an hour-“ Grace cuts herself off, her hand freezing on the cup as her eyes widen. “Shit, did you come in through the lobby again? I think I saw the Winter Solider down there-“

He’s been here at least an hour. Good to know.

“And he was just, like, standing guard? I know you’re friends with Captain America, but I’ve never seen him here before, do you know what he wants-“

“Me.” You shrug, glancing over your shoulder to check that Barnes isn’t about to burst out of the elevator or stairwell, and when you look back to Grace she’s gaping at you, her voice suddenly a squeak.

“You? He’s here for- Did- Did Mr. Wilson introduce you? Did you finally break up with-“

You wrinkle your nose, your lips curling as you put together her disconnect. “No, not that. I- There are some things going on, and Sargent Barnes is supposed to be my security until they’re worked out.”

Grace nods slowly, her brow furrowing slightly. “Supposed to be? You’re not-“ She blinks at you, shaking her head. “No-“

“Yeah. Sorry.” You give her a grimacing smile, pushing the coffee once more. “I got five vanilla shots, and cinnamon-“

“I don’t want your bribery coffee,” Grace snaps your name, shoving the cup back across her desk. “Please don’t make me do this. Please.“

Something tightens in your throat at the genuine desperation on Grace’s face, and you let out a long breath before shaking your head. “Just tell him I’m busy. Put like a- A fake meeting in my schedule. Five fake meetings, and a lunch with someone important.”

“Mr. Wilson?” Grace suggests, still sitting too tall in her chair. “He’s still in town, right?”

“Yeah, but don’t use him. Barnes is friends with Sam, he’ll snitch and then the bird-ass will fly through my window again.” You drum your fingers on your own coffee, frowning at the air as your brain spins. “Scratch the lunch. I’ll stay in my office, and the meetings can all be online. That way if things get heated out here, I can come save you.”

“Save me?” Grace pales slightly. “I- why-“

“He’s not going to hurt you.” You wave her off with a hand and half-shrug. “But he’ll probably glare at you a lot, maybe try and talk you into letting him in. If you need to cave, just give me heads up first and I’ll deal with it. Okay?”

Grace chews on her lips, but nods, and you give her a genuine, smile. One that you hope she can see the gratitude in. You don’t really try to do the Show with Grace. She’s seen you cry over movies and sing in your car, watched you dance around your office when nobody else was in the building. She wouldn’t take the Show seriously. And she’s met your cat, and siblings, and him, so there’s really no point to it anymore.

“Thank you.” You say it aloud any way, just so you’re sure she knows, and pause before you move into your office. “Do you want the coffee?”

Grace scowls, but yanks the cup back from your hands. “I hate you.”

You only hum, and try to brush off how her words twist in your gut. She doesn’t mean them. You don’t think she means them. But you are asking a lot, and ward off an ex-assassin wasn’t exactly in the job description, so maybe you’re pushing it, and she does hate you-

Problems for later. When this whole situation is over, you’ll give her three weeks off. Paid. And you’ll clean her apartment, and water her plants while she’s gone. 

But right now, you have work to do.

There are real meetings. Actual things you need to attend to, that aren’t fabricated for the sake of avoiding Barnes. But you mostly say your piece and tune everything else out, because you already know what everyone is going over, and it’s more productive to multi-task. You can listen to Joe from event management drone for a very long hour about the full guest list for the next fundraiser and respond to emails about how that Wakandan vaccine is going to be up for bidding soon. You can even plot out a good timeline for distribution and draft out your pitch, all while interjecting with your opinions about the seat arrangements and evening itinerary. 

When the meeting ends, you almost go outside to ask Grace if she’s printed the latest round of grants and bids, but you’re barely out of the chair when you hear him. 

For a man that had been angry about the volume of your music in a completely empty parking lot, he sure is shouting in a workplace. 

“I am not asking to see her.” He’s snapping at Grace, and it’s easy to picture him leaning over her desk, pointing a finger at your office door. “I’m under orders from Captain America to watch your boss, so let me in.”

“Mr. Barnes if you want an appointment with the CEO,” Grace says your name with an impressively bored tone, and you can hear the tap of her keyboard through the door. “Well- It looks like she’s busy until October. Are you free in October?”

“Goddamnit- She might not be alive in October-“

“It’s the only free time slot she has right now.”

“The only-“ Barnes cuts himself off, and there’s a long moment of silence before he speaks again. “She told you not to let me in, didn’t she.”

You sit a little straighter in your chair, frowning at the door. Barnes isn’t loud enough that you’re worried about Grace, but his tone has enough cold menace to make something under your skin boil, and you’d made Grace do this, but it isn’t her war to fight-

Your computer pings softly, and when you glance back to the screen your body fully relaxes. 

Grace Young

I’ve got it. 

“If you have a message, I can relay it.” Grace’s voice is still calm, almost commanding. Maybe she should be your guard. “Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

There’s another pause, and when Barnes speaks his voice is low. “Wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

You don’t hear anything else, and your computer pings once more seconds later. 

Grace Young

He’s sitting on the couch.

Should I call security?

You sigh, glancing back to the door as you respond.

No. I can’t kick him out or Sam will yell at me.

Just keep saying I’m busy. 

Grace Young

Yes, Ma’am.

You roll your eyes and move back to your work. 

It’s amazing how long the charade lasts. You stay in your office, and you’d suspect that this was Barnes’ plan the whole time—to keep you in a self-imposed lockdown, with him guarding the only exit in and out of the room—if he didn’t go back up to Grace every hour and demand to be let inside.

She never caves.

You’re busy. You’re in a meeting that didn’t exist three hours ago, with four people who aren’t real. You’re eating lunch. You’re napping. Now isn’t a good time, because people really need charity at noon more than any other time of the day.

Four weeks. Paid, and funded for wherever she wants to travel. 

And you don’t waste the time. You respond to all your emails, attend three more real meetings, and go through all the proposals on your computer. The only real flaw with this plan is that, eventually, you are going to have to go home. This isn’t a long-term solution, and Barnes will almost certainly figure out how you got around him this morning, so this was a one-time trick that won’t work tomorrow.

But it doesn’t have to work tomorrow. The goal isn’t sustainability. 

The goal is to drive Barnes out of his mind. To make him regret any promises he made to Sam, and give up on you entirely so you can go back to lonely, miserable peace. 

And it’s doing its job beautifully. Because Barnes snaps around 6pm—you have to hand it to him, he held out longer than you’d expected—and you’re ready. You’ve held your own against angry old men before. They may not have had metal arms and sharp jawlines, but they’d held your life in their hands far more than Barnes ever will, and you hadn’t folded. 

In comparison to those ghosts and stained, stuffed-down memories, Barnes will be nothing.

Grace pings you that he’s coming, and you brace yourself, slipping into the Show right as your door breaks down.

“You’re going to have to fix that.” You hum, keeping your attention casually fixed on the computer. “I don’t think it’s very secure for me to not have a door.”

There’s no response for a long moment, it eats at the ringing in your ears, and you fall for it. You can’t fucking stand how the hum of the fan is so loud, how you can hear yourself breathing and shifting in your chair—how it’s you and that’s always too much—and you look up.

Barnes is standing in front of your desk with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed—his scowl almost carved onto his features as hair falls over his face—and the mask almost slips. He’s not scary, and you’re in no danger, but you still feel as if you’ve done something wrong.

Not just his voice, then. You’ll need to be careful of his eyes as well, examining you like a specimen and filled with a carefully leashed fury that leaks into the air. Your breath hitches under his attention, and you know he catches it—one blink, nostril flare—but you don’t care. 

Making him angry was part of the plan. 

Adapt. Rationalize and adapt. 

You give him a mockingly innocent, full-lipped smile. “Can I help you?”

His jaw clenches, his eyes raking over your face for an answer he doesn’t seem to find. “How did you get up here.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, looking back to your computer. “That was like, nine hours ago.”

“I need to know.” He grunts, leaning further over your desk. “If there’s an access point I haven’t been made aware of, it could be a vulnerability-“

“No.”

You can see the blink in your periphery. “What do you mean, no.”

“It’s not a vulnerability. It’s my building, James. People know who I am. They’re going to let me inside.”

There’s a moment of pause, and when Barnes speaks again his words are slow. “So you saw people. You got in through a primary entrance.” Another pause, his gaze almost prickling over your skin, and then- “The garage.”

Shit. 

“Maybe.” You hum, keeping your eyes on the computer. “Doesn’t really matter.”

Barnes grunts. “I’m picking you up tomorrow.”

“You don’t know where I live-“

“Yeah, I do. It was in your file.” He pauses, and you see him give a firm nod to the air. “We’ll take your car-“

“I don’t drive.”

“Of course you drive, I saw you-“

“I drive to dinner. Not to work.”

“You-“ Barnes cuts himself off, and you start slightly as his fist slams on your desk. “What the fuck are you typing.”

You blink at your screen—full of absolute gibberish, because typing was just another part of the Show—and slowly look back to Barnes. “Emails. Sorry- Emails are like letters, but you type them, and use this thing called the internet to send them.”

Barnes stares at you, and shakes his head. “Is this a fucking joke to you?”

“Yes.” You answer without hesitation, raising your chin and leaning back in your chair. “I mean, the letter bit wasn’t my best, but-“

“I’m talking about Hydra.” Barnes hisses, planting his metal hand on your desk as he leans forward. “I’m talking about how Sam believes you’re in danger, enough to drag me into it, and you’re acting like you think it’s nothing. Like you’re above it.”

Above it.

That rattles and dislodges something in your body. You are not above it. You aren’t above anything. You slathered yourself in paint and torn yourself apart like a dysfunctional toy, and this is a joke because everything has to be. Because you’re above nothing—you’re buried in the center of the Earth and hotter than its core—and Barnes doesn’t know shit about what he’s saying.

But your gut begins to feel something like a rot. Sam is worried. He’s trying. But you’d told him you didn’t need Barnes, and that’s what keeps the mask in place. You’ll take care of this yourself, and to do that Barnes needs to remain out of your way.

No risks.

No holes.

The Show keeps going because that’s what you are, and you remain alone, just as you’re supposed to be.

“I do not think it’s nothing. And I think this,” you point between yourself and Barnes. “Is the joke. Not Hydra. I don’t need you, Barnes, and I know you don’t want to be here-“

He tenses slightly, cutting you off with a grunt. “I told Sam I would be here. And you’re not getting away with shit on my watch. This isn’t a joke, doll, none of it, and if you know that you should start fucking acting like it.”

Doll. It’s like a noose around your neck that makes the world narrow. You still don’t break the Show. You raise your chin and cover the broken parts of your voice with a crude, bored tone. 

“I will act as I please. This is my life, I will treat it however I want.”

He scoffs, looking you over like he can see you. The real, more than human you. The one tucked deep, deep down that’s scratching at her cage and whining the longer the Show goes on, the one that always breaks out just a little and gets the better of you. Makes you say stupid things and fall apart in the dead of night. The one you work so fucking hard to keep down when you can, but never manage to smother entirely because you’re you, and there’s no proper weapon against that. No tool that can skin you down permanently. It’s why you keep yourself so far down. 

There’s no way he can see it. Even Sam barely sees it. Sam sees past the Show and most every mask, but he still doesn’t see everything, and he’s known you longer than almost anyone. There is no reason to believe Barnes would’ve cracked you open after barely a day. 

So you keep your chin high as he glowers at you, and when he speaks again there’s no change to his tone. It’s still the rough, commanding danger from before, with no new blood or fury around the edges, and you think—for now—you’re safe. 

“I told Sam I’d be here.” He repeats, holding your gaze. “And I am doing this for him, not you, so I will be here. In your office. Watching you. The next time you make your receptionist-“

“Assistant.” You correct, keeping your voice bored and smooth. “She does just as much as I do. Grace is my assistant.”

Barnes lets out a long breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose as if you’re physically hurting him. “The next time you make your assistant keep me outside, I am not waiting until the end of the day to break down your door-“

“You still have to fix that-“

“And I will.” He snaps. “When you go one goddamn week following my rules.”

