bruiscdlikeviolets

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

bad idea . ݁₊ ⊹

bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.

word count: 3,1k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, jerking off, oral (m receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, breeding.

A/N: based on this ask.

The mission had been straightforward enough—infiltration, data retrieval, minimal contact. Bucky had gone over the plan a hundred times with you, listened to you recite it right back like clockwork, but none of that was on his mind anymore. Not when you were right in front of him, wearing that tactical suit that clung to every curve like it was tailor-made for you.

God, he was trying to focus—really—but every time you crouched low to disable a lock or slipped into a narrow corridor ahead of him, his eyes betrayed him. The way the dark fabric hugged the softness of your thighs, the cut of your waist under the belt, the tempting slope of your hips.

And the way you moved… smooth and confident, like you didn’t even know you had this power over him.

“Bucky, cover me,” you whispered into comms as you slipped around a corner.

“Got you,” he replied, voice a shade deeper than usual.

And he did have you—he’d take a bullet for you without a second thought—but tonight it wasn’t just protective instinct roaring in his chest. Tonight it was something hotter, more dangerous. Every whispered word between you sent a shiver up his spine. Every glance you threw him, all determination and fire, went straight to his gut.

You weren’t just his partner tonight. You were a distraction. A beautiful, maddening one.

Bucky told himself he had better control than this. That it was wrong—you were a close friend, someone who trusted him to have her back—and yet every fleeting touch, every breathless moment tangled up together in tight spaces as you avoided guards, just drove him further into his own thoughts.

By the time you two made it back to the safe house, adrenaline still thrumming in your veins, all he could see was you. The perfect bow of your lips when you smiled at him, the glimmer in your eyes when you joked, completely oblivious to the filthy thoughts running through his mind.

And god help him, when you finally disappeared into your room for the night, Bucky thought maybe—just maybe—a cold shower would knock this need out of him.

But the image of your pretty face, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the dark…

Yeah. That was the last straw.

Bucky kicked his door shut with his heel as soon as he was inside his room, hands already trembling as he tugged his gear off. The mission was over, but his head was still back there—in that darkened hallway, pressed up against you as you whispered his name, breath ghosting across his neck.

God, what was wrong with him?

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, dragging his hands down his face. Except all that did was summon up images of you again—the way that suit hugged your ass, the flex of your legs when you moved, the glint in your eye when you’d catch him looking and pretend you didn’t notice.

And then, like some sick joke his brain was playing, the image shifted: you, naked and needy, lips parted like you did when you were focusing, hands reaching for him.

A rough groan broke from his chest before he could stop it.

He was already hard just thinking about you—aching, trapped under his tactical pants—and suddenly there was no ignoring it.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, hands moving faster than his self-control as he shoved his pants and briefs down to his thighs, freeing his cock with a low hiss.

He wasn’t proud of this—jerking off to the thought of you like some horny teenager—but tonight? Tonight was different.

Tonight you’d looked at him. Moved around him like you belonged there. Whispered his name like it was some private language.

And now, as his flesh throbbed in his palm, it was your name spilling past his lips.

“God, baby…” he gritted out, leaning back into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as he gave in to the fantasy—you kneeling between his legs, hands on his thighs, your mouth so close he could feel your breath.

He stroked himself slowly at first, thumb circling the slick bead of precum at his tip, imagining that was your tongue.

“Just like that,” he murmured into the empty room, hips flexing upward on their own accord.

The coil of pleasure wound tighter as he pumped his fist faster, harder, chasing that mental image of you—the softness of your lips wrapping around him, your hands gripping him like you’d never let go.

He could almost hear you moaning around him—or maybe that was his own harsh breathing as heat built up in his spine.

“God, your mouth, baby… f-fuck,” he rasped, name slipping between curses as his abs tensed. Every stroke was slicker, more desperate, so close to the edge he felt dizzy.

And he was so far gone that he never heard the door creak open. Never noticed your silhouette in the dim light, your gaze fixed on him, lips parted in surprise—then hunger.

He was still groaning your name when you moved into the room, your knees brushing the floor as you came to him like a prayer answered.

And when he finally opened his eyes, breath hitching in his throat, there you were.

Kneeling between his legs. Eyes dark and glassy. Mouth open, inches away from his aching, leaking cock—like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

His fingers flexed against the sheets, breath stuttering out as the tension that had been coiled inside him all night snapped.

“Oh wow, Barnes…” you murmured, voice low and tinged with amusement as a slow, wicked smirk tugged at your lips.

His heart thudded so hard it echoed in his ears. “F–fuck,” Bucky breathed, his voice hoarse with surprise and need. “That’s not—”

But you weren’t going to let him finish whatever excuse he thought he could come up with.

“Shhh,” you hushed him, one hand trailing up his trembling thigh before your fingers wrapped around him—slow and sure, your palm warm and perfect.

He hissed through his teeth at the contact, cock twitching against your grip as you gave him one leisurely, deliberate stroke.

“You need my help, huh?” you teased, lips curving as you watched him fight to keep his eyes open.

Your voice was silk and fire, and the way you held him—gentle but possessive—made his spine arch off the bed.

“God,” he groaned, hands flexing into the sheets tightly. “Baby, please…”

And you liked that—liked him raw and desperate for you.

“You do, don’t you?” you murmured again, pumping him slowly, dragging every inch of his aching length through your fist as you leaned in, eyes locked on his face. “Need me to take care of you?”

He was trembling now, teeth gritted against a moan as slick precome dribbled over your fingers, making each stroke wetter, more deliciously obscene.

When you finally bent lower, breath ghosting against him, Bucky thought he might come on the spot.

And then your mouth was on him—hot, wet, perfect—lips sealing around the crown as you eased him in deeper.

A strangled sound tore out of him, hips flexing upward as your tongue swirled slow circles around him, like you were savoring him inch by inch.

“Oh, f—fuck,” he gasped, hands flying to your hair instinctively, needing to touch you, to feel that this was real.

And you moaned low around him in response, eyes fluttering up to meet his, never breaking that gaze as you hollowed your cheeks and started to move.

God, the sight of you—lips stretched around him, eyes burning up at him through your lashes—was enough to undo him.

Your hands steadied him as you took him deeper, bobbing your head in a rhythm that sent shivering heat up his spine and white noise crashing in his ears.

He was already leaking into your mouth, salty and needy, and the way you moaned around him—like you liked this, like you’d been waiting all night for this too—nearly shattered him.

“Holy shit, that’s it,” he panted, thumb brushing your cheekbone as you sucked him just a little harder.

And all he could do was arch into you, let himself go, eyes on you as you took him like you had all the time in the world—wet, filthy, and perfect.

He couldn’t look away—wouldn’t dare.

Your mouth was so fucking warm, lips stretched perfectly around him, tongue working him like you knew every secret to making him fall apart.

And god, you weren’t holding back—hands gripping his hips to keep him steady as you took him deeper, inch by inch. Every slick, sinful pass of your lips and the needy hum vibrating up your throat had him trembling all over.

“Jesus—yes,” Bucky choked, the sound raw as his hands fisted in your hair.

Your eyes stayed on him, hooded and dark with desire, and that was the last straw.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking, but you didn’t pull back.

You moaned, like you wanted him to come, your hands tightening, your pace quickening—up and down his length, wet and obscene.

That moan sent him over the edge.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky gasped, spine bowing as heat exploded up his back, his hands tugging gently at your hair without even realizing.

And then he was coming, spilling down your throat in hot, helpless spurts as you stayed right where you were—lips sealed tight around him, eyes fluttering closed as you swallowed every last drop, humming like it was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted.

“F-fuck,” he groaned again, breath shuddering, muscles trembling as he rode the last waves of his orgasm into your mouth.

And you?

You just kept going—milking him with slow, greedy sucks until his hands loosened their hold in your hair and his cock gave one last exhausted twitch between your lips.

When you finally eased off him, lips glistening, you licked them slowly—dragging your thumb across the corner of your mouth like you were savoring him.

Bucky was wrecked—utterly speechless—eyes fixed on you like you’d just shattered him and put him back together all at once.

And all you did was lean up, breath ghosting across his lips as you whispered, voice wicked and soft:

“See, Barnes? That wasn’t so hard.”

Your lips were still damp and glistening as you kissed him once, slow and teasing, before pulling back with a wicked glint in your eye.

“You really thought I didn’t notice, Bucky?” you purred, hands braced on his chest as you straddled him for a heartbeat. “You looking at me all day like you just wanted to take me right there against the wall?”

His breath caught—a harsh inhale as his hands flexed over your hips.

And you weren’t done.

“The way you kept staring at me,” you went on, voice husky, leaning closer until your lips brushed his ear. “You wanted to touch me so fucking bad, didn’t you?”

That was it.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest—pure need and possessive hunger—and in a blink, his hands were on you.

Your world spun as Bucky flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing, caging you in with his broad shoulders and solid arms.

“Goddamn right I did,” he ground out, blue eyes dark as they raked over you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Your breath hitched at the raw power of him—this was the Bucky you’d teased all day without knowing it, and now you had nowhere to hide.

“Bucky—” you started, lips trembling with anticipation.

But he was already on you, hands tugging at your clothes like they were the last thing on Earth between him and you.

Your top was first—pulled up and off with a rough urgency that left your hair tousled and your skin bared to his heated gaze.

“God, look at you,” he breathed, palms sweeping up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples in a way that made you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands fisted in the sheets as he leaned down, pressing his lips to the valley of your chest, kissing and nipping his way along your skin like he was starving.

“Been dying for this all day,” he muttered against you, voice so low and raw it sent a shiver straight to your core.

And you could feel him—already hard again—pressed heavy and insistent against your thigh as he dragged your pants down your legs, peeling them off with the same greedy need as before.

By the time you were bare beneath him—nothing left to hide—Bucky paused, breath shuddering as his hands skimmed up your legs like he couldn’t wait another second to touch you properly.

“You have any idea,” he growled, leaning down until his lips hovered just above yours, “what you do to me?”

And all you could do was look up at him—eyes dazed, lips parted, pulse racing—and whisper, “Show me.”

Your heart was a drum in your chest as Bucky hovered above you, gaze raking over every inch of your bare body like he was trying to burn you into his memory. His jaw clenched, his breathing ragged, like he was holding on by a thread.

“Show you?” he rasped, voice so low and dark it sent a shiver straight through your core. His eyes were wild—desperate, hungry—like he’d been starved for you and finally, finally had you where he wanted.

And then his mouth was on yours—no soft, sweet kiss, just pure need, lips crashing into yours, tongue claiming your mouth as his hands grabbed your wrists and pinned them hard above your head.

“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he rasped into your mouth, teeth dragging against your bottom lip as he pinned you.

You gasped, but he didn’t let up—grinding his hips into you, cock heavy and hard against your soaked heat, making sure you felt exactly what you’d done to him.

“Been wanting this all fucking day,” he growled against your lips, breath hot, teeth scraping your mouth as he spoke.

And god, the way he held you down—metal fingers cool and unyielding around your wrists, flesh hand roaming down your side, leaving a trail of heat in its wake—made you tremble beneath him.

Then he shifted his hips, lining himself up, and you barely had time to suck in a breath before he drove into you in one deep, devastating thrust.

Your cry echoed through the room, pleasure burning hot as your body stretched around him, filled so full you could barely think.

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groaned, head dropping to your neck, his breath shuddering against your skin. “So tight—so fucking perfect for me.”

He didn’t give you a second to adjust—didn’t want to—pulling back just enough to slam into you again, harder, deeper. The force of it rocked you against the mattress, made your head spin, made your toes curl.

You could barely breathe, barely think, just feel — the wet, filthy slap of his hips against yours, the sharp drag of his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside you, the way he completely owned your body.

“B-Bucky—” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan.

“Yeah?” he growled, fucking into you with a brutal rhythm, his metal hand tightening just enough on your wrists to make you arch beneath him, helpless and open. “This what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to lose it? Wanted me to ruin you?”

And oh god, you did. You wanted this—wanted him like this, unrestrained, raw, needing you like his life depended on it.

You whimpered, eyes glossy, back arching as he pounded into you, the headboard thudding against the wall with every deep, savage thrust.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice wrecked, hips slamming into yours so hard the bed creaked beneath you. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, pleasure coiling tighter, burning hotter. “Bucky, I’m yours—please—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, mouth at your ear, pace relentless as he chased both your highs. “Gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart on my cock?”

Your body was trembling, so close it hurt, every thrust sending you spiraling higher until you shattered, crying out his name as your climax ripped through you—wave after wave of blinding heat, muscles clenching down around him so tight he nearly lost his mind.

“Fuck—doll—” Bucky gasped, hips stuttering as your orgasm dragged him under.

He spilled into you in thick, hot pulses, groaning low and broken as he fucked you through it, milking every last drop. His body shuddered over yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin.

And when it was done, when you were both boneless and spent, he finally loosened his grip on your wrists, fingers tracing over the marks he’d left there—gentle now, reverent.

His forehead dropped to yours, eyes soft even as his chest still heaved. “Jesus, doll,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ve wanted that for so long.”

A wicked little smile tugged at your lips as you tipped your chin up just enough to murmur against his mouth, “I know… you were so obvious, you know that?”

Bucky froze, breath hitching.

Your fingers tugged playfully at his hair as you went on, voice breathy and sweetly smug. “Following me around like a lost puppy all day. Practically undressing me with your eyes every time I bent over.”

That earned you a low groan and a warning growl that rumbled in his chest.

“Careful,” Bucky muttered, hips flexing instinctively—and you could feel him already stirring against you, still inside you, his hands tightening possessively on your waist.

You just grinned, eyes dark as you arched into him. “Careful?” you echoed, lips brushing his ear. “Or what? You gonna pin me down and do it all over again, Barnes?”

And before you could say another word, he was kissing you—deep and filthy—his hands roaming like he was starving for you all over again, every slick inch of your body his to taste, to take, to wreck one more time.

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125 @thatsbucknasty

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

IRONHEART 1.01 - "Take Me Home"

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

“it’s circus work.” not to me. not if it’s my monkeys.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

┼ ,summary’ . SATORU spoilin’ his pretty girl ^^

𖤝 ,cw’ . MDNI (18+), afab! reader, established rls, mirror fucking.

satoru isn’t an easy man. not when your hands are on him, warm and practiced, working into the tight knots in his back like you know exactly where to press. your mouth brushes his neck, tongue dragging slow beneath his ear, and he lets out a breathy, broken sound—almost a whine, already strung too tight.

“fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice shaking. “you tryin’ to ruin me?”

he’s even worse when you climb into his lap, thighs locked around his waist, grinding just right—slow, controlled, like you’re the one setting the pace. his head tips back, fingers digging into your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. you drag your nails down his chest, lower, until he’s twitching under you, hips stuttering.

“s-shit—d’you feel that?” he breathes, jaw slack, hands trembling. “you’ve got me so fucking hard it hurts.”

he’s not easy when a necklace appears on your dresser or a pair of stupidly pricey heels arrive at the doorstep of your apartment, shit you barely remember mentioning. “you’ve got expensive taste babe,” he grins like the devil. “good thing i've got deep pockets.” and when you wear them—just the heels, of course—he completely falls apart. flat on his back, eyes wide, mouth open, letting you ride him slow and deep until he’s babbling your name under his breath.

“i buy you pretty things,” he gasps, lips dragging along your cheek, “and you give me this? fuck—f-fair trade.”

when you grind down just right, make yourself cum on him with your head thrown back and heels digging into his thighs, he whines—high and desperate. doesn’t stop. just flips you over, drags you to the mirror, pushes back in your slick pussy like he's starving for it, like he can’t help it. one hand on your stomach, the other gripping your thigh, forcing your gaze to the glass while you watch him lose it all over again.

“say thank you,” he pants, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “fuck–-say it like you mean it..”

no, satoru isn’t an easy man. (or so he claims) but with you—spoiling you, fucking you, loving you?—he never stood a chance. and he never wanted one.