Your mouth curves into a wide, disbelieving grin. “Your rules? Am I going to need a fucking hall pass for the bathroom?”

Barnes continues as if you’d never spoken. “I am going to be in your office every morning, and leave with you every night. I get full access to your security systems, here and at home.” He’s raising a finger for every point. A finger made of skin and bone, rather than metal. “You pull that Houdini trick on me again-“

“I don’t think you know how a Houdini works-“

“And I handcuff you to your fucking chair.” 

Your grin grows, his scowl deepens, and this is too fucking easy. “Kinky.”

Jaw clench. Two blinks. Nostril flare. “Stop interrupting me. I go to all your meetings, and work events, and if Hydra contacts you again, I am the first to hear about it.” Barnes braces his hand back on your desk, leaning back forward. “Understood?”

You shrug, and he looks like he’s about to tear your head off.

He grunts your name—your first name, and it’s still so strange when he says it—and you cut him off with a flat tone and raised brows. 

“Are you done?”

He blinks at you. Twice. “Am I done?”

You hum with a nod, and his voice drops slightly.

“Are you going to listen?”

“Of course, James. You know, you didn’t actually tell me any of this before, so maybe I just didn’t think you’d want to spend all your time herding me like a sheep-“

“Sheep listen.” Barnes drawls, repeating your name. “And just say what you want.”

You pause, holding his gaze as everything stutters, and he hasn’t seen through you but he’d seen enough. He knows you have an angle, or a game, and he’s still staring at you like—if he looks for long enough—he’ll tear apart the Show with only his attention and you’ll mold into the real you.

You don’t know what he’d want with the real you. What he’s aiming for, by grabbing your cards and forcing them one the table.

For now, it doesn’t matter. He’s angry. And you’d have gotten here eventually, he just doesn’t seem to enjoy your dance that most powerful people love to play with.

That’s fine.

Most of this is easier without it.

“I don’t want anything.” You hum, tilting your head at him and keeping your arms crossed over your chest. “But I do have a few rules of my own.”

“Rules-“

“That is what I said.” You let your smile pull back at your lips, because it seems to hit a raw nerve in Barnes that you’d like to tease. “I’ll do all of your shit, if you do all of mine. Deal?”

Barnes jaw twitches slightly. “I’m not getting you coffee-“

You roll your eyes. “Good. I don’t want you to. Deal?”

He stares at you, the wood of your desk scraping slightly as his body tenses, and this time—scanning over your features and glaring at you like you’re personally responsible for Hydra’s existence and this whole situation—he finds what he’s looking for.

“Deal.” His words are pushed through his teeth, and he gives you a tight nod. “Go.”

“First of all, we are not friends.”

Barnes snorts, opening his mouth to sneer something back, but you’re faster.

“Shut up. What that means is that you’re here to keep Hydra off my ass, and that is all you’ll do. If you have thoughts on any other aspects of my life, keep them to yourself. You don’t get security access to my apartment, because it’s Stark funded and designed, so I will be fine. If I need to go somewhere and I tell you not to come, you’ll listen, and we’ll do hourly check-ins so you don’t start crying. I will let you bring me to work-“

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’ll let me-“

“But,” you continue, ignoring his mocking tone. “We’re taking the subway. Got it?”

Barnes is staring again. Sam told you he did that, but you’d thought he was exaggerating. It’s almost amazing to see in person, but you have a feeling he really does believe that if he stares at you enough, you’ll either be you—if he can see you, and knows there’s something to pry out at all—or you’ll somehow cave and fold into an easy victim. Innocent and hopeless and needy, afraid and nothing more.

You are afraid. You still don’t know what Hydra wants. You have Barnes, but he’s more of a sentry—if you’re being generous, and if you’re not, he’s an additional problem—and you have Sam, but he’s Captain America. His primary concern shouldn’t be you. It can’t be you, because you don’t need it more than anyone else, you’re less deserving of it than anyone could be, and if it is you that Hydra is after, then there will be other things to be afraid of.

Things that can’t be fixed like this, things that you can’t run from because it’s just not that easy.

None of this is easy. Barnes isn’t easy, Hydra isn’t easy, and you won’t be easy. The easy victim is a myth regardless, but you’re about to make it look like a fucking legend.  You’re exhausted and afraid and Barnes doesn’t get to walk in and stare at you, then think he’s in control. You’ve fought too violently to give in, and you feel a little sick—the weight of a migraine starting to press at your brow, paired with the twist of your stomach that makes the room start to spin—so you don’t have the energy to be easy. 

If you don’t have to put on the normal Show for Barnes, you’ll work out a new one that still keeps him on the outside. Looking in at what you want him to see, and nothing more. 

You’ll have plenty of time to figure that out tonight. You know you won’t sleep. You’re frayed and stretched too thin to sleep, your brain too wired from the fear and loneliness and everything.

So when Barnes nods, it’s a relief. This—whatever it was—is done. You can go home.

You stand without anther word, grab your already packed bag—you never fully unpack, just in case you have to move—and push past Barnes without a glance. You only pause your march to the elevator to tap on Grace’s desk, your words softer and quieter as the room starts to blur.

“Give Barnes my number, and tell security to give him full building access.”

Grace nods, glancing back over her shoulder to your office. You follow her gaze and swallow a slightly yelp, because Barnes has silently moved to the doorway, and is watching with a stoic, stone-like expression.

“Hi.” Grace mumbles. “I- uh- the door-“

“He’ll fix it.” You mutter, rubbing your face as you scan over the wholly abandoned office. “And you can do those things from home, if you want.”

Grace looks back to you with a frown. “Are you going home? It’s only-“

“I don’t feel well. I- Yeah.” You let out a long breath, and Grace’s eyes narrow. 

She doesn’t know why you don’t feel well. She doesn’t know that he has been gone too long, and the bond is starting to wither, let alone that—if it’s left abandoned for too long—this pain will be the easy part.

She does know that this happens. She’s made the connection that it’s often, in some way, because of him.

“Are you going to call-“

“No.” Your voice is harsher than you’d meant it, but Grace doesn’t flinch. She knows—you think she knows, you hope she knows, she has to know or you’re the lowest piece of shit on the planet—that you don’t mean it. 

She only nods slowly, and lowers her voice as her eyes flash with what you know to be concern. When it’s anything about him, it’s always concern.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.” You shake your head, flinching slightly at the movement. You need to lie down now, before darkness overtakes your vision and you collapse on the floor in front of fucking Barnes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Grace hums, giving you one last worried look but letting it go, and you spare Barnes a nod before you leave.

But he moves. He follows you into the elevator and stands in front of the door with his arms crossed, only acknowledging you when you let out a dramatic cough, and he glares over his shoulder.

“What are you doing.”

He rolls his eyes, and looks back to the door. “We’re getting you home.”

“I-” You gape at his back, and it looks dense, but you still think it would hurt him if you punched hard enough. “What?“

“You said I was allowed to bring you to and from your home. We had a deal, kid.” He shrugs, and you can see his muscles moving under his shirt. It’s hypnotizing.

You’re losing your willpower faster than usual tonight.

“I don’t need an escort.” You mumble, but the pain is reaching your tongue and it’s hard to make your tone firm. “‘M fine-“

“I don’t care.” He grunts, still not looking at you as the doors open. “Move.”

You almost whine, but choke it down with a scowl as you drag yourself together. You won’t falter. You’ll hold the Show together until you’re finally alone, and then you’ll fall apart.  

You make it. Barnes rides the subway at your side, all the way to your apartment, and you make it because you’ve made it through worse. All that you had to do here was stare at your knees—a little bruised, tucked to your chest in your seat—and pretend you couldn’t feel Barnes watching you. 

You keep your steps steady as you finish the walk from the station, and give Barnes a grimacing smile that you hope he interprets as I hate you and hope your shower is cold tonight instead of I feel like death, and if I try to do anything more than this I’ll start screaming.

You’ll see him tomorrow. You’ll put on the Show—the one you’re going to tailor specially for him—and play the game, right up until he caves, and you win.

And you will win. You’re already a step ahead without him knowing. He doesn’t try to follow you up to your apartment. You’re going to adapt, and he’ll see nothing more than what you want him to. When you make it to your bedroom—kicking off your shoes and shuffling up the stairs without bothering to turn on the lights—you collapse and let out a weak, shaking breath as you fade in and out of consciousness, but you’re still winning.

You have to shift through his drawer for a shirt, just to keep yourself held together. You’ll die before you call him—before you plead for him to come back now, before you give him more control—but you’re winning.

In the loosest sense, you’re winning.

You’re too you but no one’s here to see it. See you sobbing and curling into the sheets because it hurts, and you’re alone, and it’s so dark and cold and there’s no way out. No one to save you from this, and maybe if Hydra does take you it will be the best outcome, because you’ll be freeing Sam, and Happy, and Barnes, and everyone else who you’ve tricked into existing where you can leech off of them.

It'll be better in the morning. It’s always better in the morning. You make it the whole night without calling him, with the only gashes forming over your heart where no one can see them, and it’s always better in the morning.

The sun drifts through the windows, and the Boy is sitting and purring on your chest, and you’re okay. You’re still lonely and hollow, but you’re okay.

You know how to deal with Barnes without revealing too much—for a brief moment in the dark you’d considered showing him everything, as it would drive him away faster than anything, but that would lose you Sam and you can’t lose Sam—and you’re going to win. 

You’ve never lost a game like this before. And Barnes may be a semi-worthy opponent, but you’re still you. You don’t matter enough for him to fight you forever. You’re too much for him hold against for long.

He can see through you, but that means he’ll hate you faster. If anything, you’ll be doing him a favor. Nobody should have to pretend you’re worthy of being served or guarded in anyway, and when you win, you’ll be sparing Barnes of yourself.

You’ve have this under control.

You don’t make him do anything. You have too many people doing things for you as it is. When you walk outside and find Barnes standing—tall and rigid and almost inhumanly still—on the sidewalk, the only acknowledgment you offer him is a sweet smile that makes his jaw twitch. You’re not sure if it’s your joy or overall presence that’s the problem, but you can work with either.

“Barnes.” You hum, your smile widening as you scan him over. His outfit is identical to the one he wore yesterday, and you’re not entirely sure he ever went home. “Morning.”

He grunts your name, returning your assessing stare, and you know he can see the underlying anger and mocking respect behind your smile. You’re counting on it. 

“This is the part where you say morning back.” You prompt, and his nostrils flare.

“Morning.”

“Good job.” 

“Shut up.”

“Rude.” You drop your voice under your breath, fully aware that he’s still going to hear it. “Let’s go, Sargent. I’ve got a lot of places to be.”

Barnes doesn’t respond, and you try not to feel like too much of a whiny, pathetic fucking bitch as you walk to the subway. Chin raised, expression bored and borderline haughty, posture perfectly straight like you think you’re better. 

You know you’re not better. You know that—with every person that passes you on the street and crowds you in the subway car—you are far, far worse. But Barnes thinks you see yourself as some kind of mortal goddess among the less worthy, just a brat who thinks she’s above things—that word is still clawing at your skull, above, as if you’re not made of trash scraps that are polished to mimic diamonds—and you have no interest in correcting him. You have things you don’t deserve. You are undeserving, just as he thinks, but he doesn’t need to know that you’re deeply and critically aware of that.

If you need to be the entitled, holy imposter that he’s painting you as, it’s exactly what you’ll become. 

When you reach the crowded subway, Barnes freezes behind you. You don’t need to turn to know he’s glaring at you. You don’t bother to hide the smile in your voice as you speak.

“You good?”

All you get in response is another grunt, and your smile widens.

He had to have known it wouldn’t be this easy. You’d be a little disappointed if he thought it was. 

“The ride is like, ten minutes.” You say, rubbing at your wrist as you watch the people shift around you. There’s a woman with metallic nails, a man with a clearly broken watch, and no protesters or preachers. Barnes got lucky. “When we get there it’s pretty much just following me around, right?”

There’s a pause, and then, “What.”

“Your plans.” You shoot him a wide, toothy smile over your shoulder. “I have work to do. What are you going to do, James? How are you going to protect me?”

Two blinks. Nostril flare. “That’s not your concern.”

“I dunno, it kinda feels like it is-“

“Pretend I’m not here, doll.” He snaps, and his attention is doing the thing again. You feel small, and naked, and vulnerable. It’s like a blade through your gut and a clamp around your heart. “I’ll keep you alive, and you can do,” he scans over you, his tone dropping to flat. Dismissive. “Whatever you do.”

You don’t let it show how his words hit somewhere deeper than he’d likely been aiming. You can’t let it show. It will be a point in his favor, that he’s made your mask shatter even one bit, that he’s driven through all your carefully forged defenses to hit a raw, white-hot nerve. 

He sees it though. In the split second before you push yourself—with inconvenient emotions, a lump in your throat, and rapid thoughts of you don’t really do anything but take up fucking space and money and time—down, your smile falters, you feel yourself slip out, and Barnes smirks.

He saw you. The Show slips back into place, but Barnes saw you. 

You keep going. You just have to keep going, and adapt, and give him a mocking grin as you step onto the subway. 

He hates it. You can see it in how he holds himself the whole ride, like he’s bracing for an attack. And Barnes seems to hate most everything, but you’re hoping it will be the small things that get him. That make him give up on you, because you plaster that mocking smile back on your face, humming and bouncing on your feet at his side, and by the time you get to the Stark Foundation building you’d safely bet you’re another step ahead. 

And you keep gaining strides. The day passes with long, boring meetings and fights with old men who think they’re smarter than you are, and Barnes sits silently in the corner. Like he’s a phantom, or part of the room’s decoration, his attention always pushing its way into your body.

Everyone keeps shooting him weary looks and cautious glances, like the wrong breath will set him into a bloodied frenzy.

You just ignore him.

“Is that all he’s going to do?” Grace whispers, holding her papers to her chest and nodding her head to Barnes in the corner of your office. 

You shrug. “He’s a hundred, Grace. You can ask him to do more, but it might kill him.”

Barnes doesn’t react. You didn’t expect him to.

“Are you going on lunch?”

Grace nods. “The deli. You want the-“

“Yes, please.” You hum, hiking one leg up to your seat as you lean back over your computer. “Ask the old fuck if he wants something.”

Barnes blinks in the background, and only shakes his head when Grace approaches him. 

The door barely closes behind her when his attention returns to you, and you shoot him a bright smile. 

“You got any other plans for the day, besides intimidating my employees?”

His jaw ticks. “No.”

You hum, scanning over him with mock curiosity. “If I decorate you, will you break my arm?”

“If you- What?”

“Decorate you, dummy.” You return your attention to your computer, shrugging as you begin to type. “I’m thinking glitter and ribbons.”

“Why in god’s name would you need to decorate me,” he snaps your name, his voice more gravelly and rough than only seconds ago, and you take it as a victory. He’s slipping. “I am not a fucking Christmas tree.”

“No, but you don’t go with anything.” You let out a dramatic sigh, pretending this is really a plague on your mind. “You could at least try to match the aesthetic, if you’re going to be standing there all day.”

He doesn’t respond. You can feel his attention pushing right into your body once more, but he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

You’re still winning.

The week stretches on, the weekend passes with Barnes texting you every hour to make sure you’re not dead, and you keep it together. You’re playing the Show almost perfectly.

Almost. 

There are brief moments like the one that morning. Long seconds where Barnes gets an advantage, and you have to almost scramble to regain your ground. It’s unnerving, and exhausting, but you manage. You adapt. 

You take the same train to and from work every morning, and Barnes marches what you’re guessing is meant to be a respectable distance behind you, keeping his impossibly blank expression every single second. 

It’s three days before you manage to pry it open just an inch. To hit some part of him that’s just as deep as he’s gotten to hit you. 

“Have you ever been to the opera?”

He blinks down at you, and you give him a soft, innocent smile. 

“What.”

“The opera.” You raise your brows, swinging slightly on the subway pole as you watch him. “You know, you say what a lot.”

He scowls. “Well, you say stupid things a lot.”

“Aw, you listen to me?”

“It’s my job.”

“Shucks.” You sigh, pouting up at him. “And here I thought I was interesting.”

His eyes flash slightly, and he starts to say something that will likely make your heart drop to your gut and pull you right out of the Show, so you plow on.

“You never answered my question, James. Have you been to the opera?”

He just stares at you, and you let out a long breath.

“Sorry, I forgot you were a dinosaur. The opera is like a musical, but louder and there aren’t any spoken lines. Like reverse ballet. They’re usually in Italian, I think. You can’t be sure because all words sound the same when you’re saying them like you’re a bird. It’s kind of like-“

You take a long deep breath, ready to belt out a purposefully off-key note, and Barnes covers your mouth with a gloved hand. 

It’s a firm grip. His eyes are flashing, and his nostrils are flared, and you can see his annoyance. When his words come out gruff and pushed through his teeth, you know you’ve won again.

“Do you ever shut up?” He hisses, and you raise your brows, looking pointedly down to his hand.

He follows you gaze, and releases you with a glower. 

“That was rude.” You half whine, pushing him a little further. “You could’ve just asked me to be quiet-“

He rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

“Well, you’ll never know that, because you didn’t try.” You sigh, returning to dramatic pout to your face. “There’s this thing called manners, James. It’s where you say please and thank you and don’t cover the mouth of perfectly sweet girls-“

Barnes scoffs. “You are not sweet-“

“In train cars.” You keep talking as if he’d said nothing, because you’re not sweet and it hurts deep in your chest how easily he said that. “I could’ve pepper sprayed you, dumbass.”

You can feel him scanning you over, so you stand a little taller and keep your gaze fixed on the blurred walls.

“You don’t have pepper spray.”

“No. But I’d have figured something out. One slightly confusing question and you would’ve crumbled.”

Barnes grunts “You think you’re funny.”

“I’m hilarious.” You drawl, examining your nail as the subway car rattles slightly. “We’re going to the opera, by the way. That’s why I asked.”

Going to the opera means walking through the building, seeing a dress rehearsal and giving your stamp of approval, because all the proceeds from the show will go the Manhattan Food Bank, but those are details Barnes doesn’t need know that. Those things won’t play into the Show, not as he needs to see it.

All Barnes needs to do is follow you around and see how you’ve muzzled yourself. Watch you give sweet smiles and kind words to people, just to turn around and mock and snap at him. He needs to see the over-composure and know it’s a trick. He needs to know you’re a liar, a wrong, twisted, hideous liar, and never bother to try and search deeper. 

He just needs to hate you, and care about you so little that he either doesn’t bother to really do his job—Sam or no Sam—or leaves overall. 

You think it’s working. He engages less and less with you every passing day. Only standing in the corner, glowering at you as you work. 

“I- ah-“ The small, weedy man you’re meeting with about public school donations swallows his words, glancing to where Barnes has planted himself by the door. “I am- As I’m sure you’re aware, ma’am, our arts depar-“ He chokes again, looking back to Barnes. “The music- um- Orchestra-“

“Is it Barnes?” You ask, and the man blinks at you.

“I- I’m sorry?”

“Sargent stone-face.” You angle your head in Barnes’ direction, and he doesn’t move an inch. “Is he freaking you out?”

“I- It’s not a problem,” the man says your name softy, but gives Barnes another nervous look. “I’m sure he’s- yes- it’s fine-“

You let out a long breath, glaring at Barnes over the man’s head. “James. Relax.”

His eye flash, but his shoulder slump slightly. 

And you stare at each other, your own shock written all over your face, likely a perfect mirror to his.

He’d relaxed. For one brief second he’d relaxed, just because you told him to, and if the way he’s blinking at you is any indication, he hadn’t meant to. He just had. 

You return your focus to the man in front of you, and don’t look at Barnes again until after the man leaves.

“It’s rude to stare.” You hum. “It’s part of the manners thing we talked about yesterday.”

He rolls his eyes. “So I’ve heard.”

It’s all you get. But you know you’ve carved a little deeper, because in your next meeting, Barnes’ shoulders return to the slight slump—as if he’s trying not to draw any attention, backing further into the wall and giving the suit talking to you a small nod when he walks in the door—but the intensity of his glare seems to double. 

And he’s keeping his end of the deal. You aren’t trying to dodge or undermine him—not obviously, or visibly—and he’s not pushing himself into your life. The pain returns with more and more force every night and he never questions it, because you’re not worth the effort questioning. Of putting in more than the passive, stoic effort he seems to have mastered. 

It’s exactly what you wanted. You can keep it up for months if you need to. 

But the pain is becoming a problem. Too many mornings have come where you’re hunched on the floor of the bathroom, your fingers hovering over his contact, because it hurts and he could fix it. Just his voice would make it better. Seal the bond just enough to hold you over until he came back home, and you had a whole new kind of pain to push through. 

You never call him. You work and work, tossing Stark money to anyone who can prove they need it and grinding yourself into the sparkling ash that you need to be. The Show keeps going, and you keep adapting, just as you always done. 

Exactly what you have to do for what matters. 

The only change to the Show is Barnes, but that’s only taunting words and mocking grins, trying to find an opening to fix the whole Hydra thing yourself.

You’d been planning for that time to be when you were alone, in your apartment with the Boy sitting on the counter as you worked, and Barnes far away. But the fracture of the bond leaves you weak at the end of the day and in a borderline catatonic state through the night. It’s starting to creep where the sun can see it. Where people—real people who exactly as much as they need to be, who don’t owe their entire minds and hearts and body as reparations for pretending to be alive—can see.

Barnes is starting to notice. You know he is. He sees when you stop typing for long minutes and just stare at the screen, your vision clouding and thoughts strangled by the pain around your head like a crown. When Grace says something and you flinch almost imperceptibly, because she’s so kind but you don’t deserve it, and her voice is like a drill into your skull.

He doesn’t say anything.

But you know sees it.

And that’s exactly what you’ve been smashing yourself apart and stitching yourself back together in order to avoid. He shouldn’t see you. Yet even now—in a large meeting with all the department heads giving their reports with words you don’t really understand anymore—you can feel Barnes watching you and seeing you. 

It’s so fucking dangerous. You’re fighting to keep yourself breathing, you’re about to black out and slump in your chair, and you feel sick—bile in your throat and bubbling in your gut and making your head light sick—but you can’t be weak where he can see it. 

You stand abruptly, giving clipped words you can’t hear that you’ll be back in a minute, that they should continue in your absence—because they don’t really need you, not this you, who’s weak and inconvenient and crumbling under nothing but herself—and leave the meeting. 

You’re being selfish. And useless. But it’s you can’t be there, where everyone is alive and the show is a struggle to keep up. You barely make it into the bathroom before you’re on your knees, and everything shatters. 

It tastes horrible, rocketing out of your throat and into the toilet bowl. Your vision dances with black spots, and you can’t hear beyond a pounding and screeching noise in your ears, can’t smell beyond what pushes itself out of your nose, but you just have to ride it out. It’s part of being you. Being too human, and that getting the better of you when anyone else could just get through it. 

It passes. It’s temporary, and it passes. You take a breath that’s not a sputtering—a desperate inhale to keep yourself conscious—and grip the cool porcelain of the toilet to stay upright, and it passes. There’s a little vomit lingering on your chin that you wipe off, the toilet flushes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

Your legs are too shaky for you to return. Grace will be taking notes for you. And it’s nice in here, where there’s no one smile at or be pretending for. The air is cool, and the motion-sensor lights have turned off, so you think-

You’ll just stay here for a while. Just until you know that you can go back out without showing too much of yourself. 

It’s too quiet, so you pull out your phone and work from there. Just because you’re hiding like a weak, afraid little animal doesn’t mean you’re going to do nothing. You have to do something, or you’ll be even worse than you already are.