© 2025 virtuesworn. all rights reserved. unauthorized use, reproduction, or translation is prohibited.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

hey! just read your sub!Bucky pieces and went absolutely FERAL for them. was just wondering if you had plans to do any more, maybe even one where Bucky slips into subspace? just a thought lol no pressure but I really really do love your writing it's AMAZING <3

Hi love! Let's just say I was working on this, which I felt it's giving the similar wavelength (not sure if this was the plot you're looking for) but I hope you'll enjoy this one too! 💜 This was already 2k words in before I saw this ✨

𝓌𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ᢉ𐭩

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday, and for once, there’s no mission, no alarms, no need to be the strong one. Just a quiet morning in your shared bed at the Watchtower—where you worship every inch of him, show him how deeply he’s loved, and let him drift into the softest subspace under your touch.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, sub!Bucky, praise kink, emotional subspace, riding (f on m), blowjob, soft dom!reader, birthday sex, aftercare, gentle smut, romantic smut, post-mission softness, cuddling, emotional vulnerability, sleep kink (non-fetishized)

Word Count: 3.8k

It was just another quiet weekday in the Watchtower. No missions. No briefings. Not even a sparring session. The corridors were still and silent, bathed in late morning sun, untouched by urgency or tension for once. Peace like that was rare—but today, it felt deserved.

Especially because it was his birthday.

The two of you stayed in bed longer than usual, tangled beneath soft cotton sheets, both of you naked under the covers. Your body pressed close to his, skin on skin, warm and unhurried. Bucky’s head rested against your chest, his stubble grazing the swell of your breast as he breathed you in—like the sound of your heartbeat was the only thing tethering him to this quiet moment.

His flesh hand had found its way to your breast sometime after waking. Not with lust. Not to tease. He simply held you there, fingers splayed across your soft skin, thumb stroking lazy circles over your nipple. It grounded him. Anchored him. It made him feel safe.

You let him stay there, one arm curled around his shoulders, the other slowly carding through his messy, dark hair. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His body told you everything—the way he sighed softly when you touched him, how his thumb slowed, how his entire weight pressed into your side like he trusted the bed wouldn’t hold him but you would.

And maybe it was the quiet. Or the sunlight. Or just the fact that today was his. But something about the moment made you want to give him everything.

You kissed the top of his head first. Then his temple. The soft corner of his brow. Your lips moved slowly, reverently, down the side of his face until you reached his jaw—and you felt him exhale, deep and warm, like he was already letting go.

There was no urgency. No fire. Just love.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered into his hair. “Let me take care of you today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

You felt him nod, so faintly it was almost imperceptible—and that was all the permission you needed.

—

You shifted gently, guiding him with slow, coaxing hands until he lay flat on the bed beneath you. The sheets rustled beneath his body, catching little patches of morning sun that filtered through the curtains. His hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo, and when you leaned over him—hovering, bare skin brushing against his—Bucky didn’t resist. He just looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, soft and stormless.

You began at his forehead. A single kiss. Barely a press of your lips. Then another—this one firmer, lingering. You trailed them down the center, between his brows. Then to the left, then the right, your mouth ghosting every inch of skin like it deserved worship.

You kissed the bridge of his nose, let your lips curl there, smiling gently when he scrunched it in response. His cheeks, flushed already, warmed further under your attention. You mouthed over his cheekbones, slow and fluttery—kisses like soft feathers.

Then, his eyelids—and he closed his eyes for you, without being asked. Trusting. Vulnerable. You kissed each one with quiet reverence, your thumbs brushing just beneath them.

His ears next—one, then the other—the shell, the lobe, the sensitive curve just behind it. You whispered there, voice velvet-soft:

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?”

He shivered under you.

You moved down to his chin, traced your lips beneath it, then finally met his mouth. A kiss, then another. Plush, slow, deep. Not hungry. Just… full. He sighed into you, his hands twitching slightly on the sheets like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or surrender entirely.

You chose for him.

You kissed down his throat next, dragging your lips over the strong line of his neck. One side, then the other. You kissed every inch—the sharp line under his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the side where his pulse fluttered quick under skin. You nuzzled there, inhaling deeply like he was your favorite scent.

Then came his collarbones. You traced them with your tongue, kissed over the dips, and left little open-mouthed presses over the stretch of chest between them.

His chest.

God, his chest.

You slowed there, sitting back on your knees for a moment to just look. His skin was lightly freckled, chest rising and falling steadily, pecs soft but sculpted with strength. His nipples were already pebbled from your touch, from the air, from the sheer intimacy of being looked at like this.

You leaned down again, mouthing at his left nipple. A soft suck. A slow swirl of your tongue. He let out the faintest breath—not a moan, but something deeper, like surprise. You repeated it on the right, just as lovingly.

“I don’t say this enough,” you murmured against his skin, “but I love your chest. Every inch of it. The way it fits against me when we sleep. How solid you feel when I hold you. How soft your skin is right here…”

You kissed the space between his pecs. Let your nose brush down the ridge of his sternum.

Then, you took both of his hands.

First, his flesh hand—calloused but warm, fingertips twitching with the desire to touch. You brought it up to your face and pressed it against your cheek, nuzzling in. Then his vibranium one—cooler, but just as familiar. You mirrored the movement, setting his palm against your other cheek, letting the contrast of heat and metal ground you both.

You kissed the knuckles of one, then the other. Not up to his shoulders—just enough to make him feel cherished, honored.

Then your lips began their descent.

You pressed slow kisses down the flat of his stomach, dragging your tongue briefly over the cut ridges of his abs. His stomach twitched beneath you—his muscles contracting, not from restraint, but from feeling. Each kiss came with breathy praise:

“So strong for me, baby...”

“Look at you, you’re unreal…”

“I could kiss you here all day…”

You moved lower, past the lines of his hips, brushing the edge of where his body was already beginning to stiffen with arousal. But you didn’t go there. Not yet.

Instead, you lingered. Paused. Looked.

Your eyes lifted, meeting his—half-lidded, soft with awe.

“You still surprise me, you know?” you said quietly, voice touched with wonder. “No matter how many times I’ve gone down on you, no matter how many times you’ve been inside me…”

Your gaze flicked down again.

“You’re still so damn perfect. Thick… long… veiny in all the right places… curved just right to ruin me.”

Bucky let out a low moan—barely there, like he was trying to hold it in.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the base of his shaft in a slow, wet kiss. Then another. You mouthed up his length, lips parting slightly to taste the warmth of him. Your tongue flicked just beneath the ridge, teasing gently.

He groaned this time—not loud, but from his chest. His hands fisted in the sheets.

You glanced up, lips still near the tip.

“You don’t have to hold it in today, baby,” you whispered. “It’s your day. You can moan as loud as you want.”

—

You kissed the tip of his cock once more, lips plush and wet, before taking him into your mouth—slow, steady, no theatrics. Just love.

He was warm and heavy on your tongue, the weight of him familiar, comforting even. You wrapped one hand around the base as you sucked, your other resting gently over his thigh, grounding him there. Your tongue moved in slow, tender motions—tracing along the underside, flicking softly under the head, then swirling around the crown like you were savoring the taste of him.

He moaned low—not because he was trying to, but because the sound slipped from him naturally. Bucky didn’t try to take control. Didn’t buck his hips. Didn’t reach for your head.

He just let you love him.

He surrendered to it. Fully.

You adjusted your pace now and then, never too fast—never trying to bring him over the edge, only to bring him peace. Your hand began to stroke slowly in tandem with your mouth, coaxing soft pulses from his cock as you pulled back and slid forward again, humming lightly around him. Every so often, you paused to mouth around the head, giving it gentle, fluttery kisses before sinking again.

His breaths were shallow now. Chest rising and falling with rhythm, hands fisting gently into the sheets beside him—not out of desperation, but of feeling too much and still wanting more.

And you gave it to him. Every drop.

After a while, you pulled back with a soft pop, one hand still stroking his length, slick and slow. You moved back up his body, hovering over him once again, your thighs straddling his hips now. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy when they met yours.

And then you kissed him.

A kiss so deep it made your chest ache. Tender, gentle, plush—just lips and warmth and love pouring into him like water into something parched. He moaned into your mouth, and you drank it down, your hand still stroking him between your bodies.

You broke the kiss barely an inch from his lips, whispering against him:

“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much it hurts. Nothing I do will ever be enough to show it. Nothing.”

You kissed him again, and he melted into it.

Still stroking him, you lifted your hips just enough to guide the tip of his cock toward your slick folds—already soaked, your body aching to take him in. You ran him through your wetness, coating him slowly, letting him feel the heat of you.

And then, you began to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you took him into you—your breath catching, your moans soft and open. His hands remained beside him, his brows pulled slightly in a dazed, vulnerable expression as your warmth enveloped him.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered as he stretched you open, “So perfect for me… strong, kind, mine…”

Another inch.

“I love your mind… your body… your heart… every broken piece, every scar—I want them. I want you.”

You bottomed out, hips flush against his, his cock deep inside you—and his moan this time trembled. His chest rose sharply, his eyes shut tight. You felt him start to come apart.

He didn’t say a word—but the way his body softened beneath you, how his hands stopped clutching the sheets, how his breath started coming in slow, heavy waves—you could feel it.

He was letting go.

Slipping under.

Not because of pressure.

But because of love.

—

You leaned back, lifting your chest away from his, placing your hands on either side of his hips as you settled into a rhythm. Your body curved like sculpture as you began to ride him slowly—hips rolling with purpose, with grace, with love. Every movement was deliberate. Every descent a declaration.

He filled you so perfectly, thick and pulsing, stretching you just right. The familiar pressure made your head tilt back for a moment, a soft moan slipping past your lips as your walls clenched around him instinctively.

“God… Bucky—,” you breathed, eyes finding his again. “You feel so good inside me…”

His gaze was already on you—wide and heavy-lidded, ethereal in their pale blue softness. His hair was fanned across the pillow, chest rising with each breath, muscles loose beneath you.

But you could still see it—the flicker of something in his expression. That quiet tension he never fully let go of.

He still thought he had to be the strong one. The one who kept everything together. The protector. The man.

It was written in the furrow of his brow, the way his jaw flexed like he was trying to hold himself still, even while being loved.

But you weren’t having it.

You leaned into the movement, riding him with a little more rhythm now—still slow, still soft, but enough to make him feel. Your hands trailed down your own body, touching your breasts, your thighs, showing him how deeply he affected you. Your moans came easier, sweeter now.

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” you whispered. “Just let go, baby. Let me love you.”

He exhaled shakily. His hands stayed on the sheets, fingers twitching. His muscles were no longer holding tension—they were melting. You could feel it happening under you.

Your hips rolled deeper, and a fresh wave of slickness coated him, helping him glide within you with even less resistance. You moved with love—like he was your rhythm, your anchor, your purpose. And all the while, you kept your eyes on him.

“You’re so perfect like this… letting me take care of you…”

A little faster now.

Your moans turned breathier, your voice lilting every time his cock hit that perfect spot inside you—the gentle curve brushing your most sensitive places like a promise.

“You’re everything to me,” you whispered, and it cracked slightly on the edge of a moan. “Everything, Bucky. I love you—God, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it…”

He was trembling beneath you now—not from exertion, but from feeling too much. You knew his orgasm was close. Just like yours.

You rode him with more urgency now, but still soft. Still loving. The pace was steady, grounding—enough to build your pleasure to its peak without shaking the serenity of the moment. Just when you started to lose rhythm—your thighs tightening, your breath catching—your orgasm bloomed through you, warm and slow and full-bodied.

“Bucky,” you moaned, not loud, but with every ounce of devotion. “Bucky—I love you…”

That was all it took.

His eyes fluttered shut. His hands clenched the sheets. And then he came.

Hot pulses spilled inside you, his body jerking slightly beneath yours as he let go, all at once. You kept grinding down on him, slow and indulgent, milking every drop, wanting him to feel it—the depth of what you were giving him. The love you poured into every movement.

When the last wave passed, you slowly sank down, chest hovering over his again as you rested lightly on him, his cock still buried inside. You were panting, your skin dewy with sweat and satisfaction. He wasn’t—damn super soldier stamina—but he looked like a man completely undone.

And he was smiling.

Soft. Wide. So genuine it made your heart ache.

“God,” he murmured, voice rough with awe, “I love this… love how you cherished me.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him—tender and slow. A kiss that told him you heard him. That you always would.

You whispered against his lips:

“Happy birthday, baby.”

Another kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek.

“Never too old to be the love of my life.”

—

Later—after your bodies had cooled and your breathing had steadied—you straddled him again.

But this time, you reached for him gently. Pulled him up with slow hands, guiding him to sit upright. His body followed yours instinctively, pliant and warm, his chest flush against yours as he came to rest in the middle of the bed with you wrapped around his lap.

You cupped his cheeks, kissed him—just once, deeply—and then reached beneath, guided him back inside you.

A soft gasp left both your lips.

You rolled your hips again, slow and steady. He was already hard again—of course he was, supersoldier resilience and all—and the way he filled you from this angle made you moan softly into the space between you.

Your face found his neck. You buried yourself there, lips brushing his pulse point, arms wrapped behind his shoulders as you moved up and down with slow rhythm. There was no urgency. Just this.

Your breath caught as you whispered:

“Bucky…”

A thrust.

“James—”

Another.

“God, Buck… I love you. I love you with every part of me…”

You kept moving, hips gliding down over his again and again, the wet sounds of your bodies joined mixing with the occasional sigh he let slip.

His arms had found your waist—not to control, but to hold. Lightly. Just to feel you close. His forehead rested against your shoulder now, breath warming your skin. His lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t need them.

You could feel the way he was slipping—further into you, further away from his thoughts. Every time your hips rolled, every time your voice cracked from how much you loved him, you felt the tension bleed out of his muscles.

His eyes stayed closed.

He was quiet. Floaty. Gone.

And you kept going. Riding him slow, murmuring his name like a lullaby, whispering your love into the curve of his neck.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much, I don’t even have the words…”

“You’re so good for me, Bucky… always so good…”

“Just stay here with me… you don’t have to carry anything else right now…”

And then it built again—soft pressure mounting inside you, your thighs starting to tremble, your moans breaking into breathy stutters. You held him tighter, and you felt it in him too—the little twitch of his cock, the sharp inhale against your skin.

“Come with me,” you whispered, “please, baby… just let go with me…”

And he did.

You came together, soft cries tangled into each other’s skin. Your body clung to his, every part of you melting, soaking in his heat as his release spilled deep inside you again. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, face buried in your shoulder, lips ghosting your collarbone in a dazed smile.

His voice cracked with emotion as he finally spoke:

“Baby… I never felt a love this strong. Not ever.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, soft, dazed—and you smiled, cupping his cheeks.

“You deserve it, Buck. Every bit of it.”

You kissed him once, slow and warm. Then another.

With a soft sigh, you eased your hips back and slowly slid off of him, his cock slipping free with a wet sound that left you both breathless. You watched him blink—floaty, flushed, still gone—and reached for the small towel you’d tucked by the bedside earlier. You knew he’d need help now. You wanted to take care of him.

—

He was still seated, still inside that soft, slow daze, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of someone who felt held in every way.

You kissed his temple, voice soft in his ear:

“It’s your birthday, baby… So just lay down for me, yeah? Be the king you are today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

He didn’t answer—just nodded, dazed, letting you guide him gently back down onto the bed. He settled flat, arms relaxed at his sides, body loose like he didn’t have to carry anything anymore. You straddled beside him, reached for the towel, and began cleaning him.

First, his softened cock—still twitching slightly, sensitive, slick with your combined release. You were slow, so slow. Wiping him gently, careful not to rush or overstimulate. You murmured as you worked, each word like honey:

“You did so well for me, baby.”

“You let go so beautifully…”

“I’m so proud of you… so proud to be yours…”

You finished and kissed his hip softly, then leaned back to clean yourself. He watched through half-lidded eyes, not quite there, but present enough to follow your movements—like watching you anchored him to the world.

Once you were done, you tossed the towel aside and curled beside him, pulling the blankets up just enough to cover his lower half. You guided his head gently to your chest, his cheek resting over your bare skin. You felt the heat of his breath against you, the slow lull of his heartbeat syncing with yours.

And you threaded your fingers into his hair.

Soft, rhythmic motions. Over and over. Stroking behind his ear. Tracing circles over his scalp. Holding him.

He looked blissed, completely. His eyes were half-closed, lips parted, lashes fluttering like he was floating somewhere between sleep and peace.

Then, in a voice barely audible—more breath than sound—he mumbled:

“…love you so much…”

You smiled. Because you understood. You always would.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “So much.”

You kept petting him, holding him like he was something sacred, something worth all the time and care in the world. Minutes passed like that—maybe more—until eventually, you felt him stir a little.

He blinked, slower than usual. His eyes finally met yours—and there was clarity there now. The fog had lifted, just a little.

“Wow,” he said, voice rough and raw. “That was… new.”

He paused, searching for words.