And as the time crawls on and your eyes start to weigh with sleep, you wonder if just turning to stone here would be permissible. They would have to remove you from the wall, or you could be decoration, and you’d be stealing less resources than you do now. They could pass you to Hydra with a clean conscious, or give up on protecting you because statues don’t need bodyguards. 

You’re already a statue, though. A husk. You’re already alone and hollow, and Sam only gave you a bodyguard because you’ve managed to trick in him into thinking you were worth it. You know you’re tricking him, and you’ve never told him that you’re worse than you appear, and that might make you worse than Hydra.

At least they don’t put on a show to be what they’re not. 

Maybe the fix would be to turn yourself over to them. It would save everyone a lot of time and effort, and Sam would be angry but he’d get over it, and Barnes-

Fuck.

You’d forgotten about Barnes. 

And almost as if on a perfect cue, the door is split open, and he crashed into the bathroom. The lights flick back on as he stops right above you, arms crossed and attention peeling you apart.

You don’t look up at him, keeping your eyes trained on your phone, even as your vision glazes over.

“That’s the second door you’ve broken.” You mutter, and he ignores you.

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Reading, I think.”

“You think-“

“Yep.”

There’s a long second of silence, before Barnes breaks it with a grunt.

“You always make people run your company without you, doll?”

There’s a seize over your heart. You ignore it. “Only every other Thursday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“Huh.” You shrug. “Oops.”

Barnes snorts, and you can’t stop your gaze from flicking up to him. 

He’s still annoyingly handsome. Still glaring at you with eyes that look silver in the too-white light of the bathroom, and you feel small again. Raw. Too human. More than you’re supposed to be where it’s visible. 

Barnes doesn’t flinch at it. That same odd look flashes in his eyes as he scans over you, and when he speaks again, he’s the only thing louder than the rush of blood in your ears.

“Next time you need to do that,” he nods to the clean toilet. “Leave the door open, and I won’t have to break it.”

You blink at him. “Do-“

“Have a panic attack.” He grunts. “And fucking sleep tonight. You get mouthy when you don’t.”

And he just fucking turns and leaves. His words knock into you like a bullet, and he just walks away.

You don’t know how he keeps seeing you, when nobody is supposed to really, fully see you. Not all of you. Not past the fool’s gold you’ve turned yourself into, because then they leave. 

But Barnes is stuck here. Until Sam gives the clear, he won’t leave. It’s becoming annoyingly obvious that he won’t leave, Maybe that’s why he keeps driving right into parts of you that never see the sun. That only come out in the dead of night under stars or in pitch darkness. 

It’s probably some assistant secret you need to learn. Maybe a Hydra tactic you should familiarize yourself with, just in case. You rarely sleep, but you’ll just have to adjust the show to make him think you have. They aren’t panic attacks, but he’s too close to being right, and you’ll have to shift to match that as well. 

You just need to keep adapting. Rationalizing. 

Moving. 

You just need to keep moving, until Barnes stops trying to keep up with you.

You’re not sure what that will take.

But you’ll work it out. 

You will not let him be the thing that makes you bow. Makes you vulnerable. Makes you bend into him will, when you’ve scraped and screamed so loud to cut every leash you could off your body.

So you’ll just keep fucking moving.

——————

The past two weeks had been the longest, most confusing ones of Bucky’s life. 

Everyone liked Her. Adored Her. He’d heard nothing but genuine praise about how kind and sweet She was, and he didn’t get it. She was annoying. Beautiful and loud and smart-mouthed and annoying. She was making this as difficult as possible for him, on purpose, but everyone spoke about Her as if she was some sort of saint. 

If Bucky hadn’t been sure She was hiding something before, he was positive now. People who weren’t hiding things didn’t have carefully concealed bags under their eyes every morning. They didn’t spend their whole days in their offices, typing and reading and burying themselves where the world couldn’t see. 

People who weren’t hiding things didn’t shift in and out of masks every second. Smiling like an angel at everyone they passed and using big, quick words with an air of casual boredom, only to close the door and turn into almost a fire-spitting demon. 

But Bucky had  worked out that She was only shifting into that taunting, crude and mocking woman for him.

He also knew that it wasn’t the mask fully off. 

She’d only have it off in brief moments, when one of the suits or brittle old men would compliment Her, and her smile would flicker. When someone would thank Her, and that thing deep in her eyes would shift. Burst forward just long enough for Bucky to catch it, even when everyone else missed it. 

But that was what he did. He caught it, and threw it—loud and spitting—right back in Her face until something cracked. It was his passive plan of attack to make Her slip, and give him enough proof that She was up to something. Because no one could be truly this beautiful, truly this good, without it all being an act. 

In just two weeks, his log about Her had grown. She often spoke without thinking—or thinking too much, he couldn’t tell and that was jarring—and she always had something to say. Bucky had a feeling he could bring up any topic, and she’d have a pointless opinion. She took almost nothing seriously, but still got a harsh, almost brutal look of focus whenever she was working. She didn’t seem to believe She was better than everyone—people who did never turned into the shadow he’d often see flickering over her face and under her pretty features—but she did think she knew better. He could hear it in her voice, whenever she gave an order or direction, that there was no doubt of error.

He decided that was the reason why he’d relaxed when She’d told him to. She’d said it like an order, and he’d been a solider for so long that his body just reacted.  

It might be Her beauty, as well. She looked like shifting, shimmering light every single second, and if She’d ever stop sneering venom and making Bucky’s job impossible—his efforts doubled to try and see what She obviously didn’t want him to—She might have been attractive. Bucky might have tried to actually talk to Her, instead of tuning Her rambling and taunting out.

He was trying to tune it out.

It was harder than it should have been.

He really needed to revisit that inhuman beauty possibly caused by Hydra thing, when he had the time. It felt likely.

But he was spending too much time on Her pointless, annoying distractions. Trying not to beat himself to pieces on Her too crowded and hot and loud subways trips, trying to observe Her while still following his rule of don’t look too long.

Trying work out exactly what was eating at Her mind, what was wrong with Her that she never slept and would rub her skin like she was trying to wipe invisible grime off of it. What was causing those hitched breaths and momentarily panicked expressions, making Her breakdown on the bathroom floor when—as far as Bucky had been able to see—not a single damn thing had happened. 

It might be a guilty conscious. The knowledge that She was lying to all these people about whatever she was. 

And Bucky had yet to see a single friend of Her's. The closest he’d come was Her assistant, but that girl seemed to worship the ground She walked on, so her judgment was clouded. 

Just as Sam’s was.

Because whatever spell Her beauty and hauntingly beautiful voice was casting over people, it was keeping them from even thinking that she was capable of wrongdoing.

Bucky hadn’t dared to bring that up with Sam yet. Not until he had evidence of it. 

But he’d get that evidence. He’d finish this so that he could get the hell away from Her, and how She was taking up so much of his goddamn headspace.

He had to play his game almost every hour he was in Her presence. It was exhausting.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. It was almost midnight on a Saturday, and the carpet in Her office was brown. He liked that She used the same password for everything, because it made this easier. He didn’t like that, when he looked through Her desk, it made her seem normal. That photos of a round black cat made him imagine Her pretty face with a wrinkled nose, and a cat on Her lap. That there were obvious pictures of people who had to be Her siblings, because they all had the same nose and undertones in their skin, hair, and eye colors. That She had a family. 

As did most people who weren’t a hundred.

And Bucky had living family. His sisters had ended up with kids, and they’d ended up with kids, and life had drifted around him in a way he’d never be able to catch and drag back.

It may have to go on without Her, for the people in those photos. If Bucky’s theory was right. 

He kept looking at the fucking photos. Her siblings didn’t have that thing behind their eyes. They all had nice, attractive features, but She was the only one who was inhumanly beautiful. Entrancing. Distracting.

He needed to look away from Her, and focus on what he was doing. Finding the evidence. This was about the evidence.

He wanted to find something, some blaring red flag that would prove what She was, that this was some kind of scam, that Bucky had been right to be weary of Her. That he was not—as Sam called him—a paranoid asshole. It wasn’t paranoia if he was right.

That was the easiest want he’d ever had.  

And he hadn’t found anything yet, but he would. Her computer may be clean, but it was a company computer. All Her files might be boring numbers and long, annotated paragraphs, but She probably didn’t keep a piece of paper that read I am Hydra in Her desk. She was smart. If Bucky could offer Her one piece of praise, it would be that She seemed to be genuinely intelligent. 

That just made Her more dangerous. She’d be careful, if She was Hydra. She’d know how to hide it, which was likely why She’d gotten away with it for so long. And She had to be something. Nothing would add up if She was just the lovely woman everyone found Her to be. Nobody was simply that good and kind. Bucky hadn’t met a single person who would dedicate their lives to something like this just for the sake of being good. He’d think it was for the paycheck, but if it was for the paycheck She wouldn’t be taking the subway. It could be the connections, but every time Sam had mentioned being Captain America at dinner, She’d rolled her pretty eyes.

The eyes that held the thing. The thing that meant She simply wasn’t what she was claiming to be. 

And Bucky might be coming up empty handed—he should’ve assumed he would, he never got what he wanted—but She wasn’t innocent. She couldn’t be. Sam wasn’t finding any more leads on Hydra—meaning it was probably an inside job—and She was too smart and kind and beautiful to not be some sort of Hydra-made plant meant to drive Bucky insane with pouting smiles and mocking glares and sharp words-

“What are you doing here.”

Bucky’s head shot up, and She was right there.

It was midnight. On a Saturday. Why was She in her office a midnight on a Saturday.

“Security.” He grunted, and it wasn’t his best excuse, but it wasn’t horrible.

She saw through it anyway. 

“What security are you doing in my desk, Barnes.” She crossed Her arms, and Bucky shrugged, moving around the desk to stand before Her.

“Cybersecurity is a thing, doll-“

“Don’t call me that.” She snapped, raising Her chin to hold Bucky’s gaze. She was better at it than Sam was, and it felt a little like he was being burned from the inside.

She had to be something.

“And tell me the truth.” She hissed. “Why the fuck are you in my office.”

His jaw clenched. “I told you-“

“You lied to me.”

“You got proof of that-“

“My cybersecurity is the most tight and well-designed in the world. Tony Stark made that computer, and it’s a prototype he didn’t want to scrap, so he gave it to me. It’s unhackable, because it’s not commutable to any other system. Truth.”

Bucky frowned at Her. “Is that why you use such a stupid fucking password for it-“

“Why do you know my password?” 

Fuck.

“I-“ 

“The truth.”

Bucky stared at Her, and he was caught. She’d found him snooping, and he’d—for some reason he had no way of understanding—slipped up and revealed he’d known her password. She’d work out that he’d likely used it. His hands were covered in—thankfully metaphorical—blood.

And the only way out of this was more of a gamble than he’d want to take.

But he needed something.

So he was all in. 

“I don’t trust you,” he hissed, leaning down until he could see every perfectly placed bump on Her face, every shift and swirl of that thing behind Her eyes. “That’s why. You’re too young to have this position, nothing in your files adds up, you’ve hunched in the bathroom all week. You’re hiding something. I know you’re hiding something. Could be something with Stark, could be Hydra-“

Her eyes widened slightly, Her voice suddenly void of any smooth, careful music. It was raw. Almost unnerving.

“You think I’m Hydra?” 

“I think,” Bucky snapped, and there was no going back now. “That you’re not just some rich, happy little angel. I think everything about you is a lie-“

She laughed. Loud and furious, and Bucky was shocked it didn’t shake the earth. 

“What part of my life, James, do you think is a lie?” She took a firm step forward, and Bucky could smell Her. She smelled like flowers. She looked like the wrath of god was alight in Her body. “Is it how I’m here?” She gestured around them to the office, holding Bucky’s gaze. “Did I blackmail someone? Make a threat? Sleep my way here? Did I do something unspeakable to make someone as smart as Tony Stark think a stupid little girl could run his company?”

She laughed, and the sound was almost frightening. Bucky felt like he’d been locked into place, and she just continued.

“Or is the lie how I’m Hydra? How the only superheroes I’ve ever met are the dumbass who took me in off the street and my very dead boss, and before this I was nobody, fucking nothing, but I still somehow managed to be important enough to become a Hydra plant? What would Hydra want we me, Barnes? My stunning charisma and winning personality, that’s so clearly been able to charm and fool you? Huh? Is that what I’m here for? Am I just pretty and sweet and trying to ensnare you into Hydra’s grasp? Am I just a fucking doll for them to use?”

She spat that word, doll, and Bucky flinched. Fucking flinched. Like She was something that could actually hurt him, and not just an angry girl in the dark.

His words were caught in his throat. She was watching him like he should be doing something, but Bucky was frozen as he just stared at Her.

He’d seen horrible things. Things of nightmares, and desolation, and haunting phantoms that lined his vision all the time. And he’d done worse. His hands would always be a little sticky, and every room would never be warm enough for the frost to truly fade.

But making Her shake slightly as he just stared at Her felt like the worst thing he’d ever done. It wasn’t. Not by far.

But it goddamn felt like it. It felt like a burning arrow through his throat, because he’d never seem someone just fall like that. Into anger and fear and venom, looking like a frightened, gnashing animal or feral beast he’d try to soothe, if that was something Bucky was capable of doing.

But he wasn’t.

So he just stared.

And She deflated. Turned hollow as all the fire went out from Her eyes, leaving of the weight of that thing.

“Tell Sam I’ll do the lockdown,” She muttered, not meeting Bucky’s eyes as she turned to the door. “You can say I bullied you into quitting, or stabbed you with a stapler. I don’t care.”

The door slammed, and Bucky was alone in the dark.

He’d been wrong.

And Sam was going to fucking kill him.

End Note: I'd say unstoppable force vs. immovable object, but they're both about to be very stoppable and movable. As always, thank you so so much for reading, and please leave any thoughts or feedback if you have them!

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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I wonder how different the AU world would be if Steve never became Cap and Bucky somehow didn't go to war? Could Stucky x reader have a nice normal life with decent jobs, a house, some kids? Romanogers will always be my # 1 ship, but I have such a soft spot for Stucky and everything they went through.

Please say it with me now people, STEVE AND BUCKY DESERVED BETTER!

hope you enjoy lovely - love C 🐾

What if

Whispered arguments where passes back and forth from above you, the golden light of the early New York sun seeping in through the thin curtains.

“ come on you two mummy needs her sleep she does a lot for you guys”

“ but daddy, me and Howard just wanna play please”

“ Sarah’s right mummy promised to play with us today, and look she’s already awake! Good morning mummy” your young son Howard said escaping Buckys grasp as he jumped on the bed snuggling into you. Sarah was quick to follow her brother a disappointed but loving look came from bucky as your two children cuddled into your barley awake form.

Your heavy eyelids fully opened by this point, smiling gently at your two beautiful children. Sarah your 6 year old, was the spitting image of Steve golden hair and strong jawline, however she had your glowing eyes. You gently placed a loving kiss on her head as she snuggled into the large bed with you her show stopper smile shines sleepily up at you.

Your 4 year old Howard, strongly took after bucky. Sharing his piercing blue eyes, strong jawline and mischievous smirk. But he had your hair. A kiss was placed on his cheek too as he cuddled closer, chubby fists balling in your night shirt.

“Moring doll face sorry about this I wanted you to have a sleep In, you deserve it after last night.” The last part was whispered as he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. A soft whack was deliver to his chest by you for the comment, as he gently chuckled smoothing back his short hair.

“Well I know how you can make it up to me” you said smiling with faux innocence

“Come on handsome noting is better than a morning cuddle puddle” your children’s eyes glistened with the idea of all cuddling together. Both encouraging there father to join then.

“Now how could I resist that hm” the lazy smile that grazed his face made you so happy as he lifted the sheets and managed To encircle the three of you in his large arms. This of course elicited a wave of giggles from your children as they attempted to escape the tickling arms of There father.

As the four of you settle a soft kiss is shared between you and buck, the world seeming almost at peace but you all know that there is still a piece missing. Steve, he was always the one to wake up early and either drawn or make coffee and breakfast. Almost being able to read your mind bucky called out to him.

“ COME ON PUNK GET YOU SKINNY BUTT IN HERE!” Bucky screeched, sending Sarah and Howard into another fit of giggles. While you rolled your eyes at your husband, getting a kiss on the nose from him.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT BUC- well Well well what’s all this” Steve’s small form entered the room smiling fondly at the scene in front of him.

“ cuddle puddle papa you gotta come join quick” Sarah yelled her small hands making grabby hands at Steve.

“ common darlin we need you to finish off our set” your big bambi eyes coming out with your statement.

“ now who could resist that hm” he smiled slowly slipping into the opposite side to Bucky.

All three of thou smiled knowing no one in the world was as lucky as you all were in that moment

This may be turned into a series because ohhh my gosh my heart ❤️ hope you guys enjoyed- love C 🐾

Cuddling with Bucky Barnes:

This boy loves his cuddles

You have to plan at least 30 minutes of attempting to escape his grasp in the morning to get to work

Sleepy morning voice plus baby voice begging you to stay in bed with him

He leaves the window slightly open at night especially in the winter so you have to snuggle closer for warmth

Loves playing with your hair and having his hair played with

This little shit will put his ice cold metal arm on your exposed back just to hear the little squeal you make every time it happens

Always gets a pout and a whack from you which brings out a deep chuckle

He loves spending endless hours on weekends and rainy days just holding you and being held because there is no where else he feels safer or knows you are safe

Catching him up with all the newest movies while cuddling

He loves Disney but will never admit it to the others

Steve has come into your room more than once catching you two cuddling in the wierdest positions but your both really comfy and or the other is asleep and you don’t wanna disturb them

Scented candles fluffy blankets and too many cushions to count this man knows how to cuddle in style

Bucky doesn’t really have a favourite cuddling position but he just like having his arms around you

Loves listening to your voice when you read or sing to him

Also has a surprisingly good voice himself and loves to sing old songs to you

All in all this man is super sweet and after all he has been though he just wants to be cuddled

Hope you guys enjoyed please send requests- love C 🐾

I saw your post about requests, may I request a 1940s Stucky x Read but with pre serum Steve and a short/ petite reader? Where she is shorter then Steve (pre serum Steve is 5'4 and my short little self is 4'10 😅) can it be smut too please something along the lines of "Bucky likes them small" lol

Bucky likes them small

My first request yay hehe I’ve not started writing full stories yet cause I’m still getting use to writing but I hope this Drabble is a good start for you darling- love C 🐾

Warnings: this is smut like no plot just good old smut so please if you are a small human spawn under 18 or find this stuff uncomfy please scroll on I do not wish to offend my writing is for fun so please enjoy this gonna be dirty :)

Many people knew of the relationship you three had and many disapproved, however for the three of you it was the fairy tail perfect relationship, yes there were ups and downs but you all worked together so well and no one could deny that.

Bucky especially loved how much the pair of you needed him on a daily basis as the world did not seem to be built for people of your height. Bucky always loved when either of you two couldn’t reach something, for example when there was something on a high shelf one of you couldn’t reach he would press his front to your back pushing you up against the counter as he grabbed the item, one hand on your waist and a smirk on his face. However the love he had for your height did not stop at the domestic aspect.

Bucky loved both yours and Steve’s hight, he loved the dominance he had over the pair of you the way your petit body’s fitted so perfectly into his large rough hands. Bucky loved nothing more than watching as your face twisted in immense pleasure as your small tight pussy struggled to take his large length due to how vast the sizes of your bodies where.

Watching Steve struggling to breath as his ass was fllied with his cock and his mouth filled with your cunt, the way both of you where so easily manhandled and thrown around into the positions he wanted you in during sex. Watching as you looked so throughly fucked out as you where riding steve while Bucky controlled your movements from behind. He loved the idea of being able to hold onto you and help you get off each other just by lifting you up and down.

Bucky loved when both yours and Steve’s hand where wrapped around his shaft your small hands making his impressive length look even bigger with you laugh glassy eyes looking up at him completely “innocent”

Bucky just had a real big thing for how much power came from the large difference in yours and Steve’s body size to his and so it was well know to all three of you bucky likes them small

Hope you liked it hunny 🐾❤️

People I write for

Headcannons, imagines, x readers, bulbs, fluff and smut all accepted but I don’t write angst sorry my page is to bring joy not tears :) and I will make a master list later

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers

+ there 1940s version because pre serum Steve will always have my heart

Peter Parker

Stucky x reader

Stony x reader

Leo fitz

Daniel sousa

+ all the actors

Harry Potter

Harry

Ron

Draco

Cedric

Fred

George

Bill

Charlie

Viktor krum

Remus

Sirius

Wolf star x reader

James

Remus x Sirius x James x reader

Albus potter

James Sirius potter

Teddy lupin

Louis weasley

Fred II

Hugo

Scorpius

Narnia

Peter

Caspian

Edmund

Starwars

Luke

Han

Poe

Kylo

Ben solo

Anakin

Obione

Din djarin

Merlin

Merlin

Arthur

Mordred

Percival

Lancelot

Gwaine

Riverdale

Archie

Jughead

Reggie

Fp

Other people

Ahkmenrah

Roger Taylor

Enoch O’Connor

Harry styles

im sure I have forgotten some people so please request and I will write for any character I know well, I don’t really write for characters I don’t know or like just because I don’t want to get them wrong for you guys but please request and have an awesome day - love C 🐾

My Sun, My Star

A/N: I'm so weak for Winter soldier Bucky. I cant wait to write more of him, I love this sad guilt ridden man.

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Reader

Words: 6756

Warnings: Breaking and entering, Minor violence, Injury and Blood, Winter soldier Bucky, GN reader but also Pregnant reader, mild language, I'm not sure if this is fluff or angst or both??

Summary: You wait up late for your boyfriend Bucky to return from his mission, but it isn't Bucky who finds you.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue | Bucky Masterlist

Like what I do? Consider buying me a Coffee!

________________

Your eyes blinked slowly, heavier with each passing second, yet you still managed to open them once again. Glancing at the bright white numbers of the digital clock you watched it change to 1:46 AM, causing a groan to pull from your lips. Bucky was supposed to be back tonight (yesterday technically) from his latest mission, but he still had yet to show up at your shared flat. 

You checked your phone again, the lack of notifications mocking your tired eyes. You let out one more sigh before you turned off the mindless babbling of the TV and stood up to get ready for bed. You were sure Bucky wouldn’t want you waiting up so late in your current condition anyway, he had been harping you about getting enough sleep and water and everything in between.

“I’m only four months pregnant, Bucky. I’m fully capable of staying up late” You had said to him. 

“Five months, Doll, and it’s about your cortisol levels. It’s not good for you or the baby, and it could lead to them being underweight” he said, reciting exactly what the doctor had told him during your last checkup. 

“Four and a half,” you argued as you stuck your tongue out at him, “and she was talking about getting chased by a bear kind of stress, not staying up to watch Bake Off.” 

You snorted at the memory of just earlier that week, a small smile coming to your face as you went through your nightly routine. You continued to check your phone here and there as you went, “Did you get back safe? How’d your mission go?” you had texted two hours ago, yet it still remained unread and unanswered.  

‘Maybe one more quick text wouldn’t hurt,’  you thought to yourself as you typed out the simple message and hit send. 

“Stay safe, okay? I love you.”

You sighed as you set the phone down, “it’s okay, everything is okay,” you assured yourself as you pulled one of his large hoodies over your head, enjoying the way the hem brushed against your bare thighs and the sleeves threatened to swallow your hands. “He’s a former assassin and a super soldier! Nothing is going to happen that he can’t handle,” You stated firmly to your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes remained unsure despite your voice’s conviction, but you did your best to ignore it, focusing instead on the achingly tired look they held. 