“It felt like… I don’t know. Like being wrapped up. Like being hugged from the inside out. Everything was warm. And soft. Like I didn’t have to think anymore—”

Your smile deepened, thumb stroking his cheek.

“That’s love, baby Bucks,” you said softly. “That’s what it feels like. And I’m not gonna stop showing it to you.”

He closed his eyes again. Letting that sink in. Letting you sink in.

And with his arms slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you close—you knew he believed you.

—

Bucky didn’t say anything else after that. He didn’t need to.

His head stayed tucked into your chest, arms loosely wrapped around your waist like he was holding onto the warmth that had brought him back from someplace far and quiet. You kept your fingers in his hair, slow and soothing, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp in slow patterns. You could feel his body softening more with every breath—his chest rising deeper, slower. The kind of breathing that only came when someone felt completely, utterly safe.

Your other hand traced gentle circles across the curve of his shoulder, then down the line of his back. You weren’t drawing any pattern, just touching to let him feel that you were still there.

Present.

Loving him, even in stillness.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t shift. His breathing evened out—no sharp inhales, no tense exhale. His whole body went heavy against yours. No loud thoughts. No guilt. No duty pulling him from your arms.

He was asleep.

Just like that.

It had never been that easy before. Not for Bucky.

You smiled, still drawing lazy shapes on his skin, still playing with his hair. You didn’t rush your own sleep. Just let the warmth of him—his weight, his scent, the soft rhythm of his breathing—pull you in too.

Outside the window, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, stretching golden light across the floorboards of your shared unit in the Watchtower. There were no sirens. No mission briefings. No alarms.

Just calm.

Just love.

Just the two of you.

You let your eyes drift shut. Your arm curled tighter around him. And together, you both sank into the quiet peace of a late morning nap—wrapped in warmth, in safety, in everything you had given each other.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

Don’t Smile

Pairing College!Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader

Synopsis You were so tired of being an option he would’ve never of chosen. It’s just as ironic a song had been playing while you beat yourself over and over again for not being the one he wanted

Word Count 3.4k

Themes + Warnings hurt with slight comfort , unrequited love (kinda) , angst , slight fluff , THE OTHER WOMANNNNNN

— Don’t smile “You’re supposed to think about me everytime you hold her” - Sabrina Carpenter

The apartment is too quiet.

Except for the soft crackle and warm hiss of the vinyl player in your room, spinning a fragile thread of sound through the stillness.

The night had wrapped itself around the apartment building like a dark velvet curtain, cool spring air seeping through the cracked window in your room, brushing against your skin like a whispered reminder of everything you were trying to push away. The needle of the vinyl player had long since lifted, but the echo of “Don’t Smile” still clung to the walls—a haunting lullaby for the broken.

The gentle piano intro seeps into your skin, weaving between the shadows and the fading streetlight leaking through your blinds.

The voice—soft, hurt, aching—wraps around you like a ghost.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her…”

The lyrics hit different when you’re alone in a room that suddenly feels too small and too empty.

Your chest tightens. The cold from the cracked window crawls up your spine, but you don’t close it. You want to feel the sting. You want something real to remind you you’re awake, not dreaming.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, clutching the edge of the mattress, heart pounding louder than the music.

You can hear them—Bucky and the girl—in the room two doors down. Laughing. Touching. Whispering.

You imagine her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers tracing invisible patterns along her arm, lips brushing her temple.

That should be me.

You pressed your fingers against your lips, biting the inside of your cheek until the taste of copper filled your mouth. You tried to swallow the sting, tried to push away the images—the way his bare skin had brushed against hers, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered “doll,” the way the girl giggled in his arms like she owned a piece of him you’d never get back.

The thought echoes in your mind, a mantra that twists your stomach in knots.

You close your eyes and press your palms over them, trying to erase the image.

But it’s stubborn.

You think about the times you almost said something.

Almost told him how you felt. Almost warned him that you weren’t okay with this casual parade of strangers through your shared space.

Almost hoped he’d see you—not just as the roommate who did the dishes, or the one who gave him coffee when he forgot to buy any—but as something more. Something real.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, but the pain doesn’t distract you.

Because every time you close your eyes, it’s the same scene:

You.

Alone.

Watching him fall asleep beside someone who isn’t you.

And the silence between you grows louder than any scream you could let out.

You curl into yourself, a fragile, trembling knot of want and regret.

The music swells. Long gone, Long stopped playing. Just repeats in your head

“I don’t wanna see you smile like you mean it, no…”

Your breath catches.

But the ache wasn’t just jealousy. It was years of quiet yearning, of watching from the sidelines as Bucky did everything but look at you the way you looked at him.

You wished you could scream, but instead you swallowed the noise, wrapped yourself tighter in your sweater, and tried to disappear into the shadows of your room.

But you weren’t invisible.

Not to Yelena.

Not to Peter.

Your bed is cold. You sit up and drag the blanket off. You throw on sweats, a sweater, and the only shoes in reach—the fuzzy matching slippers Peter got everyone as a joke for Valentine’s Day. Yours are pale blue with little stars on them. They squeak slightly when you walk.

They’re soft, comforting, a small thread connecting you to the others in this messy shared life.

You slide them on, grateful for the softness against your aching feet.

The music keeps spinning, but the words blur into a soundtrack of your broken hope.

You stare at the door, heart hammering, knowing that soon you’ll have to leave this room. Leave the apartment. Leave the people who don’t see the storm you’re drowning in.

But not yet.

Not until the last note fades away, leaving only the cold and the silence.

And the whispered promise you wish you could say out loud:

That should be me.

The living room is dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, abandoned long ago.

Peter’s slumped on the couch, eyes half-closed, his face slack as the last YouTube video loops on the screen—some random clip of a baby otter clumsily trying to climb a rock.

He’s supposed to be asleep, but his brow furrows like he’s holding something back.

From the cracked door of her room, Yelena’s silhouette appears—a careful, cautious shape framed by the dim hallway light. She steps out quietly and crosses the floor with silent steps, settling on the arm of the couch beside Peter.

Her eyes drift toward your closed bedroom door, narrowing.

“Do you think she’s okay?” she whispers.

Peter blinks slowly, almost reluctantly. “She left the music on. And the door’s closed, but she’s not in here. I heard... something. Sounds.”

Yelena’s gaze sharpens, voice low but urgent. “That’s not just something. She’s hurting.”

Peter’s hand twitches, the tip of his thumb brushing against the couch fabric nervously.

“She’s been pretending. You know it. We both know it.”

Yelena’s lips twitch into a half-frown. “We can’t just let her walk away like this. Not tonight.”

The two of them exchange a look loaded with worry, something heavy and unspoken hanging between them.

Meanwhile, in your room, you’re already sliding on your fuzzy blue slippers—the ones Peter made sure everyone had to “keep the peace.”

You pull on your oversized sweater, its sleeves falling past your wrists, a cocoon to hide in.

You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and open the door.

“Hey,” Yelena’s voice is gentle but firm, stopping you just outside.

Peter’s blankly staring at the tv screen while on the couch. Hoodie tangled around his arms, mouth slightly open. Even half-asleep, his eyes shift over the second he hears your door click shut.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asks, eyes searching yours like she’s trying to read a secret you won’t give.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

“Wanda’s,” you say quickly. “Her heater broke, and she asked me to come help. You know, a quick fix.”

It’s a lie. A dumb one. You know yelena and peter knows it.

Peter’s voice is softer than you expect. “It’s cold out.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” you lie, voice cracking just a bit.

Yelena calls out, barely above a whisper, “Don’t forget to text. And if Barnes comes after you, trip him.”

You offer them both a tight-lipped smile. “Copy that.”

Behind you, faint but crystal clear through the thin walls, comes the sound you’re trying to block out—the quiet giggling, the soft kisses, the murmurs that Bucky and the girl share in his room.

A cruel soundtrack to the lie you tell.

You swallow the lump in your throat as your heart screams that should be me.

Yelena’s brow tightens. Peter looks like he wants to argue but knows it’s useless.

Neither of them presses further.

They know.

And as you step outside into the cold spring night, the door closes softly behind you, leaving a silence heavier than any words could be.

The window slid open with a creak, and Bucky leaned out into the chill, shirtless, skin dappled by the glow of the hallway light behind him. His eyes scanned the street below until they found you—shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, fuzzy blue slippers silent on the concrete. You looked like you were trying to disappear into the night, swallowed whole by the cold.

He blinked once, twice, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Doll?”

Your name cracked against the air, soft but strained, like a question laced with panic.

You didn’t turn around.

Inside his room, the girl stirred on his bed, clearly annoyed. “Bucky, come back. What are you doing?”

He barely heard her. The second she touched his shoulder, he flinched away, eyes still glued to you disappearing down the street like you were slipping out of a dream.

“Doll?” he called again, louder. You were at the edge of the sidewalk now, shoulders shaking—not from the cold, he knew—but you kept walking.

Bucky stepped back from the window like he’d been hit.

“Fuck.”

He said it under his breath, guttural, sharp. The panic flared hot in his chest now.

He grabbed the hoodie hanging on the back of his desk chair—his favorite gray one, the one that smelled like late nights and everything soft—and yanked it over his head. Out of habit, he reached for the cologne on his dresser, misting himself once, then twice. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he was already shoving the cap back on.

“Bucky, seriously?” the girl whined. “You’re going after her?”

But he didn’t answer. His bare feet hit the hallway floor hard as he bolted for the front door. Yelena’s bedroom door creaked open just enough for her and Peter to watch him barrel out—hoodie half-on, no shoes, heart pounding.

The second Bucky hit the street, the cold slapped him in the face. The air bit at his chest, but he didn’t stop.

“There you are,” he muttered, spotting you ahead.

“Hey—hey!” he called.

You flinched but didn’t stop. He ran faster, slipping a little on the damp pavement until he caught up, breath coming out in visible gasps.

“Doll,” he said again, closer now, voice breathless and warm. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. “Wanda’s.”

“At midnight?”

“She needed help,” you replied flatly. “Her heater’s out.”

He caught up to your side, walking backward in front of you to block your path. “It’s forty degrees out and you’re in slippers,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “C’mon. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you bit, gaze flashing. “I’m fine. She texted.”

Bucky’s heart cracked wide. He saw it then—really saw it. The red rims of your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers were digging into the sleeves of your sweater like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Please,” he said, voice dropping. He shrugged out of his hoodie in one quick motion and held it out to you, arms extended like it was an offering. “It’s freezing. Just—just come back inside.”

You stopped walking, but you didn’t take the hoodie.

Behind you, Yelena and Peter watched from her bedroom window. Neither said a word. Their breath fogged the glass as they pressed closer, eyes wide.

You shook your head slowly. “I’m not coming back.”

“Why?”

“I told you why.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracked. “That’s bullshit. Wanda didn’t text you.”

You swallowed hard. The silence stretched.

He tried again. “Just talk to me. You don’t have to walk away. Not like this.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. His cheeks flushed from the cold, his hoodie hanging in his hands, the soft scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a ghost of something you never had.

And you thought of her.

Of the girl still waiting in his bed. Of her lips on his neck. Of his voice, saying “doll,” just like that, but not to you.

“That should’ve been me,” you whispered so quietly it could’ve been the wind.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer.

You blinked fast, backing away. “Nothing. I’m going.”

“Why?” he asked again, almost begging now. “What did I do?”

You laughed, bitter. “You really don’t know?”

“Then tell me,” he pleaded.

And the words clawed at your throat. You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her.

But you couldn’t say it. Not when you knew how it would end.

You stepped back. “Wanda’s waiting.”

You turned, leaving him standing in the cold, heart cracked wide open, hoodie still in his hands, barefoot on the pavement. The door to your shared apartment slowly creaked open behind him.

But Bucky didn’t look back.

He just watched you walk away, and for the first time, he didn’t smile.

—

Bucky stood there, hoodie limp in his hands, staring at the spot where you vanished.

Your slippers were still scuffing quietly down the sidewalk, barely audible now—but the sound stayed with him like an echo in his chest. The cold bit through his skin, his breath fogged in uneven puffs, and for a second, the world tilted on its axis.

“…fuck.”

He said it once.

Then again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Seriously?” came the annoyed voice behind him.

He didn’t even need to turn around to know the girl was standing there in his bedroom doorway, one of his shirts tugged over her frame, arms crossed like this was an inconvenience to her night.

“You’re just gonna chase her? Like, that’s so rude—”

He turned over his shoulder.

Yelena was standing in her bedroom doorway across the hall, arms folded, one brow arched with that signature unamused stare that could curdle milk. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Peter appeared a second later behind her, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing the hoodie you’d stolen a thousand times. His face fell the second he saw the door open, saw the empty street behind Bucky.

He sighed—long and slow, like something inside of him cracked.

Head shaking. Disappointed. Tired.

And that was what did it.

That moment.

That second of stillness.

Yelena staring. Peter sighing. The girl huffing behind him.

The ache in his chest sharpened like glass.

Fuck.

He shoved back inside, heart in his throat. The girl tried to follow him, muttering something about “being done with this bullshit,” but he didn’t care. Didn’t listen. His mind was already sprinting faster than his bare feet had outside.

He stumbled into his room and yanked open his drawer for socks, pulling the first pair he could find. Slippers—no. Shoes. Jacket. Hoodie still clutched in one hand.

His keys?

Where the fuck are his keys?

He rifled through his desk, knocking over an empty mug and a few pens, until his fingers curled around the lanyard.

“Where does Wanda even live?” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair.

His mind reeled.

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the damn cross street.

And then he realized—he hadn’t memorized her address. He’d never needed to.

He didn’t even know if you were really going there.

Bucky grabbed his phone with shaky fingers and pulled up your name.

[doll 🐻]

His thumb hovered. Then he hit call.

The ring echoed once. Twice.

He was already bolting down the apartment stairs, phone to his ear, heart hammering as the cold swallowed him all over again.

Three times. Still ringing.

“C’mon, c’mon—pick up,” he whispered. “Just let me explain—”

Four times.

Voicemail.

He cursed so violently it echoed down the block.

He turned toward where he last saw you walking and broke into a jog, feet slapping the pavement, hoodie tucked under one arm, phone pressed to his ear as he called you again.

Still no answer.

He whispered into the wind like it might carry the words to you:

“Please. Come home. Just come home.”

The cold hit harder with every block.

You hadn’t grabbed a real coat. Just a threadbare sweater, some old sleep leggings, and your fuzzy matching slippers that all four of you owned. Bucky’s had the little rip on the side from when Peter tripped over the couch trying to prank him. Yelena’s were the wrong size because she bought them in a rage while hungover. Yours? Yours were just worn in all the places love hides.

You didn’t even feel your fingers anymore.

You tugged your sleeves tighter, breath fogging, trying to blink away the sting in your eyes.

Behind you—somewhere back there—he’d called your name.

Doll.

Of course he did.

You’d imagined it so many times. Whispered, reverent, like he’d finally figured it out. Like he meant it the way you meant everything. But tonight, it was just salt in the wound. A cruel echo against the air.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Again.

You didn’t have to check to know who it was.

You didn’t look. You couldn’t.

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

The streets were quiet. It was past midnight, and spring hadn’t bothered to warm up yet. The chill curled up your sleeves and dug into your spine, and still—you kept walking. Wanda’s building was a ten-minute trek. You didn’t even know if she was home. You just needed to be anywhere but where he was whispering doll to someone else and offering you hoodies like bandages over broken bones he caused.

The final block felt endless. The cold wind bit your cheeks raw, and your toes had gone numb. You finally reached her stoop and buzzed, praying she was awake.

A soft shuffle, then the door clicked open.

You pushed inside like a ghost.

Warmth hit your face, but it didn’t sink in. Not really.

Wanda appeared from the kitchen in one of Vision’s sweatshirts, brow furrowed. “Hey. What are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, trying to smile, trying to be casual when your voice cracked. “I just—uh, I needed to get out for a sec.”

Wanda didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. She just nodded once, quiet understanding in her eyes, and stepped aside to let you pass.

Vision peeked around the corner, blinking slowly. “Are you alright?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s okay.”

Behind him, Pietro appeared shirtless and yawning, bleached hair sticking up in five directions. “Hey,” he said softly, surprised but not unkind. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Me neither,” you said, and it was the closest to the truth you’d said all night.

Wanda pressed a warm mug into your hands. You hadn’t noticed she was already making tea.

“I’ll grab you blankets,” she said quietly.

You whispered a thanks and sank into the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest, still wearing the fuzzy slippers, still shaking.