“Yes, I know. It’s finally time for bed, little one,” you mumbled sleepily as you felt your baby kick against the walls of your protruding belly, being quick to climb between the layers of blankets and lonesome sheets. “Fuck, that's cold…!” you swore quietly as your bare legs hit the icy fabric- having gone unwarmed by your personal space heater and super soldier.

Thankfully sleep came easily, the thought of waking up to Bucky’s sleepy, scruffy face only further urged your body to wind down so the moment would come sooner. 

----

Bucky’s phone buzzed again in his bag, lighting up with your smiling face as your text displayed on the screen, but nobody reached down to check it, as everyone found themselves in a far more urgent situation. 

“Keep him busy, Rodgers! I just need one more minute!” Tony yelled as he dug through the equipment in the quinjet, “For fuck’s sake, who organized this last?” 

“What do you think I’m doing…!” The blond grunted with a justified hint of frustration,” Sam? Any help??” He shouted with a pointed look, telling more than asking as he struggled to restrain his thrashing friend. A swift metal fist flew toward his already battered face, barely giving him time to duck out of the way and attempt to restrain it again. 

“Honestly? Seems like you’ve got this one,” Sam said, holding up his hands.

“SAM.” 

“I’m coming..! God, can’t either of you old men take a joke?”

No one knew exactly what happened, Bucky had gone off on his own in the Hydra base they were exploring. It was supposed to have been recently abandoned, something about the agents leaving in an urgent rush that left files upon files sitting out in the open. It was supposed to be a simple mission; everyone goes off in teams, gathers what they can, and makes sure there are no surprises. But Bucky assured them that he would be fine to go on his own, he hadn’t had a sign of relapse in over a year, and he would only be picking up what looked important. A simple job.

He should’ve listened. 

It was when he didn’t return to the jet with the rest of them that they started to get worried. 

“So, where’s the Manchurian candidate?” Tony jested, looking at his watch. They were supposed to leave maybe 10 minutes ago, not terribly late by any means, but enough to start getting worried about Bucky’s quietness over the coms.  

“Man, come on.. ” Sam sighed at Tony’s joke as he crossed his arms. 

“Bucky?” Steve tried calling over the coms, ignoring both of his teammates, but the line remained all too quiet. 

They found him finally in the basement level of the office building, old discarded computers lining the walls along with cabinets upon cabinets of old files and other equipment. He hadn’t even realized it was a trap until he stepped right into it, triggering a switch that had the computers and hidden speakers flashing images and sounds that assaulted his senses with fragmented memories long forgotten. 

He should have listened. 

Sam had found him first, on his knees in the middle of the floor with hands desperately covering his ears, trying to block out the incessant noise. Hauling his teammate to his feet, he rushed back to the jet, calling everyone off from their search before anything else could be sprung. 

At first, they thought he might be fine- quiet, but fine. He had given them a small smile and a wave of his hand as everyone tried to check in with him, taking a seat as the jet took off to go home. It had all seemed relatively normal until they were halfway back and the unseen battle inside him must have taken a turn. 

“Got it!” Tony yelled as he pulled out the dart gun, aiming quickly as he fired two shots into Bucky’s chest, readying a third as he waited and watched for the tranquilizers to finally take effect. It was slow as Bucky continued to struggle against the drug’s drain, his body and mind turning into slow-moving molasses. Low grunts emanated from his throat as the last of his strength ebbed away, leaving nothing but forced sleep in its wake. 

“Was two really necessary?” Steve asked as his shoulders finally relaxed, the strain and worry now temporarily over. 

Together they dragged the drugged-up assassin into the jet’s small quarantine area for the remainder of the trip, satisfied only when they heard the mechanical locks slide into place. It wasn’t much, and they knew that and if he really wanted to there would be no stopping him from getting out, but it was something- enough to give them a few seconds of preparation if nothing else.  

“I’m not giving a super soldier only a single dose, you two metabolize things like this way too fast and I’m not taking any chances with the Tin man over there.”

Bucky- no, the Winter Soldier, seemed to still be out of it when they finally landed, sat up and leaning against the wall, head slumped forward just as they had left him. 

“Alright, let's just get him into one of the holding rooms for the night. We’ll work on resetting him-” Tony lifted his hands as the two men glared in his direction, “- on ‘fixing him up’ as soon as he’s been secured.” 

Sam shook his head as Tony corrected himself, taking notice of the lit-up phone in Bucky’s bag, buzzing with an only recently delivered message. Sam had quickly become one of your closest friends after you were introduced to the team. He was one of the few people Bucky trusted with his life and between his sarcastic jokes, his incredibly loyal nature, and his willingness to give Bucky shit whenever he deserved it, you knew very quickly how great a friend he would be. 

But now his stomach twisted as he saw your name flash across the screen, the alert quickly minimizing itself as it joined the other messages you had sent that night. How was he gonna break this to you? The last thing you needed was a bunch of unnecessary stress on your shoulders, but it’s obvious you were beginning to worry over their late return. Sliding the phone back into its rightful place Sam told himself that he’d call you once they had things more figured out.

“Heart rate still seems to be resting. With any luck, he’ll remain knocked out until we get inside,” Tony relayed as he monitored the Soldier’s vitals and pressed the button to open the heavy quarantine doors.

The doors slid into their resting positions with a soft click. 

As soon as that click landed on sensitive ears, vibrant blue eyes shot open. Sparing not even a second, the Winter Soldier surged forward from his seat, not nearly as far gone as he left them to believe. With the element of surprise, the Soldier easily knocked past his teammates, throwing his body weight against them and knocking Sam and Steve off balance, leaving him a good headstart as he dashed out the jet’s open door.

“Fuck, Bucky- Wait!,” Steve swore as he stumbled out behind him, having to use his super soldier speed just to keep pace. But between the settled darkness of the night, and the winding alleyways the brunette stuck to, Steve was left falling behind in no time. “Shit,” Steve swore as he slowed to a stop, looking around for any sign of his compromised friend. 

However, the streets lay barren, the fluttering of moths in the streetlights the only sign of life on the entire block.

---

The heavy thud of his boots echoed against the alleyway’s pavement. He wasn't sure where exactly he was headed as his silhouette slunk between the warm light of the streetlamps, but part of him- a currently repressed part of him- knew that safety was bound to be just ahead. 

His heart beat smoothly as he kept his pace, every other step falling in time as he rounded the corner. Blindly, he let himself be led by instinct and his feet maneuvered the city’s countless paths with a mind of their own. They slowed before a little apartment building and as those emotionless eyes looked up, he knew this was it.

The lateness of the hour had almost assured that no one was around as he slipped inside, footsteps padding up the stairs before stopping at the third floor. His heavy boots left nothing but wet prints in their wake as he wandered down the hall, impossibly silent, as even the notoriously creaky boards dared not announce his presence. 

The closer he got, the more the back of his mind itched, as if something- someone- was begging him not to go any further, but he refused to listen; he knew this was where he was meant to be and where he would find what his body was so inexplicably drawn to.

With each step his head turned on a swivel, looking for the sense of safety and familiarity that the other half of him seemed to find here- and desperately wished he wouldn’t discover. Just as his foot was about to take another step he stopped. ‘No. Here.’ His gut told him, turning to the door. 

His door.

Your door.

The former assassin bypassed the lock with ease, quickly slipping in before shutting the door behind him. A dim light illuminated the living room, the little lamp you left on for him casting its orange glow over his surroundings as he surveyed them.

A few mugs stand beside the sink, framed photos dot the wall and side tables, and a veritable nest of blankets lay across the couch. It was obvious someone had been here, and recently. A deep breath pulled into his lungs, causing his head to tilt to the side in contemplation as an unfamiliar scent hit his nose, something just as earthy as it was sweet and speckled with distant notes of… him?

“Hmmph”  

His sensitive ears picked up the soft grunt from down the hall immediately. His shoulders squared and tensed as his body leaned into a defensive position. Cautious fingers pulled the knife from his boot, ready for whatever may come at him as he approached. 

The sounds of soft breaths lead him to a door left ajar. Light just slipped past the curtains into the darkened room. Badum… Badum… Badum… a heartbeat pulsed in his ears as he took a step closer, leaving the door open and letting further light fall onto the source of the noise. 

His wolfish gaze ran down your form as you lay there on your back, swallowed in the extra fabric of the old sweatshirt. Your hand rested casually over your stomach as your other one squished gently against your cheek. Your legs lay bare to the world after having kicked the overbearing sheets away, leaving just a glance of your underwear for him to take in.  

“Mmph” You grunted again as you shifted, your face now turned to him as that earthy scent of yours gripped him like a vice and refused to let go.

Your sweet sleep became interrupted though- much to his dismay- as the phone on your nightstand began to light up and buzz incessantly. Still, as a statue he watched as you groaned, propping yourself up on your elbows as you went to check what your device could possibly want at this ungodly hour. 

With one loose fist, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes away, blinking consciousness back into them until you saw Bucky’s illuminated figure before you, standing tall and quiet as he watched you intently. 

“Bucky..?” You couldn’t hide the grin that spread across your face as you saw the familiar face of your lover lit up by the bright light of your phone screen. But the longer you looked the more you noticed.

His eyes were all wrong, his gaze was devoid, that’s the only way you could put it. Devoid of meaning and humanity, it seemed every gaze- every movement- was a means to an end. Empty… save for a flicker of fear; It was probably the only thing in those eyes right now that registered as human. The fear of someone who was lost, unknowing of their purpose, and confused as to why your gaze was made his cold heart falter.

His expression was flat and stoic, save for the knit of confusion that pulled his brows together. His stance was tense and prepared, the discrete knife still glittering in his hands as he took another step forward, his head slowly shaking in response to your question. 

A gasp caught in your throat as you finally understood. Glancing at your phone you saw it was Sam who was calling, undoubtedly trying to tell you what you now already knew.

“Soldat…” You whispered, trying to hide the way his name sent shivers across your skin. Your phone went black then, as you didn’t pick up in time and you were left blind by the sudden darkness.

 You and Bucky had talked about what to do if you found him like this, “You call Sam and Steve, Okay? You find a place to hide and you stay far away, no matter what you hear. There’s no reasoning with him,” He had told you.

So much for that

Your phone lit up again with Sam’s urgent call, its revealing light sending ice down your spine as you saw the man nearly standing over you now, just a hair’s breadth away.

Your hand rose slowly, shaking as you tested a reach for your phone, stopping dead in your tracks as he let out a disapproving grunt. Your head nodded slowly as you gulped, returning your hand to your stomach as you watched his gaze finally shift away. 

With unbothered calmness, he looked toward your phone to see Sam’s face and name scrawled across your screen. Wordlessly he reached over and pressed the ‘decline call’ button, cutting the call short and leaving you two in perfect silence once more. 

Panic began to rise in your throat as his gaze turned back toward you, darkened now only by the lack of light. With slow movements the Winter Soldier reached out, putting the knife away as he crouched down, as if trying to attract a skittish animal. 

Your whole body tensed as his reach came closer, eyes screwing shut as you waited for the worst, “Please… Just don’t hurt her…” You whispered, fear and desperation rattling your voice, just as it did your anxiety-filled body. 

But the pain never came. Instead, the cool touch of metal fingers ran down your cheek, barely denting your flesh as he relished in its softness. Your eyes peeked open cautiously, as his fingers moved along the slope of your jaw, tilting your head up as he came to your chin. 

His eyes had changed, you noticed, instead of being a harsh blizzard, they had now settled into something more human, something warmer and… yearning? 

“Soldat..?” You questioned as you watched his lips part, his senses focused only on the way your body reacted to his touch. You were sure he could hear the rapid pattering of your heart beneath your ribs, its pace only increasing as his fingers moved down your neck and to the exposed collarbone in your loose neckline.

“Красивый [Beautiful]...,” was all he could reply. It came out so soft you weren’t sure you heard it at first, it’s quiet reverence meant for your ears and your ears only. “Из-за тебя он чувствует себя здесь в безопасности...? Замки дерьмовые, видимость слишком высокая, но ты… [Are you why he feels safe here…? The locks are shit, the visibility is too high, but you…]” He continued, quiet and unbothered as if he assumed you couldn’t understand him. 