Your phone buzzed again.

And again.

You didn’t look.

You just turned the ringer off, shoved it under a pillow, and stared at the wall.

Outside, somewhere in the dark, you knew Bucky was looking for you.

You knew because your heart was still beating.

And it only ever beat like that for him.

(You’ve got mail!) this was molding in my drafts so I wanted to post it because yes..AND HONESTLY I WANTED TO MAKE IR LONGER BUT I DEADASS DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO ADD LIKE I LOST THE WAY I WAS PLOTTING IT I ONLY HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS. but this was one of my fav songs off sns and just listening to it made me levitate 🧘‍♀️

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

swipe right 𐙚 b.b

pairing: grumpy!tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: just fluff 💌

summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

word count: 2.9k

author's note: hi loves, i really enjoyed writing this fic and i hope you'll enjoy it! based on this request | requests are open!

The sky was turning the colour of old peaches—that soft, late-summer blend of pink and orange that washed everything in warmth but didn’t hide how tired the day had become. 

It was the kind of light that settled low on your skin, not burning, just clinging. The kind that said the hard part was over but didn’t promise peace.

The boat creaked as it shifted against the dock, rocked by the lazy rhythm of the tide below. Everything moved slow—the air, the water, even time itself. 

Somewhere deeper in the trees, cicadas droned with that steady, hypnotic buzz that made talking feel like too much effort. But Sam had never been one to leave quiet alone when it started to feel too comfortable.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that looked like it had already been through three summers too many. Tossed it over his shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky.

The man hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. Sitting near the stern on a crate that creaked under his weight, arms resting on his knees, jaw tight. Staring at the water like it had something to answer for, the kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, just full of something waiting.

“You’ve got that look again,” Sam said, twisting off the cap of a beer with a soft hiss.

Bucky didn’t move. “What look?”

“Like something’s been bothering you for a while and you’re pretending it hasn’t.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re brooding.”

A pause. Bucky exhaled through his nose, low and flat. “You want me to smile or something?”

“God, no.” Sam took a sip, then nodded at him. “That’d be worse.”

It wasn’t mean. It was easy. Familiar. They’d gotten used to this—talking without saying much, sitting in silence like it was some kind of truce.

The water lapped gently against the side of the hull. A breeze rolled off the bayou, lifting the heat just enough to breathe again. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and the damp underside of the dock. 

Everything slowed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sam spoke again, voice casual like he wasn’t aiming for anything. “You ever think about dating?”

Bucky glanced at him, not sharply—just slow and skeptical, like he was checking if he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I mean—do you?”

Bucky shrugged, more a shift of weight than anything. “Not lately.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You suggesting I go flirt with someone at the grocery store?”

“No,” Sam said, half-smirking. “I’m suggesting you try talking to someone who doesn’t know what kind of ammo you carry.”

Bucky turned his head fully this time, giving Sam a look so dry it could’ve sanded wood. “You’ve got a real romantic pitch.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said, setting the bottle down beside him. “You don’t even talk to people unless they’re on the team or from your past. That’s not living, man. That’s just waiting.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked back at the water, but his jaw tightened, a little pulse at the side of it, quick then gone. Whatever was under that silence, it was old. And heavy. And still too close to the surface.

Sam didn’t press, not right away. Just let the quiet breathe a little before nudging again. “There’s apps for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“You ever try one?”

Bucky shook his head once. “That stuff’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Bucky said. “And I don’t really want to explain... all of this.”

The pause after that wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”

He picked at the label on his beer for a second, thoughtful, before adding, “Still doesn’t mean you don’t get to try.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m not built for that kind of thing.”

Sam leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to be built for it. You just have to show up.”

That was the thing with Bucky—he never said no right away. 

He just let silence stretch out until it either hardened into a wall or softened into maybe. 

This one softened.

Another beat passed. Then, low, almost under his breath—“I’ll ask her.”

Sam looked over, surprised but not shocked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t turn. “You know who.”

Sam studied him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before he spoke. “She’d be honest with you.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said.

He stood without another word, like the decision had been waiting in him for a while and now it just had a direction. Boots thudded quietly against the dock as he walked toward the edge of the light.

Sam watched him go as he took another sip from his bottle. 

He shook his head to himself, almost a laugh.

“About damn time.”

The sun’s lower now, bleeding into the bayou in streaks of amber and rose. It stretches long shadows across the dock, paints the water in color that looks like it shouldn’t belong to this world, too soft, too still. 

You’re sitting near the edge, back leaned against a weather-worn piling, drink balanced loosely in your hand. Your bare feet nudge the warm planks absently. 

It’s the first stillness you’ve had all day, and you’re not ready to let it go yet.

You hear him before you see him, the solid rhythm of boots on wood, measured and familiar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just Bucky, moving like he always does, deliberate, quiet and steady.

He sits beside you without a word. 

Just drops down next to you, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed straight out at the water like it might eventually give him an answer if he stares long enough.

You wait. You’ve known him long enough to know he only speaks when he means to.

Finally, he says, low,

“Sam thinks I should try dating apps.”

You glance over, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitches. “I said the same thing” He huffs. “Apparently he thinks I’m too emotionally repressed to function without external help.”

You snort, tipping your head back to take in the sky, already turning violet at the edges. “Sounds like Sam.”

“He showed me one,” Bucky says. “Said I needed to ‘get back out there.’ Like I was ever out there to begin with.”

You hum, dragging your finger down the side of your bottle to catch a trail of condensation. “Did he show you Tinder?”

“I think so. There were… bios. And pictures. A lot of pictures.”

You take a slow sip. The drink’s warm now, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then yeah. That’s Tinder.”

There’s a pause, one of those long, Southern summer silences that stretches without needing to be filled. The heat sits heavy on your skin. Everything is golden and slow.

Then—

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Not skeptical. Just curious, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. Like he’s asking about a world he doesn’t belong to.

You turn your head toward him slightly. “You actually want to know?”

He nods once, eyes still out on the water. 

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You lean back again, voice dry. “They’re like vending machines. If vending machines were full of unhinged men who think a selfie in a lifted truck is an acceptable substitute for a personality.”

Bucky lets out the barest huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

You keep going. “I’ve had guys open with ‘hey beautiful’ and follow it up with a dick pic. No hello, not even a name. Just bam, in your face."

That gets him. His head jerks a little like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide, blinking, then immediately looks away again. “Jesus.”

“Right?” you say, half-laughing despite yourself. “One guy put his venmo in his bio. Said I could ‘tip the talent.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth. “That’s real?”

“Very.”

Another pause. He doesn’t speak, and you let the quiet fill in the spaces between sentences. It’s not awkward, just mutual disbelief settling across both of you like the heat.

You glance over. 

“That’s the nice end of the spectrum. The ones who act normal? Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“There was one guy who said I ‘seemed cool’ and then launched into a rant about how feminism ruined dating. Claimed women used to appreciate a ‘real man’ who ordered for them at dinner.”

Bucky mutters under his breath, “That’s one way to die on a hill.”

You grin. “Exactly. I unmatched. But not before he sent me a voice note calling me ungrateful.”

That draws a small breath out of him, you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or just disbelief. Maybe both.

“So this is what people are doing now.”

“Apparently.” You nudge the bottle against your knee. “It’s bleak out there, Buck.

He looks down at his hands, his vibranium fingers flexing once—a small, absent motion like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite say.

“Sam made it sound like people meet that way all the time.”

“They do,” you admit. “But most of them walk away with trust issues and a weird story about someone who brought their mom to the first date.”

His head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“Swear on it.” You pause. “You ever think about trying it?”

His expression tightens—not visibly, not in an obvious way. Just in the way his shoulders shift, his mouth presses slightly flatter.

“No.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing anything about me,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t really have a profile worth putting out there.”

“That’s what Sam’s for,” you mumbled. “He’d probably write something dramatic. ‘Ex-assassin looking for redemption and someone to eat pancakes with.’”

That gets a breath out of him, small and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit as close to funny as it did. 

You glance at him and catch it, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not really. Just something close.

You watch him a moment longer. “You’re not sold.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I was meant for that kind of thing,” he says simply. “Not after everything.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You study him for a beat. The way he still holds himself like he’s bracing, even when he’s sitting still.

“Maybe you weren’t,” you say softly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

That makes him look over. Really look. His eyes catch yours, not sharp, not guarded. Just… tired. A little older, like the fight’s still in him, but so is the weight of carrying it.

“You really think there’s people out there who’d sign up for all this?”

He doesn’t need to explain what this means. The metal arm, the red in his ledger, the quiet rage, that name.

You tilt your head. “You’re asking the wrong people.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then,

“Who should I ask?”

You smile, small, steady. Like it’s already obvious.

“Ask someone who already knows you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Then he shifts, not away, just forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. His eyes stay fixed on the water, but his whole body reads different now.

Less guarded. Less armoured.

The air is thick with the smell of wood warmed by the sun, brine, and something else you can’t name. The heat hasn’t broken. There’s no wind, no relief—just the weight of what’s been left unsaid between the two of you.

Then, without looking at you, voice low,

“What about you?”

You glance over. “What about me?”

“What are you looking for?”

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s just conversation. But you hear the shift in his voice—the hesitation, the careful way he keeps his tone level. 

You catch the way his fingers tap once against the dock before going still again. He wants to know. Not because he expects anything. 

Because part of him is terrified to hope.

You breathe in. Let the silence stretch, but not too long. Then,

“I don’t know,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t need to be anyone else. Who’s not trying to sell a version of himself just to get picked.”

You’re not really looking at him when you say it. You’re looking past the water, past the trees. Somewhere further off. But you feel him — how still he’s gotten. How present.

You pause, let the words settle in your chest.

“Someone who’s real. Who doesn’t run when things get hard.”

There’s something brittle in your voice when you say that. Not cracked, just lived-in.

“Someone who carries things, but still shows up anyway.”

You glance at him now. And you mean it when you say,

“I think that narrows it down pretty fast.”

It’s soft and uncomplicated, but it hangs there like a match waiting to strike.

And maybe that’s the moment it lands.

Maybe not all at once—but enough.

Because now he’s turning his head, slow and unsure, like he’s still giving himself time to pretend it’s not what it sounds like.

“You talking about me?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cocky. It’s quiet. Raw. Like he’s afraid you’ll say no, but needs you to say yes.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”

It’s simple. Not a performance. Not something meant to fix him. Just truth.

His eyes drop, lashes casting half-shadows. Then he looks back out over the water—not avoiding you, just... trying to breathe with it.

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that. You let it happen.

Because this is the part where people rush it. Where they try to fill the air. But not with him. Not now.

Eventually, voice low:

“I’m not... easy.”

“I know.”

He shifts again. Barely.

“I don’t have much to offer.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Maybe not to you.”

You go still at that.

His tone isn’t bitter. It’s not sad, either. It’s just matter-of-fact. Like it’s something he’s repeated to himself long enough to accept as reality.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, not looking at you. “I’ve messed up a lot of things I can’t fix. I don’t sleep much. I get angry. I disappear when it gets too loud. Some days I don’t feel like a person. Some days I don’t want to.”

Your chest pulls, tight and quiet. But you don’t interrupt him.

“And I know I’m not easy to be around,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “But I don’t want to lie about that. I can’t.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes.

“You don’t need to.”

He finally looks at you—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

His eyes are still that same unrelenting shade of blue, something between steel and storm, edged in shadow from the way the light hits.

Cerulean, maybe, if you wanted to get poetic—but the kind of blue that feels lived-in, exhausted, quiet. Tired in a way that most people never notice, and steady in a way that somehow always holds.

You’ve seen them angry. You’ve seen them distant. You’ve seen them blank, shut down so completely they didn’t feel like eyes at all.

But now?

Now they stay. Now they’re looking at you like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s letting someone actually stay.

“I’d still pick you,” you say, voice even. “I know what I’m saying. I know who I’m saying it to.”

And something in him breaks open—not shattered, not messy. Just exposed. In a way he hasn’t let himself be in a long, long time.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing something he didn’t think he was allowed to want—it’s enough.

You can see it, how hard he’s trying to stay still. Like if he moves, even slightly, it’ll break whatever fragile thread just opened between you.

The water laps soft against the dock. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. A dog barks. The world doesn’t know that something quiet and impossible is unfolding in the silence between two people who didn’t think this would happen.

Finally, carefully,

“If I asked…”

He trails off.

It’s not hesitation. It’s vulnerability, stripped down to bone. Not even a full question, just the offer of one.

You let him say it the way he needs to. And you don’t make him say it twice.

You answer without hesitation. Without softness-for-show. 

“Yes. I would.”

That lands, you see it in the way his shoulders shift. Just a little. Like he’s trying to let the weight down slowly, afraid it might hit too hard if he drops it all at once.

So you keep going. Gentle. Honest.

“I’d date you in a heartbeat, Bucky.”

You pause, “you’re not your past. You’re not the burden it left on you. You’re the man who lived through it and kept going. That matters more.”

He looks down for a second, like the words are too much to hold eye contact through. Then back up, slower this time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

The breeze moves past, soft through the trees. Neither of you speak for a long minute.

But something’s changed. Something settled. You feel it in the quiet, the kind that doesn’t need fixing.

When he looks at you again, it’s not with hesitation or doubt. 

There’s no shift in his posture, just a quiet steadiness, like he’s finally stopped running from it, like he’s letting himself want this, want you, without pulling it apart or looking for all the reasons he shouldn’t.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

in this life | ch. 5

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: "There's only one God, doll, and He's gonna bring me back to you." "I don't need God," you told him, fresh tears brimming over your eyes. "I just need you."

warnings: 18+, mdni, brief descriptions on an injury/blood, reader momentarily gets depressed, reincarnation trope, language, mentions of financial instability/being hungry, memories are written with italicizes, no use of y/n, angst, yearning, longing, everyone's alive no one is dead because i said so, alternating pov's

word count: 5.7k

a/n: idk why this chapter was kinda difficult for me to write... i know how i want the story to end and its already written out and ready but idk whats going on the middle of this story is irking me

previous chapter | next chapter

Unknown [10:14am]: What does Traumatic Memory Rehabilitation Science actually entail? I tried Googling it, but I didn't find anything on the subject.

You stared at your phone for a few moments, hiding the device behind your laptop screen. You were in the middle of a lecture, and your professor would definitely call you out if he saw you right now. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that he was going on and on about how his wife was somehow related to this neuroscience class and there must be something wrong with her pathways in her mind for her to leave him. Sometimes you think this class was just an easy way for your professor to be able to rant to people that had no choice but to listen.

You put your phone face down, and pulled up the messages on your laptop. At the very least, you could look like you were taking notes. 

Me [10:17am]: science that focuses on how trauma affects the structure and function of memory, and how the patient’s memories could be stabilized, restored, or rewritten in ethical ways. could be natural trauma or artificial trauma given by outside means

Unknown [10:19am]: Artificial trauma?

Me [10:21am]: wasn’t a huge part of why america didn’t want to give you that pardon bc of what that organization did to you? and your lawyers argued that it wasn’t your mind there?

Unknown [10:22am]: Ah. I see.

Unknown [10:23am]: I didn’t know you kept up with the case.

Me [10:26am]: my grandpa was still around when you were going through it. he would talk my ear off on the phone about how you were being treated awfully by the country and was part of the support groups outside the courtroom demanding a fairer sentence for you.

Me [10:27am]: and it was pretty big news, sergeant. 

Bucky doesn’t respond, and you think you may have scared him off. After saving his phone number officially in your contacts as Sergeant Barnes, you close the messaging app. You go through the rest of your class, finishing off with another surprise quiz that you thankfully knew all the answers to, and head off to grab something to eat before going to the library to study. 

You should apologize to him, you think. It may have been a lot to say all of that, all of a sudden. It could still be a sensitive topic for him, and you may have brought up a bunch of memories for him that you didn’t mean to. You want to hit yourself over the head. Your field of study is meant to help people like him, and yet you just caused issues for him. 

You really could use a shot. Tequila. Vodka. Something strong. But it’s barely noon, and you still have the rest of your day ahead of you. 

You push open the door to the Campus Grounds, and stop in your tracks. 

You didn’t scare him off. 

Your eyes fall on his figure almost instantly. Buckty’s wearing that same leather jacket that he always seems to wear. He looks a little cleaner today, beard a little shorter than the last time you saw him. The dark circles under his eyes are lighter, an indication of more sleep. His shoulders aren’t wound up too tight either.

And he turns to you, as if he’s been waiting for you this entire time. Your heart flutters as caterpillars hatch from their cocoons and turn into butterflies in your stomach.

“Doll,” he greeted. The nickname still makes your mind run circles, but you force yourself back into reality as you focus on his next words. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t know you came here, too.”

“At my university’s cafe?” you asked, tilting your head. “The university where I attend school? Spend a majority of my day at?”

Bucky cleared his throat, obviously caught. “Stark told me that the food here was good. I’m expanding my palate…” The man before you pauses, eyebrows furrowing at the menu. “What the hell is a matcha?”

“Depends. Do you want it iced or hot?” you chuckled, stepping into the line.

“How do you take it?”

“Iced, with oat milk, and a pump of vanilla,” you answered. 

Bucky looked a bit helpless at your words, so you repeated the order back at the barista, including two ham and cheese croissant sandwiches to be warmed up as well before giving her your phone number to use your meal points. 

When the drinks come out, you watch as Bucky takes an experimental sip before looking a little confused at the flavors on his tongue before seemingly accepting whatever was going on. You let out a small laugh.

“Not bad?” you guess.

“Not bad,” he agreed, following you as you make your way out towards the door. You hand him his croissant. “What’s your plans today?”

“Studying. We’re towards the end of the semester, and I have finals coming up in a few weeks. I’ll graduate in the winter once I’m done with the upcoming term.”

“Impressive,” Bucky hummed beside you, taking a bite of his croissant. 

“Any Avengers need a therapist?” you asked, glancing at him. Thankfully, he doesn’t look too bothered by your text conversation from earlier this morning. If he was, you were sure that he wouldn’t even be here, still walking beside you right now.

The man chuckled beside you, smiling. “None of them wants to admit that right now.”

“Pity,” you said sarcastically. After a beat, you added, “Sorry. If my message to you earlier was a bit heavy.”

“Not at all,” he shook his head, “I just started driving, so I couldn’t reply.”

“Ah.” So you were overthinking it. Makes sense. 

“It would’ve been nice,” he cleared his throat before continuing, “If your field of study was finalized and completed when I was first put back out in the world. I think it would’ve been helpful for me to be regulated back into society.”

You give him a small smile. “Sorry about that. Took me a bit to decide what I wanted to study. Took a few years of a gap year before I went back to school.”

Bucky chuckled, and took another sip of his matcha latte. It looked like it was growing on him. Either that, or he just wasn’t picky about food. 

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities to help people other than me,” he told you. 

“I hope so. Otherwise all this student debt will be for fucking nothing,” you grunt. Another smaller laugh escapes his lips, and you find that the noise awakens a small flutter in your chest that will keep you feeling warm and fuzzy. 

Your feet come to a slow as you stop at the library commons, and you turn to look at Bucky. He looks back at the building briefly before turning to you, giving you a small smile and nod.

“Well. Happy studying,” he said, albeit a little awkwardly.

“Is that all? You just came here to get some matcha and walk me to my university’s library?”

“I just wanted to see your face today,” he admitted. 

You really didn’t expect him to be so upfront with his words. You couldn’t help the smile that came to your face. You bit the inside of your cheek to prevent your lips from curling even wider than they already were.

“I would say I would FaceTime you later so you can see my face again, but I noticed that the message bubbles I sent you weren’t blue. What do you have? Android?”

“Uh. Flip phone.”

You stared at him for a brief second, searching his face for the joke. 

There was none.

“I’ll call you later,” you settled on.

“I’ll wait for it,” he replied, letting out a breath of relief.

Adding calling Bucky to the list of things to do every night was as easy as adding something to your nighttime skincare routine. First step: remove makeup with micellar water. Follow up with a makeup balm. Wash your face with a cleanser. Pat dry with a towel. Use a toner. Moisturize. Call Bucky.

The first night had your heart racing on whether or not you should even call him, too. You were pacing around in your apartment. You stared at your phone on your bed as if it was a bomb that you had to defuse within the next few moments. You told him that you would call, but it was past midnight and you just got off your shift. You had no idea what the bedtime schedule was like for an Avenger, but you told him that you would call. Eventually, you decided that you would at least try to call. If he didn’t answer, then you would send a follow up text for an apology.

Bucky answered right away.

“Thought you weren’t gonna call,” is what he said as soon as the line connected.

“Wasn’t sure if you were still going to be awake,” you replied softly.

“You said you were gonna call. I waited.”

You aren’t sure why your chest squeezed at those words. You swallowed thickly, and took in a shaky breath as you clutched the phone tighter in your hands, trying to formulate another sentence to force out past your lips.

“You know I only work night shifts at the diner, right? I always close,” you told him.

“I know.”

“Then you don’t have to stay awake because I say stuff like that. What if I didn’t call you? Would you stay awake all night next to your phone until I called?” you asked. You weren’t scolding him, you weren’t badgering him– you were just a little stressed. A little worried. 

“I knew you would,” he replied. There was so much certainty in his voice. The steadiness. 

“How are you so sure?”

“I just knew you would.” Again, there was nothing in his words that wavered. 

You paused, letting it sink in for a few moments as your heart thumped in your chest. You dug your nails into your palm, allowing the bite against your skin remind you that this was reality, and you were alive at this very moment.

“Do you want me to keep calling you?” you asked in a whisper.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said. A pause. “I like hearing your voice, too.”

From that point forth, Bucky continued to answer every single call without fail. Most of the time, each call was answered within the first ring. Sometimes the call went to the second, but never the third. Your calls had never gone to voicemail once. It was almost as if he anticipated your calls every single night.

You began to look forward to every single one of your calls. It became the highlight of your day, the thing that you looked forward to most after the long and stressful day.

By the second week of your nightly calls, you were really appreciating it. He helped you study. You would have your phone on speaker, on your desk beside your textbooks as you pulled out concepts and verbiage from your brain as if you were teaching a lesson to him, and ask him if he understood a single thing that you just told him. Sometimes you would text him your study guides and he would test you, then let you know what you needed to improve on. You were certain that he heard you slam your forehead on your desk several times over the past fourteen days.

Moreover, Bucky was not much of a talker, which meant that he was a great listener. When you were done studying, your phone would be resting beside your pillow as you laid down. The lights would be turned off and you would close your eyes as you talked to him.

It was as if he knew you were drifting off to sleep. His voice would be softer during these moments. Lower, slightly gravely. Sometimes, both of you would get a little bit more vulnerable in your sleepier states. 

“You should really sleep earlier,” he would tell you. “Your health might take a hit if you keep this habit up.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy sleeping,” you confessed to him.

“It’s good for you. Especially with the amount of studying that you do.”

You sigh deeply, pulling your blankets higher up your body. “I know, I know. I just… I don’t sleep well. I wake up and I’m sad. I wake up and I wish I never woke up. And I don’t mean that in a… sad, depressed way– even though it sounds like it. I just want to stay in my dreams.”

Bucky was quiet for a few moments. “You mean the dreams about the soldier?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Does that sound pathetic?”

“No,” he answered without skipping a beat. “It means you’re happy there.”

“Then doesn’t that mean I’m sad out here?” you ask with a soft laugh.

“You tell me. Are you?”

It’s your turn to fall silent. You don’t know how much or how little time has passed in your sleepy state before you finally answer, “I think I’m not as sad since I met you.”

“That’s good. I think I enjoy life a little more, too.”

“Even though all I talk to you about is the ethics and neuroscience of trauma?” you joke.

“I have a lot of trauma myself, so it’s interesting to know how the trauma affects the neural pathways of my brain and the rest of my body,” he responds with a soft chuckle.

“Mm… Just wait until I get to the section on how your muscles hold all that trauma. It’s not just your brain, Sergeant,” you murmur, shifting deeper into your pillow. 

“I have seventy years of muscular and mental trauma. How long do you think that will take to undo?” 

“You can’t undo trauma, Bucky,” you hum. “I can teach you how to live with it, to learn how to regain yourself from the experiences that you’ve been through– but you can’t undo what ultimately has brought you here. Your trauma isn’t you. But what you do with the trauma is what’s important. Do you carry it and let it weigh you down? Do you let it fuel you and all your rage? Or do you let it be the reason to be a better person?”

“I wish you were my therapist when I had to have one,” he tells you after a few moments, his voice soft. 

Bucky doesn’t choose to elaborate on the topic of trauma any further, or tell you more about his past. You already have a decent understanding of what the Winter Soldier is and what he did based on what was leaked to the public years ago. You don’t push him when he decides to brush it off.

You let out a small laugh, smiling into your sheets. “Don’t forget to tell your Avenger friends about me.”

“I think I might keep you all to myself, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think I mind that, either.”

Sometimes, Peter disappears without a trace and MJ gets irritable. However, she knows what she signed up for when she became Spider-Man’s girlfriend. She knows that she can’t be too upset with him, though Peter really does try to let her know whenever he leaves. Peter just has a one track mind. He hyper focuses on one thing and forgets everything else. 

Bucky doesn’t do that with you. You got a message from him a few days ago letting you know that he will be busy. You expected it to come sooner or later. You were surprised that it wasn’t sooner. Bucky has a job– a very demanding job. One that you can’t ever imagine yourself being in that world or in that kind of life. However, he still communicates with you, which is more than you can say Peter does with MJ. 

Sergeant Barnes [7:27am]: I will not be able to make our meetings for the next few days. I will let you know when I am back in the city. Will be in Malaysia. My phone will be off. 

Me [7:30am]: stay safe bucky

Sergeant Barnes [7:31am]: Always.

The fact that he calls your nightly calls a meeting makes you smile at your phone. You think he’s cute. His age is also showing from the way that he texts you, but you decide to let it slide. If you think about it realistically, the man is only in his early to mid thirties if you’re doing the math right. You’re well aware he was born in 1917, but with the amount of time that he had lost in between with everything that went on with his life— that is an age gap that you can get behind.

“What are you smiling so wide about right now?” MJ grunted, hitting your hip with hers as she walked by. “Table seven needs refills.”

“I was already on my way,” you shoot back, picking up the water pitcher as you fix your grin. 

You’re overthinking, you’re pretty certain. He’s a friend. There’s nothing more to the calls that have been going on every night since you said you would call him. You don’t hang on to every single word he says like it’s a prayer, and you certainly don’t find yourself lulling yourself to bed to his soft whispers every single night like it’s a lullaby. Your mood hasn’t improved the past few weeks, and you’re not smiling more often. You’re definitely not more energized even though you’re losing more sleep by staying up an extra hour later to talk to him longer on the phone, and lying to him by saying that you truly do sleep that late anyways.

You’re a goner and you know it– and you’ve only seen the man in person a handful of times. You were more than certain that he was haunting your mind more than you were haunting his. 

“You look like shit,” you told MJ once the night was over. “Tonight wasn’t even all that bad.”

MJ glared at you as she clocked out on the computer, and waited for you to do the same so you two could walk out together. Your routes home were the same part of the way until they diverged. 

“Peter’s still gone. Still have no idea where he is or when he’s coming back,” she muttered, shoving her arms through the sleeves of her jacket haphazardly. You think she’s crazy for even wearing a jacket in the middle of summer, but you don’t mention it with her current mood. “So yes, I am a little pissed off.”

“Did he leave in the middle of the night again?” you asked, closing down the computer.

“No, he woke me up this time,” she sighed. You two walked out the back, locking the door behind you. “Still, it was really early in the morning and he didn’t explain much before he left. Though, he really can’t ever explain much.”

“I’m sorry, MJ,” you said, a small cringe running through your body. You really can’t imagine what she’s going through.

Though, then again, you’re not even sure why Bucky felt the need to tell you that he was going off the grid for a few days. Or even why he told you where he was going for the mission, either. You were certain that was some kind of classified information if even MJ couldn’t know– if Peter wouldn’t tell her before he left. 

Was it a mistake? Did he mean to tell you all of that information? Or was something going on through his mind that made him accidentally send that to you when he didn’t mean to. Either way, you had more information than MJ, and you weren’t even sure if you were allowed to tell her. You weren’t totally sure what telling her would even do. There would be no purpose in giving her the location. Malaysia was a large place– the Avengers could be everywhere and anywhere. Besides that, maybe Bucky and Peter weren’t even in the same area doing the same mission.

You decided to keep your mouth shut, even though you didn’t feel particularly good about it. Then again, you’ve held enough secrets of your own from your friends over the years. You have a lot of your own issues that they don’t know, and you’re more than certain they will never find out.

Maybe that’s why you feel a certain attachment to Bucky. He knows about your dream soldier boy, and never judged you for it. He brought him up once or twice, too. Bucky knows more about you in the past few weeks that you’ve known him versus the past few years that you have known your friends.

It makes you feel guilty, in a way. Peter has shared his own secrets with you– something that he had no obligation to share with you. It was something that was originally held between the three of them, but he felt that you were important enough to know about it. MJ has some familial issues and has problems letting people close to her, but she still finds herself opening up to you and starting conversations with you more than you start them with her. You’re not super close with Ned, but you know the guy is more than happy to talk to you about any kind of project that he’s working on at the moment. Both him and Peter enjoy spilling whatever information they can spare on whatever work they’re doing.

And yet, you’ve never told them the real reason why you’re studying what you study.

You wish MJ a good night, and tell her to get some rest as your paths split and she heads down her road to her place that she shares with Peter. You make your way down to your own.

New York’s summer nights are muggy. Slightly humid, but better than when the sun is out and beating down on your skin like it’s trying to wear you down. It’s not bad at all, seeing as you’ve lived here for the majority of your life, but you can still see yourself moving out of this busy city and somewhere quieter. 

Away from this nonsense and drama. Maybe you’d be able to run away from your own head if you tried hard enough.

You push the thought away as you push your apartment door open. It’s creaky, and you know you need to spray drown the hinges with WD-40 again.

You toe your sneakers off and hang your purse on the hooks that you nailed to the wall when you first moved in— holes that you would have to fill later on when you eventually move out if you want your security deposit back. Your feet ache against the creaking floorboards that are only slightly dampened by the carpet runner that you put in the entranceway of your apartment. 

You hate this place, as much as you try to deny it. 

You despise the overhead lighting that you never flicker on because it’s too bright, but you also never turn on the various amounts of mood lighting that you thrifted from corner stores because you simply can’t be bothered. You can’t stand the way your landlord sometimes forgets to pay the building’s AC bill, even though you slave away every single day to pay your rent and utilities. You shouldn’t have to suffer for some fucking comfort in your own home. 

You hate the cheap mattress that you barely could afford, that you cried when you bought— not out of happiness, but because you knew you wouldn’t be able to eat real meals for the next week until your next paycheck hit. 

This entire place was a death sentence in your mind. It wasn’t home. It was simply a place to rest when you weren’t running around outside, trying to pretend that your mind was right and your life was stable, and the diagnoses the doctors gave you years ago weren’t looming over your head. 

Your stomach growls, and you know you don’t have substantial ingredients in your kitchen to satiate you. You should’ve eaten more on campus earlier today, and you want to kick yourself for your lack of insight. 

You still drag your tired body to the kitchen to find what you can, ripping open the old fridge. What stares back at you is empty shelves and a half drunk water bottle along with some celery.

You settle for the celery, grumbling to yourself. 

“Maybe I’ll use the ten thousand for groceries,” you mutter, leaning against the counter. 

“Gave it to you so you could use it, not save it.”

Your heart leaps out of your body, and you drop the celery in your hand as you shriek. You turn quickly, looking over the kitchen peninsula towards your living room— in the darkness of your apartment, lit only by the streetlights pouring from your windoes, you see a figure. 

He’s sitting on the couch, draped over the armrest. His head is resting against the wall— his chest falling and rising in uneven motions. He looks to be wearing gear. He looks like a shadow. 

“Bucky?” you breathe, your heart still stuttering in your chest wildly. “What the fuck?”

“Hey,” he greets with a grunt, but he doesn’t move from his place on the couch. “Sorry. Needed a place to just.. Lay low.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, moving slowly. 

You go to the windows, closing the blinds and drawing the curtains shut before turning on the lamp. Lay low— you assume no one knows he’s here. You want to interrogate him on why and how he’s in your apartment, but with proper light illuminating him, you find the question long gone and missing from your lips.

He’s injured. Badly.

His vest is ripped at his side, and he’s pressing his flesh hand to it, though you can still see his skin stained with his own blood. His forehead also seems to be gashed, and there’s a deep bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, and his lip is split. You’re not sure of what other injuries he could be hiding under the layers of gear he’s wearing, too. 