“He’s been bugging me to get better locks all week…” you replied with a huff, quickly shutting up as his stare found your eyes again. Between Bucky’s ramblings in the night and Natasha’s tendency to only gossip in Russian, you had made an effort to learn it; You were still learning, and your pronunciation was shit, but your understanding had gotten far better. 

“And you have a good ear…” He spoke in English this time, the vague hint of an amused smile pulling at the assassin’s stern lips. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever done that before. If that odd little smile had been seen by anyone else- anyone still living that is.

A breath of relief left you as your lips stretched to mimic his, the tension easing out of your body a little by little.

His metallic touch continued to linger, running down your covered chest until it settled on the waistband of your underwear, the cool metal trailing across your ticklish skin. 

“Ah, wait, Sol-” You jumped at his touch, grabbing his wrist, despite knowing you wouldn’t have the strength to stop him if it’s what he wanted.

But instead of dipping his fingers lower, he simply tugged the oversized hoodie up, gathering it over your chest and exposing the firm baby bump concealed below. His head tilted to the side as he listened to the tiny heartbeat that fluttered in your belly as well as the thuds of its little movements against your skin. Slowly, still with that inkling of a smile, he turned to look at you, his hand hovering just above your vulnerable midsection as if awaiting permission. 

Heat rose to your cheeks as you hesitated. On one hand, you felt a surprising amount of calm under the assassin's touch, his need for your approval only increasing your sense of security. But on the other hand, Bucky would never be able to live with himself if something happened to you or the baby, accident or not. 

“Oh. I-” 

CRASH.

You nearly jumped out of your skin as were cut short by the loud noise. The door to your apartment slammed open, surely breaking the hinges with the sheer force of it. Over a dozen heavy boots stormed into your apartment as the lights turned on, flooding your senses and forcing the Soldier’s attention elsewhere. 

Your hand found his instantly, the heat of his calloused skin a comfort to you just the way Bucky’s was, especially as it squeezed around yours just the same. Sitting up properly now your sweatshirt swallowed your pregnant form once again and you peeked out to see just what was going on. 

Through The Winter Soldier’s defensive stance in front of you, his knife is now drawn once more, you watched a small armed group, covered in black tactical gear raid your home, all guns pointing towards you- or more accurately- the former assassin attempting to shield you. You recognized the symbols on their vests as the team’s secondary security force, having even met a few of them over the years. But where was the rest of the team? Where was Sam, and Steve, and Tony?

“Step away from the civilian!” “Put your hands in the air!” “Sir, drop the knife!” They all shouted, overlapping with each other as each of them rushed out their demands. 

“Don't shoot! It’s okay! It’s okay!” You rushed.

You tried to slip your hand from his, but he only held fast, “Soldat, please… It’s okay, just do what they say… They don’t want to hurt us. Please,” You urged, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, 

His defenses faltered as he listened to you beg him to stand down. It wasn’t the usual begging he heard in his line of work, and coming from your lips had his walls cracking in an unprecedented way. 

He shouldn’t have looked back at your eyes, wide and pleading, as they shook his walls further. Moving slowly he turned, kneeling before you despite the way the armed group yelled at him not to. You just held up your hand to them, pleading for them to be as gentle with him as he was with you. 

“Мое солнце [My Sun]...” The warm flesh of his hand came up easily to cradle your face and a small smile pulled at him again as you leaned into his large palm. “Я только что нашел тебя. Я не потеряю тебя снова так быстро[I’ve only just found you. I will not lose you again so quickly]. ”

Your heart both swelled and pained for your Soldier. You looked into his eyes and saw a sense of certainty, a sense of knowing, you hadn’t seen from him earlier. “Oh… my soldier, my star,” Your fingers entwined with the hand holding your cheek, ”You can not lose me in any way that would last…” You whispered to him past the shouts, the commotion, and the tension, like you were the only two in the room. 

“Sir, put the knife down!” A young squad member called again, his voice far more concerned than his superiors. You didn’t recognize him or his number and you figured he must’ve been new. His gun trembled in his hands as he shouted again, but as the Soldier failed to move and the kid’s finger unexpectedly twitched, there came a sudden- 

BANG.

“Ah-!” Your face twisted with pain as you pulled away, “Fuck…!” Your hands instinctively grabbed your leg, clamping over the shooting pain in your calf that hit you- well- like a bullet. 

You winced again as you pulled one of your hands back, the raw skin of your leg angrily letting you know that it did not like being brushed against. Warm, wet crimson covered your fingers as you looked down, becoming slightly dizzy at how much had already covered your palm. You were thankful it only seemed to be a graze, but the burn you already felt and knowing you were losing blood had your stomach lurching in uncomfortable ways. 

Concern painted the assassin’s expression as you recoiled away from his doting touch, but as the unmistakable warm, metallic smell curled into his nose, his expression darkened dramatically. What was once kind, curious blue eyes now saw nothing but red as he caught sight of the wound slashing across your skin. His jaw set firmly, almost audibly grinding his teeth as he stood and turned to the young kid. 

You looked back at the newcomer as you tried to breathe through the pain, the horrified look on his face telling you that he knew he was a dead man walking. His face went ghost white as the super soldier stalked toward him and through even worse trembling hands he raised his gun to shoot again. 

“No…!”

A sickening thud rang out as the bullet hit the assassin square in his good shoulder, getting lodged in the muscly flesh. His shoulder jerked back at the force, but it wouldn’t stop his stride as he closed the gap. Another shot rang out, but with the solid vibranium arm now covering the barrel it did little to help this poor dumb kid. Snatching him by the neck, you watched as your assassin held him up until his feet kicked uselessly in the air. 

Every gun immediately trained on him and with their proximity you knew they wouldn’t miss a fatal shot if it came to it.

“Stop! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Soldier, put him down!” You yelled as you maneuvered towards the edge of the bed. “Please, don't shoot, I can fix this!” you continued, trying to convince yourself as much as you convinced them. Familiar voices joined in on your plea as Sam and Steve finally entered the picture, urgently trying to talk down both the Winter Soldier and the secondary security team. 

“Bucky, It’s okay... Just put the kid down, alright?” Steve tried to reason with him, “He’s new, he doesn’t know what he’s doing yet.” Steve tried his best to stay calm and patient, but the young man was beginning to change colors now. “Bucky, put him down before you do something you can’t come back from.” But Bucky’s ears were deaf to the outside pleas and the Winter soldier refused to listen.

“Ah..!” You whimpered as you tried to stand and approach the commotion. The pain in your leg reached new heights as you tried to put weight on it, causing you to tumble to your knees almost immediately. You clutched your belly, hoping the sudden jostle wouldn’t upset the baby too much as you tried to get up again. 

“Hold on, Y/n. Stay down for a minute so we can wrap your leg…” Sam asked of you, moving over to help as soon as he saw the blood on your hands, “You’re losing plenty already.”

“No, I have to…. I can’t let him get hurt,” you argued, pushing away his helpful hands as you tried to stand again. You heard the crashing thud and rushed voices as you shakily got to your feet, leaning all your weight on your good leg. As you looked up again you came eye to eye with worry-filled icy blues.

“Sol-”

“Мое солнце  [My Sun]...” He interrupted, his metal arm snaking around your waist to pull you in possessively and away from those who threatened your safety. On the other side of the room, the nervous kid now coughed and wheezed for breath, but you were just happy to see he was still alive. 

“Please just listen to them. You’re already hurt, don’t get yourself killed…” you pleaded, your hand barely brushing over his bleeding wound before pulling his hand to your rounded belly. He tried to keep his expression steady, but you saw the way his eyes widened slightly as he looked down. “She needs someone looking out for her and I can’t do this on my own. I can’t keep away all the dangers of the world…” Your forehead rested against his as you tried to shift your weight, whining as you gave up and moved back. You couldn’t deny that this part of Bucky was her father too, even if he had been hidden away for ages, she was still his too. Whether Bucky would see it the same way you weren’t sure, but right now you were just concerned with making sure he got out of this alive. 

“I can’t do this without you…” 

The silence felt deafening as he considered. He never had to think about other people relying on him, not like this. His orders had always been to leave no threats, to finish his job and move on, no matter the cost to him. But the pain in his soft, fleshy shoulder was getting harder to ignore. The way his blood-soaked shirt clung to his arm now climbed to the forefront of his mind as he watched your big eyes stare back at him, desperate to understand. He was between a rock and a hard place. 

“I’ll be right beside you the whole time..” You assured him, “We both will, but please let everyone get us some help.” 

A gentle nudge pushed against his palm as his thoughts swirled around him, snapping him back to a single line of thought and he knew then. Defeat laid heavy on his shoulders as they slumped, accepting what must be done., “Мое солнц [My Sun] …”, He said, “Если вы так хотите, то я не буду жаловаться [If it is what you wish, then I will not complain].” 

You couldn’t tell just how long you had been holding the breath you let out, your muscles relaxing as he finally held his hands up. The security squad began coming forward with an array of cuffs, but it was Sam who stopped them this time, glancing back at you for confirmation as he assured them that they could take it from here. Despite the arguing and the hesitation, they seemed to relent, shifting their focus now to their injured colleague. 

Both Sam and Steve looked tired but relieved as they turned to the two of you, bloody and pained in your current state. Though they weren’t quite better; both of them looked like they had been the unfortunate punching bag of a certain super soldier mere hours before. Sam had bruises lining his arms from where he was surely blocking blow after blow and Steve smiled a bit with his busted lip, dried blood still stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s get you two to the tower…” 

----

The journey to the tower was quiet, your soldier never letting you out of arms reach as you all boarded the armored truck, and made your way up the tower and to the lab. 

Doctors tried to treat the both of you, but as soon as anyone dared to come close your assassin was right there to growl them back. They’d hardly be able to get past his possessive hands even if they could manage to get close, his touch keeping you pulled beside him at all times.

“Soldat…” you warned him, but he was too preoccupied gathering the medical bag they had been dropped. Coming over to you, there was no warning as he scooped you up from the ground and set you on a table to get to work. 

“Oh-!” You exclaimed as you held onto his strong shoulder, quickly getting plopped back down on the corner of the cold metal table. A shiver ran down your skin as you shifted against the sleek table, watching as practiced hands scoured through the medical bag, producing everything he needed as he went about fixing up your leg wordlessly. 

You were beyond thankful for the haze of the (baby-safe) painkillers as his fingers slid over the raw flesh. Despite the gentle numbing of the painkiller your fingers still lay tangled in his hair as he worked, only tugging in discomfort as the gauze wrapped tightly around your leg.

"Thank you..” You said when he finally finished, moving back to appreciate his work before giving it a satisfactory nod. His eyes had grown distant again, bits of confusion and uncertainty swirling in the storm of his eyes, and you reached out to stroke your thumb across his cheek. His stony cool expression remained as you touched him, his mouth staying a firm line as he instinctively leaned into your palm. You watched him for a moment before you continued, knowing that his thoughts must be far away.

“It's your turn now, big guy.... your shoulder is still seeping and you can’t keep losing blood like this," You urged him just as you had on the ride to the tower. He had refused to listen then, letting nothing else occupy his mind until he knew you were fully taken care of. But now as you sit safely before him, the only looming threats being Sam and Steve who seem to haunt the hallway outside, he finally relented.

You moved to stand, needing the angle to effectively dig out the bullet still lodged in his muscles, but he held you still with a single large hand on your shoulder, "Stay," he urged you with that low rumble of his. His eyes lingered on yours, ensuring you would do as he asked before he began to move again, gathering the supplies you would need.

He slid his bloody shirt off, revealing the weeping wound beneath and the scars of many wounds past. You expected him to stand in front of you, maybe sit so you could take care of him, but that didn’t seem to be the important thing right now.