“What…” you whispered.

“The drawings are nice,” he said, clearing his throat. You follow his eyes to your coffee table, where your sketches of the soldier man from your dream are haphazardly strewn about. You were going to scan them and post them in the morning. “You’re talented.”

“Wait— no,” you denied. You’re not letting him breeze past the clear issue at hand here. “I need— Fucking. Washcloth?” 

Your mind is short circuiting as you quickly rush through your apartment, turning lights on as you go. You bring your CVS bought first aid kit along with a small bowl filled with water and several other washcloths to the living room, pushing your sketches and other art supplies to the floor to make space. 

You’re on your knees in front of him, gently peeling his hand away from his side to inspect the gash on his side. You’re glad you’re not squeamish from the years you’ve spent in the city, but the 

“I am not medically trained. At all,” you tell him, panic flashing through your face. Then you demand, “Why did you come here?”

“You’re safe.”

Your breath stops, just for a moment. Bucky isn’t saying that your apartment is safe. That this area in New York is safe— you are someone safe. In just two words, he’s telling you everything. 

You clench your jaw and dip your washcloth into the bowl of water and bring it to the gash on his side. Your eyes flicker to his face. He never flinches. His muscles don’t ripple in pain. His body doesn’t betray him in a way that yours does when you poke at a bruise that you know you shouldn’t be touching. 

It breaks your heart and soul all the same. 

It’s quiet between you two as you go through three more washcloths to remove the dried blood from his body. Then you open up the first aid kit. You’ve never had to use it before other than for some bandaids. 

You don’t even realize your hands are trembling until his metal hand rests on yours. You lift your head to lock eyes with his. His face is gentle, despite the amount of pain that you’re sure is racing through his body at this moment.

“There should be a pair of gloves,” he said, his voice even. You blink for a moment before realizing that he’s directing you on what needs to be done. You quickly move. 

You slide the gloves, eyes darting all over the first aid kit you bought. You were paranoid when you bought it– this expensive thing. You weren’t even sure why you got it, when all you used it for was a few bandaids here and there every once in a while. You praised your past self for this very moment now.

“Saline, antiseptic, and ointment,” he continued, and you pull out each corresponding item from the kit. “Help me clean the wound. Use the gauze. After that, try to find something called a butterfly bandage, if you know what that is.”

You don’t fucking know what that is, but you’re not going to voice that out to him right now. 

Instead, you force your muscles to move past the fear in your body. Bucky is still directing you through the entire thing like you are the one that’s injured here– like you’re the one that’s a few seconds from passing out from pain. You want to scream at your own uselessness, but you know that it isn’t true. Bucky wouldn’t have come here if he thought you were useless.

As the bandage goes on, and you tighten his wound shut, he finally lets out a breath and relaxes against your couch cushions.

“Is that it?” you whispered, eyes flitting across his face.

“That’s the worst of it, yes,” he nodded, closing his eyes.

“There’s more?” you demanded, horrified. 

Bucky lets out a chuckle, as if this situation is funny to him. Maybe it is. To him, probably it is. This is just another regular Thursday to him. For you– this is the first time that you’re ever coming close to a situation like this. 

“I heal faster than the average human. I’ll be okay. This one is just pretty bad, I promise.”

You don’t believe him, not fully. You clench your jaw as you clean up the bloodied gauze and washcloths– tossing them into your garbage bin before going into your freezer to grab a few ice cubes to throw into a ziplock bag for the bruise on his face. He takes it without complaint.

Questions are spinning through your head, nagging at you deeply. The words are threatening to spill out of your mouth, and you’re not sure that you can stop it. 

“Is… Is Steve okay? Peter?” you asked. 

Bucky’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows furrowing at you briefly. “I understand you asking about Steve. But Peter?”

“Spider-Man,” you whispered in correction, swallowing thickly. Recognition dawns on his face as you reveal that you know. Bucky lets out a small breath, a silence settling over the two of you. He doesn’t press for any other details.

“Mine was a solo mission. Everyone’s out doing their own thing right now. Most of them are in teams. Haven’t heard any of the others being injured or hurt.”

Relief fills your body. Your shoulders sag briefly as you move to sit on the opposite end of the couch from him.

“New York is pretty far from Malaysia, Buck… How the hell did you drag your battered body all the way to my apartment?” The question came from your lips before you could think that he may not even be able to answer you. 

“Tracked down the target from Malaysia to the outskirts of New York,” he answered without hesitation. “Didn’t wanna head back into the base looking like this.”

“So you thought that waiting in my apartment like this for me to come home was any better?” you asked, eyes wide.

“Well, I had a feeling that you would just take care of me rather than demand to know the details of the mission first,” he replied, shaking his head. There was the faintest of smiles on his face that you could see in the dim lighting of your apartment.

“Is it okay for me… to know all of this?” you asked wearily.

“You won’t become a target, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he quickly answered you, his voice serious. 

You shook your head immediately. “No– no. That’s not what I meant. Won’t you get in trouble? With… whoever your bosses are?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em,” Bucky said with a shrug. Then, he looked at you, eyes catching yours. You couldn’t look away, caught in the stormy blue of his face. “You’re not scared?”

“I don’t think you would do anything that could ever get me hurt,” you murmured honestly. You pause. “You’re not afraid that I won’t leak your location to the world?”

The smile came back on his face. “Like I said, doll– you’re safe. I don’t worry about much when you’re around.”

You don’t know how long you spend staring at him, your heart thumping erratically in your chest again. It’s not from the fear of being shocked by a man in your apartment, or the panic that the man is Bucky injured in your apartment. It’s that stupid nickname that your soldier calls you, it’s the way the word falls from Bucky’s lips so casually and easily. It’s as if this was right, for him to always call you this. 

Your apartment suddenly feels whole. Warm. The space that felt empty a few moments ago is taken over with enough joy that you’re certain that you could spend the rest of your days here as long as Bucky continues to look at you the way that he’s looking at you right now.

With trust. You don’t even know why he trusts you. Why he’s so unwavering in his faith in you.

It’s terrifying all the same. You don't think you deserve it.

“There’s this Chinese place that’s 24/7,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “Do you want take out?”

Bucky’s smile grows a bit wider and he nods at you. “That sounds great.”

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[bruiscdlikeviolets]

heavy lifting 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (domestic au)

warnings: fluff!!!

summary: moving is hard, but teasing bucky about his knees and getting kissed breathless on the floor makes it all worth it.

word count: 1.2k

author's note: hi loves! its been a very long day, but here i am with another fic based on this request 💓 love ya guys and stay safe out there ❤️

The box labeled KITCHEN – VERY FRAGILE!! teetered dangerously in Bucky’s arms.

“You know,” you said from across the room, one hand on your hip and the other holding your phone like a clipboard, “I did say we could hire movers.”

He narrowed his eyes at you over the top of the box.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” you teased. “You’ve been sighing like a victorian widow for the last twenty minutes. Pretty sure I just heard you say ‘my knees’ when you bent down.”

“That was one time,” Bucky muttered, gingerly setting the box down on the countertop and flexing his vibranium fingers. “And it was the heaviest box in here.”

“It was dish towels.”

“Yeah, well, you roll them up weird, sweetheart”

You grinned, watching as he straightened up with a dramatic grunt — the kind of exaggerated groan that only made him sound older than he already pretended not to be.

His Henley clung to his back in damp patches—not gross, just unfair—the kind of warm, sleepy domestic sweat that made your stomach flutter.

You could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way his shoulder blades flexed with every movement, broad back tapering into a trim waist in those worn-in jeans you were starting to think should be illegal.

Strong arms, one flesh and one vibranium, worked in quiet rhythm as he moved—solid, capable, and completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like the poster boy for “hot guy helping you move.”

“You good, grandpa?”

He shot you a look that was all bark and no bite. “Watch it.”

“Oh no,” you said, wiggling your fingers playfully in the air, “am I provoking the super soldier? Is he gonna get all big and scary because I teased his joints?”

Bucky stalked toward you with exaggerated menace, footsteps slow and heavy like a cartoon villain. “You’re gonna be real sad when I let you carry the mattress up yourself.”

You laughed, backing away with the same deliberate slowness. “I knew you’d crack eventually. Maybe we should call some actual movers.”

He caught you before you could duck behind the couch, arms wrapping securely around your waist like you were the most precious thing in the room—which, to him, you were.

You squealed, high-pitched and delighted, legs kicking in the air as he spun you once and then dropped you gently into the mountain of blankets on the floor that used to be your bed.

“Take it back,” he said, hovering over you, smirking like he already knew you wouldn’t.

“No.”

He raised a brow.

“Not unless you admit you said ‘ow’ picking up a box of tupperware.”

“That tupperware was packed dense,” he said, nudging your nose with his. “You put the pyrex in with the lids, didn’t you?”

“Obviously. I’m not a monster.”

“You are a menace.”

“You’re in denial about your age.”

Bucky laughed, low and warm in his chest—the kind of sound that made your heart ache in the best way—and kissed you mid-giggle, his mouth brushing yours like it was the only thing that mattered.

The kiss was sweet and lazy, the kind of thing you could sink into and stay in forever. His hands were warm against your waist, steady. He smelled like fresh soap and worn cotton, and you felt completely and stupidly in love.

“You’re real mouthy for someone who hasn’t lifted a single book box,” he murmured, lips brushing yours.

You gasped, all mock scandal. “Excuse me, I’ve been organising! And labelling! And supervising!"

“Supervising, huh?”

“Yeah. Making sure you don’t, I dunno, break a hip.”

He lunged again and you shrieked, scrambling away on all fours. He chased after you with no shame at all, laughing as he snatched at your ankle, dragging you back into his arms while you both dissolved into helpless giggles.

You ended up tangled together in a pile of pillows and limbs, cheeks flushed and smiles wide. He tugged you close and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheek—like he couldn’t get enough of touching you, even in the middle of a chaotic mess of moving boxes.

“We are never going through this again,” Bucky declared, arm flung over his eyes.

“You said that last time.”

“Because I meant it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There was a pause.

“I did it for you, you know,” he said softly, peeking at you from beneath his arm, cerulean eyes soft in a way that always made your breath catch.

“What, moved into a shoebox with peeling cabinets and suspicious light switches?”

He rolled onto his side and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Moved into a shoebox with you.”

Your heart squeezed. The air shifted—a little quieter, a little heavier with the kind of affection that lived in the small, quiet moments. He always slipped it in like that. Like love was a throwaway comment. Like it wasn’t everything.

You reached over and smoothed a piece of lint off his chest. “I like it. Even if the sink screams when you turn on the hot water.”

“It’s got good bones,” he said, imitating the landlord.

“Terrible windows.”

“Charming character.”

“A light switch that sparks.”

“A fire hazard,” he grinned.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I love our little fire hazard.”

He hummed and pulled you closer, hand spreading over your back, holding you like he didn’t want you to leave—like he never would. You let yourself melt against him, your nose tucked into the curve of his neck, his fingers stroking gentle circles at your waist.

The floor was stiff and the apartment was still half-unpacked, but none of that mattered. Not when his thumb brushed over the hem of your shirt. Not when the light from the crooked blinds painted your skin gold and dust floated in lazy spirals around you like a snow globe.

“You know,” he said after a long beat, “next time, I am hiring movers.”

“Oh? So you are admitting you’re not strong enough.”

He made a soft noise of protest, shifting until your noses touched. “No. I’m saying I wanna save my strength for better things.”

“Like what?”

He kissed the top of your head, voice low. “Like carrying you to bed.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

There was a pause.

“…Do you remember which box the coffee maker’s in?”

“Top of the stack in the kitchen. Behind the one labeled Definitely Not Just Snacks.”

“You’re amazing.”

You sat up together, both groaning in unison like the prematurely elderly couple you were proudly becoming. Bucky stood first and offered you a hand, which you took—mostly to watch the way his arm flexed, which he definitely noticed.

“Still strong,” he said smugly.

You patted his chest. “Sure you are, babe.”

He narrowed his eyes, and you took off, barefoot, laughing as he chased you around the room again like you were kids playing tag in your first home.

Later That Night

You were both completely wiped. The mattress was on the floor, the sheets a mismatched pair of cozy old cotton sets, soft, worn, and comforting.

Bucky walked out of the bathroom in grey sweats and a black tank top, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp and curling just slightly at the ends.

He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said sweetly. “Just thinking about how strong you looked carrying that lamp earlier.”

He snorted and dropped the towel on your head.

“Hey!”

“I am strong, for the record.”

“Oh, I know,” you said, pulling the towel down and tugging him in by the waistband of his sweats. “Strong enough to lift a box of pyrex and my entire heart.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. “That was worse than your 'supervising' joke.”

“Shut up and kiss me, grandpa.”

He did—slow and sleepy, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t mind that you were both surrounded by chaos, by boxes and dust and a half-eaten bag of trail mix somewhere under the dresser.

Somewhere in the background, a box labeled LIVING ROOM STUFF PROBABLY?? fell over with a soft thud.

Neither of you moved.

Unpacking could wait.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

for better or for worse (5) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi sweethearts! we are at chapter of this series and oh my gosh, i am so excited to get the last 2 chapters out because i am debating between the type of ending i would like this series to have! your feedback is always welcomed 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💕

series masterlist

The penthouse was excessive.

It was the kind of wealth that laughed at subtlety—the kind that didn’t whisper its power, but screamed it. It assaulted the senses in every direction, a crystalline fortress carved into the sky, perched at the top of Monaco’s most elite tower. 

Glittering chandeliers hung like jagged ice sculptures from mirrored ceilings, casting fractured rainbows across floors of polished ivory marble. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and money.

A wall-to-wall aquarium stretched across one entire side of the room, aglow with bioluminescent fish imported from some private reef halfway across the world.

Even the water shimmered like it had been distilled from diamonds. Every inch of the space screamed exclusivity, opulence, danger. 

You could feel it in your skin—like silk suffocating you.

Beyond the towering glass windows, the Monaco skyline glittered against the velvet night. Yachts drifted below like ghosts, their lights blinking lazily on the dark sea.

And at the center of it all was Raskovic.

He was built like a war—not a man, but a monument. Thick-necked, wide-shouldered, a towering frame that made the tailored lines of his suit look stretched and choked. 

He radiated the kind of threat that didn’t need to be spoken. Every guard in the room flinched just slightly when he turned his head—a glance carrying the weight of a command.

You’d seen powerful men before. But this… this was different. Raskovic didn’t just own power. He embodied it.

His face was carved in hard lines, his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It didn’t soften him. It made him look sharper. Hungrier. Like a lion watching dinner stumble straight into the den.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice smooth like old leather and too much vodka. He didn’t stand, just gestured lazily for you to join him at the long glass table set in the center of the room.

Bucky was close behind you. His hand slid to the small of your back—part of the act, of course. But his fingers pressed in slightly harder than they needed to. Like a warning, like reassurance. You didn’t know which one you needed more.

“We’re honoured,” you said smoothly, your voice polished and poised, as if the glittering tension didn’t make your skin itch. Bucky gave a nod beside you, his eyes tracking every guard, every movement.

The table had been laid out like an art piece, foie gras resting atop toasted brioche with violet fig compote, lobster bisque in impossibly thin porcelain bowls, and Duck à l’orange carved so precisely it looked painted. 

Surrounding the spread were polished silver utensils and deep-red wine glinting in faceted crystal flutes, poured with care by servers in floor-length black gowns.

You sat, and the moment your body touched the chair, something in your gut twisted hard.

It wasn’t anything obvious. 

No flashing lights, no sudden danger. Just instinct—a whisper at the base of your skull that grew louder with every breath you took. The way the servers didn’t meet your eyes. The way Andrei leaned in the shadows of the far wall, watching, waiting.

You knew. Something was wrong.

Raskovic took his wine in hand and swirled it lazily. “So. I heard from Andrei…” He turned those cold eyes to you. “You know me?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Who wouldn’t?”

A smile crept across Raskovic’s face. “A good answer.”

He chuckled and sipped his wine, exuding the confidence of a man surrounded by his kingdom. You let the conversation glide around you like smoke, lips curved just enough, playing your part. 

Andrei hadn’t moved from the wall, but you could feel him, gaze heavy, predatory. You didn’t trust the shadows here—they belonged to him.

“And what do you specialise in?” Raskovic asked, breaking off a piece of bread with delicate fingers. “Explosives? Biochemical toys? Or are you more... traditional?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, casual on the surface but coiled beneath. “Mostly smart-range pulse rifles. Electromagnetic scatter rounds. Some Stark-modified EMPs, the kind that make your eyes bleed if you’re standing too close.”

Raskovic laughed, low and genuine. “Ah, Stark. Yes. He did have flair.” He lifted his glass. “To creative destruction.”

You raised yours to match. Glasses clinked. The wine shimmered.

You hesitated. Then drank.

And regretted it instantly.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your hand tightened around your glass as you turned slightly in your chair.

“I—I don’t… feel so—”

Your words fell apart, slurred and sticky. Your throat closed. The room twisted violently beneath your feet. Bucky was on his feet before your head even dipped forward.

“What the hell did you do?” he snarled, voice tight.

Raskovic didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Andrei moved like a shadow—fast, precise, and cruel. You barely saw him before his arm wrapped around your body, dragging you upright as your legs gave out beneath you.

One thick arm locked around your chest, yanking you back against him, while the cold edge of a knife pressed into the delicate line of your throat.

You whimpered—not from the pain, but from how far Bucky suddenly seemed.

He surged forward. “LET. HER. GO!”

But the guards were faster than he was.

Two lunged first, catching him at the arms. Then another. Then two more. They tried to hold him down, to pin the fury inside the soldier’s body—but he was already gone. 

Not Bucky. Not James.

The Winter Soldier raged, and the man underneath him broke.

His scream tore through the air—raw, unfiltered. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

He fought like a beast, like he was tearing out his own soul to get to you. Every muscle locked and screamed with effort as he dragged the men across the polished floor. His eyes were wide, burning blue, locked on yours like they were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

You could see it—the pain in him. The terror.

“Get off me!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into someone’s face with a sickening crack. “You touch her again, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you all!”

“Try something, Barnes,” Andrei hissed into your ear, his knife pressing harder into your skin. A thin line of blood slipped down your neck. “Give me a reason.”

“STOP,” Bucky roared, his voice shredded and frantic, “PLEASE—please, take me instead—just let her go—”

But Raskovic only leaned back in his chair, amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice like rot. “The infamous Winter Soldier. Look what they turned you into.”

Bucky thrashed harder, dragging three men with him as he reached toward you, fingertips almost brushing yours before another slammed into his gut. He coughed, staggered, and still tried to crawl.

“Let her go!” he screamed again. His voice cracked this time—a break in the steel.

You could barely keep your eyes open, your limbs like water. But you turned your head—just slightly—enough to meet his gaze.

And even through the fog choking your mind, you knew what you saw in him.

Rage. Fear.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

“No—no, don’t—” His eyes widened, frantic. “Please—don’t—don’t leave me.”

“Go. Please.” you managed to choke out.

And then you fell. Andrei’s arm caught you, yanking your limp body back as you slipped into unconsciousness.

The last thing you saw—or maybe only imagined—was Bucky’s face as he screamed your name like a prayer no god ever answered.

You came to with the sharp sting of blood in your mouth and the icy ache of metal biting into your wrists.

At first, it was hard to tell what was real—the room swam at the edges, spinning in slow, nauseating waves. 

Your head throbbed. Your lips were cracked and dry. And your shoulders screamed from the strain of your arms wrenched behind your back, cuffed so tight that you could already feel the skin splitting beneath the metal. 

Cold concrete bit into your ankles where they were tied to the chair legs. Your knees burned and your spine howled with every twitch of movement.

The drug was still in your system—not fully, but enough to slow your thoughts, to fog the corners of your brain like frost on glass. You blinked, trying to force focus into your vision.

The room was dim, windowless. Cement walls scarred with water stains and age. 

It smelled like damp stone and blood and the metallic tang of old air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling on a rusted chain, swaying with each low hum that vibrated through the floors—generators, maybe. Or worse.

You were underground. You were alone.

And then you realised—you weren’t.

A figure sat in front of you, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees. Like this was casual. Like he was waiting to chat over coffee.

Andrei.

But he wasn’t smiling this time. Not exactly. The amusement from the dinner—the smug, showman’s flair—was gone now. What was left behind was leaner. Sharper. Hungrier. 

He looked at you like prey.

“Tough girl,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and smooth. Too calm. “Didn’t even scream when I hit you.”

He stood slowly, circling the chair. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. You followed him with your eyes but didn’t move your head—your neck was too stiff, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Trained well,” he murmured, coming to stand behind you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and intimate and rotten. “Let me guess. Romanov?”

Still, you said nothing.

Silence was all you had left. Silence and the rhythm of your heart, pounding slow and hard in your chest. 

One beat for every second Bucky wasn’t here. One beat closer to whatever came next.

Andrei exhaled, circling around again. He crouched low in front of you, arms braced on his thighs, and looked up at you like you were something he’d found crawling under a rock.

“Almost believed your little act,” he said. “Almost. You were very good. And he—he was damn near convincing. Protective. Devoted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Barnes might actually care about you.”

The corners of your mouth curled in a humorless smile. “He doesn’t fake things well.”

Andrei raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not wrong.”

He stood again, restless energy leaking into his movements now. Pacing. Turning. Talking more to himself than you. “But Layna—sweet girl, fucking dumb, but she has good memory. Told me she saw you before. You were blonde, standing behind a Swedish diplomat during a black-tie in Prague.”

You stiffened.

That op had been burned. Buried. There should’ve been no trace left.

Andrei’s grin returned, sharp and self-satisfied. “Told you. Almost.”

He drifted to the side of the room, plucking something off the metal tray on the workbench behind him. You couldn’t see what it was at first—until the low light caught the blade. Polished. Thin. Surgical.

Your blood ran colder.

“You know,” he said casually, running his thumb down the flat of the blade, “I’ve dealt with a lot of spies. A lot of agents. They’re all the same when you strip them down—arrogant, mouthy, trained to suffer but everyone breaks eventually.”

He turned toward you again. His boots scraped slightly across the floor as he came closer, blade gleaming.

“But you,” he said, voice lower now, almost admiring, “you’re different, so impressive. So decorated. Partner to Steve Rogers, mentored by the Black Widow."

He crouched again, placing the knife under your chin—just enough pressure to tilt your head up, to meet his eyes.

“But look at you now,” he murmured. “All alone.”

You glared at him, breathing hard. Your ribs ached with each inhale.

“You’re still not gonna get out of this,” you rasped.

Andrei gave a soft, mocking sound—almost a laugh. “Still fighting,” he said. “I love that.”

He pulled the knife back. Then his hand—the same one holding the blade—cracked across your face.

Your head snapped to the side. Fire bloomed in your cheek. Your vision spun again, and for a moment, you tasted nothing but copper and heat.

You forced your head back up. Stared at him. And then spat blood on his shoes.

His expression twitched—not anger, not quite. But it changed. Shifted. Amused and annoyed all at once.

“So dramatic,” he muttered, straightening up. “Barnes really married a firecracker.”

You smiled, lips cracked and bloodied. “Yeah. He has excellent taste.”

He turned his back to you. You didn’t trust what that meant.

“You know,” he said, picking up something else—a cloth, maybe. “When I first saw the two of you, I thought it was a clever front. Pretty couple, good chemistry and such an easy cover.”

He turned.

“But then I saw his face when we took you.”

Your heart lurched.

“I saw the way he screamed for you. Like he’d rather die right there than let you go. And that,” Andrei said, walking back toward you, “told me everything I needed to know.”

You went still.

“And now,” he said, crouching once more, “we find out just how long it takes to make you scream.”

You didn’t flinch.

But somewhere, deep in your chest, you whispered a prayer.

Not to be saved. But that Andrei would get out alive.

Because you knew Bucky was coming.

And if he didn’t find you soon— He’d tear this whole place apart.

Yelena slammed a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click that echoed through the hangar.

“I’m done,” she snapped. “I’m done waiting around like a fucking headless chicken."

Her vest hit the open duffel with a thud, followed by two extra mags, a smoke grenade, and a roll of wire.

Her hands moved fast, efficiently, but her face—her face was all fire, controlled only in the loosest sense of the word.

“Val said to hold,” Ava said from across the room, but even her voice sounded unsure. Her fingers were curled too tightly around the hilt of her blade. “It’s too risky for an extraction.”

Yelena’s jaw clenched as she zipped the duffel shut with a savage pull.

“Bullshit,” she cursed. 

“She said their cover was still good!” John yelled suddenly, pacing across the cracked concrete like a caged animal. His voice cracked from frustration, boots striking hard with each step.

“Cover’s blown, Ava. Raskovic’s got them. We saw that footage from the drone feed. You think Bucky screams like that when things are fine?”

No one answered. The silence that followed was deafening.

They had all heard it— the live feed that cut out halfway through, but not before they heard your slurred voice, the scrape of a chair, and—

Bucky’s scream.

It wasn’t just your name.

It was a sound torn from the center of him, ripped out like something primal—like grief, rage, and helplessness all wrapped into one brutal, broken cry. A roar that echoed through the comms with so much pain it made Ava flinch and John go deadly silent.

It didn’t even sound like a name by the end. It sounded like a man being ripped in half.

“Val’s still trying to assess options,” Ava said finally, quieter. “Wants to keep it clean. Low profile. Wait for the opportune moment.”

Yelena turned sharply. “She wants to wait until there’s nothing left to save.”

“(Y/n)'s not dead,” she added, voice lower now, shaking. “Not yet.”

Across the room, Alexei tightened the last strap of his tac vest and let out a heavy grunt from the loading ramp of the jet.

“Then we go,” he said simply. “Fast. Before is too late.”

It was Ava who moved next. She didn’t say anything.

Just unsheathed her blade, slid it into the thigh holster, and grabbed her gear. 

Bob passed her the radio jammer without a word.

John pulled a second glock off the weapons table, racked it with a sharp motion, and tossed a rifle to Alexei.

“You’re flying.”

Alexei caught it mid-air. “Da. And if Val calls mid-flight?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

“Ignore it,” Yelena muttered, strapping her vest down tight. “Unless you want to hear more bureaucratic bullshit while someone guts her open.”

“Val have our asses for this,” Ava said flatly, though she didn’t slow her pace as she climbed into the jet. “You know that, right?”

John snorted. “What’s new?”

The engines roared to life behind them—a deafening hum of rebellion.

Back in the jungle of halls and locked doors, Bucky was losing his mind.

He had already taken down four men—maybe more. He couldn’t keep count anymore, it was all a blur of fists and fury, of red-soaked sleeves and splintered bone. His knuckles were split wide open, blood running down his fingers like oil, blood that he didn’t even know was his own. 

The once-pristine black suit he’d worn to dinner, tailored, pressed, immaculate was in ruins. The white shirt beneath was streaked with blood. Buttons missing, collar torn, cufflinks long gone.

He looked like a ghost dressed for a funeral.

Yours.

Somewhere behind him, alarms blared in a shrill, endless loop. He had triggered them when he shattered the keypad on the security gate with his bare hand. 

Somewhere ahead—locked doors, concrete walls, goddamn silence.

He didn’t know where they’d taken you.

And that not knowing—that not knowing—was what was killing him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rasping, barely human. “Fuck, fuck—”

He stumbled sideways, shoulder crashing into the wall. The cold bite of cement anchored him for a second, but not enough. 

He was unraveling. Frantic. Adrenaline wearing thin.

He reached for the comms, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the dial, all he heard was static, it was dead, no signal.

His breath hitched in his throat.

“No—no—come on—” He hit it harder this time, palm slamming into the casing with a sickening smack. Blood smeared the plastic. His hands were shaking.

“Come on, come on—please—”

A crackle. Static. Then—

“—arnes?”

Yelena’s voice.

His knees almost gave out.

He pressed himself back against the wall, clutching the comms like it might vanish if he let go.

“I got out,” he breathed. “I got out, I’m—I can’t find her.”

His voice broke. Shattered.

“I can’t—I don’t know where they took her. They drugged her. He had a knife at her throat—I couldn’t fucking stop it—”

He swallowed a sob. Tried to breathe, and failed.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. She knew. She felt it in her gut. And I just let her get taken.” He pushed off the wall, stumbling forward down the corridor, every door a dead end, every hallway too quiet. 

The sound of his shoes—black dress leather, scuffed now, stained red—echoed down the sterile concrete like a countdown.

And he was running out of time.

John’s voice came through next. 

“We’re in the air. Twenty minutes out. Hold tight, Bucky. We’ve got you.”

But the brunette wasn’t listening anymore.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, blood dripping to the floor beneath him.

“She was scared,” he whispered. “She told me to go. Begged me.”

The words tasted like glass in his mouth.

“She looked me in the eye like it was the last thing she would ever say to me. And I fucking left her. I left her there.”

His voice cracked again. Barely a sound.

“I can’t lose her.”

His hands curled into fists — raw, trembling. “I can’t.”

He slammed his fist into the wall—vibranium meeting concrete in a sickening crunch—and staggered forward. He was pacing now, wild and cornered and coming undone.

“I know I screw things up. I know I push people too hard. Say the wrong thing or nothing at all. I don’t... I don’t let myself feel shit unless it’s already too late.”

He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, dragged it down his face.

“But (y/n), I—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

“Every time she disobeys me on a mission, I yell. I chew her out like she’s reckless. Like she’s careless.”

He swallowed hard. Blinked. Focused on the darkness ahead.

“It’s not control. It’s not protocol. I just—fuck, I’m scared she won’t come back.”

He stopped, spine against the wall again. Voice low, almost fagile.

“That I’ll lose her. And it’ll be my fault. Because I never told her what she really means to me.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the line again. “Then don’t stop.”

A pause.

“You find her.”

His jaw tightened.

“I will,” Bucky said.

The tone in his voice changed—gone was the shaking, the hesitation.

“I swear to god, I’ll find her.”

His steps quickened. He pushed through the next door like it owed him something, storming into a stairwell, eyes wild, movements sharp. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Even if I have to burn this whole fucking place down.”

And he meant it.

He’d burn the compound, the mission, the goddamn world to the ground.

He was coming for you.

a/n: and that's chapter 5!! i hope you enjoyed, and please drop a comment or a reblog, it genuinely gives me so much motivation to give you guys my best! love y'all!

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

Retreat

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Work Count: 1k

Summary: After returning from a mission, an injured Bucky hides away from everyone to take care of himself. When it comes to getting ready for bed, he needs a litttle help/

It had been a long week for everyone. With back to back missions the team was worn out and not performing their best because of it. You sat out today’s mission, instead spending your day in Tony’s workshop, fixing up some equipment. It was supposed to be an easy one anyways. You sat perched on a stool, soldering two pieces of metal together. The room had nearly gone dark since the sun had set over the city, but you were too in it to notice. It wasn’t long before you heard doors opening and footsteps stomping over your head. They were slow and heavy, seemingly dispersing across the building. You quickly set your tools down and ran up the stairs, eager to hear everyone’s reports.

It seemed as if everyone had already retreated to their rooms. Normally after a simple mission like this, everyone came home with adrenaline pumping, ready to swap stories around the table until everyone’s energy finally faded for the night. But today was too quiet. You bump into Steve and Natasha quietly chatting in the hallway, both with their eyebrows knit together and their voices hushed.

“Hey,” you interrupted. “How did it go? Is everything all right?” The pair turned to face you, and Steve sighed. You wanted to ask where Bucky went. If he was alright. But that would just be too obvious. The two of you had been teetering between friends and something more for months and Steve knew that, but you wanted to keep some dignity.

“Yeah, the mission was a success. But could you go check on Bucky? He took the brunt of it,” Steve asked. You nodded cautiously and turned on your heels, heading for Bucky’s room. He had a tendency to get beat up on a job, then hide away and lick his wounds alone. Leaving everyone to just guess he’s okay and hope he’ll leave his room for food. Steve knew, and everyone knew, that you were the one he was least likely to push away. You softly knocked on his door.

“Bucky?” No response. You carefully push the door open, half expecting to be turned away. Steve wasn’t kidding. Bucky sat on the edge of his bed staring straight forward. He didn’t look up when you walked in, giving you time to examine him further. He had a nasty cut on the side of his face accompanied by bruises dotted along all of the exposed skin you could see. There was dried blood around his hand, though you weren’t sure whose. This metal arm was discarded on his dresser, long forgotten about. You knew he wasn’t going to want to talk. But he was in one piece. 