He climbed up onto the cold table where you sat, curling onto his side with his back facing the door so his wounded shoulder sat closest to you. His head lay in your lap with a look of unmatched serenity as he pressed his forehead against your rounded belly. And there he rested, quiet and unmoving as he took his quiet moment. But he was far too exposed like this, far too trusting of “threats” lurking outside, and he almost reminded you of Bucky again. Was Bucky fighting to come back…? Was the Winter Soldier trusting you to watch his back? … or was he accepting of something you weren't sure he knew yet?

"Are you sure? It's going to be harder to take the bullet out this way. I don’t want to hurt you more than I have to," you tried to explain as you pulled out the forceps.

But he simply shook his head, "I know my time here is short, my Sun..." he said with an even tone, no semblance of fear to shake his voice, "Please let me enjoy it like this…."

Your voice caught in your throat as he answered, his blunt acceptance and knowing catching you off guard. You wished beyond anything that you could soothe him, to tell him no one was going to hurt him or take him away again. But you wouldn’t lie to him, so instead you said nothing, Your words rasping as you replied, "Of course, My star…."

The room was quiet as you worked, the only noise the sweet mumblings from your boyfriend's lips as he filled your baby’s ears with loving promises. His body let out a grunt and a soft squelch as you finally tugged the crushed bullet out. Pain creased his brow but his words never faltered and neither did the nudges or kicks he got in reply.

Carefully you cleaned up the blood, packing the wound as best you could, but you were sure Tony and his team would be redoing it soon nonetheless.

A sigh escaped him as he heard you putting away your tools, "My Sun?" he asked.

"Yes?"

“Is it time…?”

You cast your eyes downward, looking into those confused and swirling blues as they watched you with unbridled hope.

You nodded, wiping away the tears that welled in your eyes, “It’s time…” you whispered.

He nodded, thinking quietly as he looked down at your belly again, his hand smoothing over the skin he’s exposed, “Will I see you two again…?” 

Your heart broke at the slight waver in his voice, “Oh, my star…” you said, resting your palm against his cheek, “It’s just like I said, ‘you can not lose me in any way that would last’. I’ll see you again and again, in this life and the next,” you assured as you leaned down to kiss his temple, a small smile forming at the corners of his lips. Tears blinked from your eyes as you continued, “I don’t know when, or for how long, but you will see us again. You can always come home to me, and I will always be there to welcome you.” You leaned, slow as not to scare him, and kissed him gently as he turned again to look at you.

 It was awkward at first, but you didn’t mind, you couldn’t imagine the last time the Winter Soldier had felt such gentleness, let alone a kiss. 

But the moment was ripped away as the door opened, Steve, Sam, and Tony all standing in the doorway. “We’re ready for him,” Tony said simply, “Let's get this started so my lab techs can go home….” 

-----

You watched behind thick glass as Tony and his team of technicians attached various wires and machinery to Bucky’s body. Sam and Steve’s hands lie on your shoulders, trying to comfort you as you watch them finish tuning and placing everything. You watched as his blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, as still as a statue as he let them do their work.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to watch this…” Steve tried to comfort you, but you only shook your head. 

“No… I promised I’d see him off,” you replied, then thought with a pause, “Despite all the warnings Bucky gave me I’m happy I got to see him face to face…” 

“Well, it helps that he wasn’t trying to beat the shit out of you…” Sam mumbled, getting an immediate nudge from you right in one of his bruises, “ Ow…okay, point taken.”

You smiled and shook your head. It was true though; despite the fear, blood, and death that dripped from his moniker, despite the pain you endured in his presence, you would do it all again. Bucky had hidden this part of him from you for so long, only ever showing you half of his face. And though you know he wouldn’t like it, you’re happy to finally see him in full light- to know and love him completely as he’s meant to be.

Tony says something that’s hard to make out through the glass, but you see him give a thumbs up to you all so he must have been ready. He moved to the switch, hesitating for a moment to let you say a quick goodbye. 

Your Soldier’s eyes found yours right away, but there was no trace of sorrow for you to see, no discomfort or fear. In fact, he seemed almost excited; excited and hopeful that when he saw you next he’d have a bundle of joy to look forward to as well. 

“Мое солнце [My Sun]...” you watched him say beyond the glass.

“I’ll see you again, My stars. I’m sure of it…” You replied with a soft smile.

He had just enough time to smile softly back at you, an image now pleasantly etched in your brain before Tony flipped the switch and the reset procedure began. 

You covered your eyes quickly as Bucky’s body began to convulse, his strained grunts and shouts breaching containment despite the way he tried to hold it all back. The sounds of pain continued for minutes, but it felt far longer. Though, it wasn’t until it got quiet that you began to worry. 

“Is it done? Is it over...?” You asked the men on either side of you, afraid to peek past your hands for fear of the worst.

“Doll…?” you heard the familiar voice call, gritty and rough from its recent use but still carrying that same soft tone he used with you.

Your heart swelled, “Bucky...?”

_____________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @simpxinnie (sorry I forgot to tag!)

It's been a while since I've written for our favorite sad man, so if I've missed you/you want to be added to the taglist, DM me to let me know!

Ugh I need some good fic recs of Bucky being winter soldier PLEASE!!! I am BEGGING 😭

Bucky’s First Haircut

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Reader cuts Bucky’s hair.

Word Count: 891

Warning(s): “Baby”’s first hair cut?

A/N: Just another idea that came to me while listening to music. Originally it was different and shorter. But, I made it longer and easier to understand? I don’t know.

James Buchanan Barnes, the love of [Y/N]’s life. A war hero, of course a hero from another time. A time when [Y/N] wasn’t alive. She didn’t know who Bucky was before the war or before he became the Winter Soldier. She knew him after. She knew him as the man that Steve Rogers started a civil war to bring home. And for that entire time, Bucky’s hair grew longer and longer. While neither party minded his glorious mane of hair, Steve had brought up the idea to Bucky that maybe he should get it cut. It hadn’t been short in a long while. But, Bucky bucked against the idea, at one point telling Steve very plainly that he would never be the same Bucky he was before and cutting his hair wouldn’t matter.

[Y/N] had originally been on Bucky’s side as it was his hair and his choice to do with it what he pleased. Then there was a switch in Bucky’s personality. He had become cold towards the others and snapped if someone commented on it. [Y/N] was the only one to realize this was after the topic of Bucky’s self grooming was brought up. That’s when she got the brilliant idea.

“Hey Buck, why don’t you let me cut your hair?” [Y/N] was sat, leaning on the arm of the recliner she was in. “If you don’t like it, it will always grow back.”

“This again? Why does everyone has a problem with my hair?” Bucky looked towards her, frowning slightly before he ran a hand through his long locks.

“We don’t have a problem with your hair, honey. I like the long hair, but I would like to see you with short hair.”

“There are plenty of pictures of when I had short hair. Go ask Steve to see them.”

“Bucky, you and I both know that’s not the same. Why don’t we try? We can start with a trim.” [Y/N] stood, walking over to him. She plopped down beside Bucky and leaned into his side. “If you let me do this, I’ll let you do something to me.”

Bucky looked over to her, the frown still on his face. “I’ll think about it.”

[Y/N], seemingly satisfied, kissed his cheek and stood, going into her room.

Two hours had past with [Y/N] in her room reading when she heard a soft knock at her door. She stood, pulling it open to be greeted by Bucky on the other side.

“I want you to cut my hair, before I change my mind.”

[Y/N] smiled. “Go get a dining chair and put it in my bathroom. I’ll get the clippers.”

The two spilt, Bucky to get the chair and somehow get in into the bathroom in [Y/N]’s room, and [Y/N] to find said clippers. It took Bucky a short while to make it back into her room with the chair, he sat down and twiddled his thumbs as he waited for her to come back. Trying not to count the seconds before she was back as it only would make he want to change his mind. And then there she was, standing in the doorway of the bathroom with a large smile on her face.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Just hurry.” Bucky spoke softly, sitting up straight in the chair.

[Y/N] plugged in the clippers and grabbed her comb from a caddy that sat beside the sink. She took a few moments to comb through his hair and to keep him occupied, asked him stupid little questions from what his favorite color was to what day of the week he liked more. As he spoke, [Y/N] pressed a kiss to the top of his head before she started to trim away at his hair. Thankfully, this wasn’t the first time she had cut someone’s hair, as she would trim her own and had been known to cut Steve’s and Natasha’s on occasions.

A few more buzzing filled moments with the two of them talking, [Y/N] shut the clippers off and smiled before brushing some of the hair from Bucky’s shoulders.

“There you go, handsome. Check yourself out.” She took a step away from him so he could stand and turn to look in the mirror.

Bucky had his eyes closed as he faced the mirror. After a minute, he opened his eyes and looked at himself. He didn’t know he expected to see looking back at him, but it was him. Shorter hair that was similar to how his hair looked during the war. His flesh hand moved up to his hair, running his fingers through it. After another moment he looked at [Y/N] who stood beside through the mirror, a smile grew on his face as he saw the look of sheer happiness on her’s.

“So, what do you think, Buck?” She asked, rocking on her heels as she looked back at him.

“I like it.” He answered before chuckling. “What do you think, darlin’?”

“I think you look handsome.”

Bucky turned to her then, pulling her towards him. “Thank you, doll.”

“Anytime, Barnes.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

They stood there for a long moment just looking at each other, each with a smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat.

Dancing On My Own

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Reader (past relationship), Male OC x Reader

Summary:  Years after Bucky’s death, [Y/N] has moved on. But, Bucky makes one last visit to make sure she’s in good hands.

Word Count: 468 - One Shot (?)

Warning(s): Death mentioned, general feels of sadness

A/N: I wrote this after listening to at song (can you guess which one?) for myself to be sad. If anyone would like I can write a longer version of this with more explanation?

To say [Y/N] was ready would be a stretch. Her husband, whom she had only been married to for a few hours before shipping off to fight in a war, was dead. He had been for years. But, she felt him with her when she did things around the house. Or when she was playing with the boys. Their boys. 1941 had been a difficult year. She moved to a city she didn't know, got a job working for one of the wealthiest people in the world, met and fell in love with a man who was way too good for her. She would have followed him to the ends of the Earth and in a way, she had.

Of course, it had been a few years. It was 1948 now, the twins were six and looking more like their father everyday. Even her new boyfriend thought so. But, she couldn't think about that. She had to get ready for  their date. They would be going dancing at the same spot she met Bucky. Oh, Bucky. He was one of the good ones. Strong, messed around with her, bought her drinks but not to a messy point. He drove her home, walked her to the door and made sure she got inside safe. But, he hadn't been there in so long. He left after a fight and [Y/N] never got to apologize. Bucky was dead before he ever got the chance to come home.

With memories of the night she met Bucky playing over in her head, [Y/N] held tightly to Frank's hand. The smell of the bar brought even more memories flooding back. Tears sprang to her eyes as Frank pulled her gently onto the dance floor, bringing her into his arms.

“[Y/NN], it's okay. It's okay.” He didn't try to stop her from crying. He just kissed her face and held her into his chest.

[Y/N] let the tears fall silently for a moment before looking up at him, a sad smile meeting his.

Across the dance floor stood a shadow of a man. He was watching the two of them, every move the man made with the woman was watched protectively by the shadow. He stepped into the light for a moment and there he was. He was pale and looked slightly dirty, his dark brow furrowed. The steel blue of his eyes softened as he saw her. Bucky Barnes stood in the corner of the room. He watched Frank kiss his wife, his...ex-wife. A tear fell down the man’s cheek.

“I just came to say goodbye.” His voice didn’t reach her. She didn’t see him. She never would. Bucky started to fade from the corner, his wife was happy and that’s all that mattered. His mission was successful.

Between Your Legs

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (SMUT)

Summary: Making your very shy boyfriend admit his kinks turns into an unexpected series of events.

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: smut, smut, smut! (minors dni) cursing, size difference, overstimulation, oral sex, dom/sub undertones

(fic is two parts but i stuffed it into one so that’s why it’s long!)

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