“Why don’t you take a shower, Buck?” Showering was the first thing you did after a mission. It was the only way you could move on with your day or get into bed. You thought he could use the reset. At this suggestion, he looked up to meet your eyes. His face was blank, clouds behind his eyes. He shook his head. You nodded yours, insisting he took your advice on this one. “Come on, I’ll get it started.” Without waiting for a response, you crossed into his attached bathroom and started running the water, holding your hand out in the stream until it turned warm. Satisfied, you walked back to Bucky and reached your hand out for him. Despite his earlier protests, he took your hand and pulled himself up. “Go on, I’ll grab you some clean clothes.” He silently walked away, leaving you to rummage through his dresser. 

After grabbing a t-shirt, shorts, and clean boxers, you went to set them outside of the bathroom door. You were surprised to find it still open, with Bucky standing right in front of it, still in his dirty clothes. His hand gripped the hem of his shirt, wincing as he tried to pull it off. The few inches of skin that he managed to reveal were black and blue, making you shudder.

“Okay, okay, let me help you,” you said gently. Bucky would never ask for help. He probably didn’t want help. But from you, he’d accept it. You tentatively grabbed the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his head, careful not to bump any bruised skin. You fought yourself not to stare. He was able to get out of his pants alone, leaning on you as he stepped out of them. He kept his underwear on, already exceeding his limit of vulnerability for the month.

You helped him step into the shower where he finally took a breath. His shoulders relaxed in the thick steam. You turn to leave him alone and give him the privacy you were sure he wanted.

“Wait,” he finally spoke. “Can you stay?” His voice was raspy, like he had been yelling a lot today. You nodded simply, glimpsing down at his arm which was outstretched to you. At his invitation, you slipped off your sweat pants and shirt, stepping into the shower in only your undergarments. You’d never been close with Bucky like this before, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instinctively, you reached for the soap, rubbing it across Bucky’s shoulders and arms. You were careful not to hurt him, intently wiping away any dirt, blood, and sweat. No one said anything. The only sound was the water hitting the tile floors and swirling down the drain. 

After ten or so minutes of this, Bucky turned to face you. You weren’t sure what to expect, but you were definitely surprised when he wrapped his arms around you and melted into your embrace, resting his forehead on your shoulder. He wasn’t usually an affectionate person, let alone touchy or cuddly. You held him, rubbing his back as your mind swirled with questions you couldn’t ask. What happened on the mission? Why was Bucky the only one who came back black and blue? You stayed there until the water turned cold.

Once the two of you finally got out of the shower, you patted him dry with a towel and helped him get into his clothes before doing the same for yourself. Bucky still didn’t stay much and neither did you, but the storm in his eyes had faded. You’d take that as a win. You didn’t wait for him to ask you to stay the night. You crawled in next to him, pulling the covers up high. This time you leaned into Bucky, silently praying this peace between you two could stay for a little longer. Bucky found your hand under the covers, squeezing it.

“You know Sam is gonna bully me forever if he finds out about this,” Bucky mentioned. You quietly chuckled, both at his joke and out of relief that he was starting to act like himself again.

“My lips are sealed,” you replied as you settled in for the night.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

Imagine telling bestie!Bucky you’ve always had to fake it in bed with men… You know he’d fuck you till you see stars

STOP. you are a genius honestly. the bestfriend energy turning into fucking?? i’m so damn bad for this…. And bucky would be also so confident about himself in bed like UGH i just know HE knows how good he is… squeezing my thighs at the thought.

You’re walking side by side, milkshakes in hand, the way you always do after a long week. your hands occasionally brushing. It’s easy — it always is with him. Talking about everything and nothing — something stupid. First dates. Red flags. Sex that was just… meh.

And then, casually, like it’s no big deal, you say it.

“I’ve faked it, like, every time.”

He slows mid-step. “Wait. Every time?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “I mean, yeah. Guys always think they’re doing a good job if you moan a little and say their name once or twice.”

Bucky blinks at you, stunned. “That’s…” He shakes his head, lips twitching. “That’s criminal. I think I need a moment.”

You laugh. “Relax, Barnes. It’s not like they were terrible. It just wasn’t… memorable. Or about me, really.”

He’s still looking at you — only now, there’s something behind his eyes. Heat. Focus.

“You’re tellin’ me not one guy’s made you come?”

“Not from sex, no.”

He stops walking. You take another sip of your milkshake, trying not to smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say lightly.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he mutters, jaw tight, voice low.

“Oh, you’re looking.”

He licks his lips, eyes dragging down your face, your throat, the shape of your mouth around the straw. “You shouldn’t tell me shit like that, doll.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

“Because now I can’t stop thinking about what I’d do different.”

There’s a beat of silence — thick, electric. You swallow, hard.

“…You think you could do it right?” you ask, teasing, testing.

He steps closer, leans in. You feel the heat of him, the weight of that look — the one that makes your knees go soft.

“I know I could.”

———

You’d said it was a bad idea.

That crossing that line would ruin everything.

But now you’re ruined in a completely different way — your body spread beneath him, flushed and trembling, every nerve frayed raw from the way he touches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s waited years.

He kisses you like he owns your mouth. Fucks you like he wants to prove every man before him was a waste of time.

“Look at me,” he growls against your throat. “I wanna see it.”

Your eyes flutter open just as your body clenches around him again. You moan his name, your voice cracked, your legs shaking.

He watches, entranced — every twitch, every gasp, the way you fall apart under him, for him.

“God, Bucky—” you gasp, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“You feel that?” he pants, dragging his cock deep again, slow and deliberate.

You nod helplessly, mouth open on a cry as he fucks into you again — rougher now, steady, each thrust angled perfectly to grind against that devastating spot inside you. His name tumbles out of you over and over, no space left in your brain for anything else.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stoppin’, baby,” he growls, gripping your hips tighter. “Not ‘til you give it to me again.”

He lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, folding you in half, and the new angle knocks the air from your lungs. You sob, reaching for him, your hands trembling as they claw at his back.

“That’s it,” he hisses, watching you unravel. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel it?”

Your whole body’s on fire, skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles clenching around him so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t come first — but he holds on, jaw clenched, arms straining as he pounds into you like he means it.

You break with a cry — raw and shaking beneath him, thighs quivering, your release crashing through you like lightning. And Bucky loses it.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—god, you’re perfect,” he gasps, driving into you harder, chasing his high as your body pulses around him. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, deep and wrecked, as he spills inside you, his entire body going tense, then trembling against yours. His mouth is on your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach, pressing kisses between desperate breaths.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, dazed. “I… I saw stars.”

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count: 0.4k

warnings: none except mild injury/mentions of bleeding, implied established relationship

summary: comfort after a long mission

a/n: i’m not sure if i like this, i feel like there should be more dialogue but i wanted to just kind of show how they were both tired.

The compound was quiet by the time you found Bucky — sitting on the edge of his bed, half in shadow, blood drying in a line down his temple. He didn’t look up when you stepped into the room, but his shoulders eased just a little, like he knew it was you. You dropped the med kit beside him and knelt down without a word, hands already reaching for the gauze. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was. Just tired, heavy, and a little raw, the kind of quiet that settled in after a fight, when the only thing left to do was take care of what remained.

You push his hair back gently so you can get at the cut, fingers brushing warm skin. He winces, but doesn’t pull away. He just watches you with that guarded look he wears too often these days, like he’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t. You never do. The antiseptic stings, and he huffs out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he murmurs. You press the gauze a little firmer than necessary. “Didn’t think you’d still be bleeding.”

He laughs lowly, grimacing as you increase the pressure. “You need to stop being so reckless,” you say, but your voice is too soft to carry any real bite. He tilts his head just enough to catch your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Says the one who jumped in front of a grenade today.” You roll your eyes, but your fingers tremble slightly as you dab at the dried blood on his skin. “That was different,” you mutter. “I knew it wasn’t live.”

“Sure you did,” he says, quieter this time. And for a moment, neither of you speak, the weight of what-ifs settling heavy in the space between heartbeats.

“Hey.” You say it softly, just loud enough to cut through the quiet. His eyes flick up to yours, and for once, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll always come back to you. You know that, right?”

Something shifts in his expression; the tension in his jaw loosens. the smirk fades, and what’s left is just him. Raw. Tired. Real.

“I don’t always believe in a lot of things anymore,” he says, voice low and rough. “But you… I believe you.”

He reaches out then, slow and unsure, fingers brushing against yours like he’s testing the water. And when you don’t pull away — when you curl your hand into his and hold on — he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He pulls you closer with no warning, guiding you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You go willingly, your knees on either side of him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Then he shifts, metal arm around your waist, the other braced beneath your thighs, and stands with ease, carrying you the short distance to the head of the bed.

He sinks back against the headrest with a quiet grunt, keeping you close, like letting go isn’t even an option. His head dips, face pressing into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin. He inhales deeply — like the scent of you is enough to slow his racing thoughts, like maybe, just maybe, you’re the one thing in this world that still makes sense.

“Just… stay,” he murmurs against your collarbone, barely audible.

You hold him tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You both stay like that, wrapped around each other in a quiet kind of comfort, the kind that doesn’t need words. The adrenaline from the mission has faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and the soft ache of being seen — and held — by someone who gets it.

Occasionally, he presses slow, languid kisses to your neck, not trying to start anything, just grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of your breath. Each kiss is a silent thank you, an apology, a promise he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

Your fingers trace lazy circles at the nape of his neck, and when his hold on you tightens just a little, you lean into him more. Neither of you say it, not tonight, but the feeling is there, heavy and certain in the space between your heartbeats.

You’re home. Right here, in each other’s arms.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

© buckysprettybaby; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

Spread the word!

#MakeHBOMaxGreatAgain #JusticeForCartoonNetwork

This is remake of my original version from 2022 when it was just a few Cartoon Network shows like Clarence, OK K.O! Let's Be Heroes, and Infinity Train among others removed from the streaming service.

As time went on and many more Cartoon Network shows were purged from the service before and after HBO Max's rebranding to Max, even Dexter's Laboratory (the very first Cartoon Network original series) and Steven Universe (one of the greatest modern CN shows), I knew I had to make a new version to present with Max reverting its name back to HBO Max to get my critique out with the "reverted" rebrand launched.

I started yesterday on June 2 after finishing my latest trailer style video. I started creating more characters in the row that were from shows that were removed from HBO Max/Max during Warner Bros. Discovery's start.

After all the characters were done, I started added text for the words on the sign Bridgette (Close Enough) is holding to express my hope and concern for the future of the rebranded HBO Max and bringing back all these purged Cartoon Network shows.

This was finished on June 3.

I thought about posting this on the same day Max was relaunched as HBO Max, but I figured I'd get it out there now than later.

[bruiscdlikeviolets]

in this life | ch. 4

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: "There's only one God, doll, and He's gonna bring me back to you." "I don't need God," you told him, fresh tears brimming over your eyes. "I just need you."

warnings: 18+, mdni, nondescript smut in this chapter, mental health talk, bucky is kinda flirting with you he's being 40's bucky in present time rn, reincarnation trope, language, mentions of financial instability, memories are written with italicizes, no use of y/n, angst, yearning, longing, everyone's alive no one is dead because i said so, alternating pov's

word count: 5.1k

a/n: i told myself that i wouldn't play elden ring until i released this chapter so now i will be playing elden ring until further notice. i also am going to see materialists tomorrow so if chris evans awakens something inside me be prepared for a steve rogers oneshot fic over the weekend

previous chapter | next chapter

Bucky knew better than to look for you. Well, he knew where to look for you. He knew everywhere that you would be, actually. He knew your school schedule, your work schedule, he knew what stores you frequented, and the roads that you took when you commuted from home to school, school to work, and work to home.

Sam called him a stalker. 

Bucky defended himself and said it was part of the intelligence background check that he had done on you. 

Though, he knew deep down, it was wrong of him to have even done that. It was originally just to see who was running the blog. But after seeing you, finding out who you were, Bucky couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know every detail about your life to see if there were any differences.

He was certain that you were the same person, though he still couldn’t wrap his head around how. 

“I think I’m going insane,” he told Steve. 

“Wouldn’t blame you. I would go crazy if Peggy was suddenly in front of me, too.”

“What would you do then?” Bucky demanded. “I don’t think we have the right to even be part of her life, Steve.”

“I think we should have thought about that before we both made Tony give her that scholarship, and before you gave her that insane amount of money,” Steve pointed out.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, burying his face in his hands. 

“Is it really that wrong to try again?” Steve murmured. “The universe is giving you a second chance… I know that if I was given one, I would take it.”

“But what if it’s not her, Steve? What if it’s just someone that looks like her, and I’m just projecting it on this random girl? Then what?” 

“You don’t have to fall in love with her,” Steve said, shaking his head. “You could start off as friends. Maybe from there, you can figure out whether or not it really is her or not… And then you can decide where to go from there.”

“We can’t be friends anymore,” you told him, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, and you could hear the confusion in his voice. “Did I do something? Say something? Did I hurt you?”

“No. Nothing like that,” you murmured in response, your heart clenching at his words. 

“Then what?” he pleaded softly, reaching for you. His hands were on your shoulders, and he whispered your name, “Look at me, please.”

You refused. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You were about to start crying, and you didn’t need him to see it. 

You were at your breaking point after so long. Nineteen years of being by his side, three years of harboring secret affection for him. Now, he was trying to take your coworker out for a date?

Yeah. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t sit and watch this anymore. You bit your tongue long enough, and you were tired. 

You shrugged his hands off your shoulders. “It’s nothing. Just— I can’t be your friend anymore.”

“Why?” he demanded, though there was no real bite to his words. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, letting out a deep sigh. 

You swallowed thickly, shook your head. “I gotta go.”

He didn’t let you leave. The second you turned, he had a hand on your arm, only hard enough to stop you. It didn’t hurt. No, he never hurt you. 

“You can’t just leave!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been friends since— since we were children! You can’t just tell me you’re leaving me without any kind of explanation.”

“Just drop it,” you mutter, pulling your arm back from him. He lets you go, you take a few steps, but not before he completely stops you by rushing around you to block your path.

“No! Argue with me, get mad! I don’t understand,” he begged. Your chest clenched at the sound of his voice. The hurt. The confusion. “You’re my one of my closest friends— hell, you and S̵͓͋ͅt̸͙̟͑͗ë̷̟̤́̚v̸͖̮̽ị̴͛͝e̵̙̐ are the closet friends I have!“

“That’s the issue!” you finally snap, looking at him. “I’m just a friend to you! That’s all I am, and that’s all I’ll ever be! I’m so fucking sick of it, J̵̳͎͒a̸̹̓m̸̛͇̲͌e̶͖͕̊̚s̴̱̬̓!” 

His body stills, taken aback. He whispers your name like a prayer. “What are you saying—“

“I’m so tired, don’t you understand?! You drag me and Ş̶̦͑t̷̘̆e̷̹̒̔v̵͕̻̐̕e̷̦̮̅́ to double date with you and your new catch of the week, and so have to sit there and watch you flirt with someone that isn’t me— that’ll never be me!” you cut him off, running your hands through your hair. You’re crying now, tears fully falling down your face. “Except Ş̶̦͑t̷̘̆e̷̹̒̔v̵͕̻̐̕e̷̦̮̅́ notices, and he feels fucking bad for me! You’re the only one dense enough to not see that I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen, you fucking idiot!”

He doesn’t say a word. He can’t. You don’t even think he’s breathing. You let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“We can’t be friends anymore. I think I might rip my own heart out if I listen to you talk about someone else,” you whispered, side stepping him. 

This time, he doesn’t follow you when you leave. 

However, he’s back two days later, knocking on your door incessantly. You know it’s him. The only other person it could be is your little blonde friend who had already comforted you yesterday. 

You sigh, knowing he won’t leave until you open the door. 

When you do, a bouquet of flowers is shoved into your face. You flinch, taking them in your hands to move the petals out of your nostrils. 

“What is this?” you frown. 

“Flowers. Have you never seen flowers before?” he asks, sarcastic. 

“Obviously I’ve seen fucking flowers before,” you reply dryly. “Why are you giving them to me—“

“Because I love you,” he cuts you off. “Since we were six. So I have you beat by ten years.”

You’re frozen in place, staring at the bouquet of flowers in your hand. It’s filled with an assortment of your favorites, wrapped in newspaper and a white bow. 

“We met when we were six,” you finally whisper. 

“And I’ve loved you ever since that day,” he confesses. 

“You— you take other girls out. You take my friends out,” you stammer, your mind reeling. 

“Well, to be fair, you set me up with your girls,” he says, leaning against the doorframe as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

You couldn’t deny that.

“What about the other girls?” you demand. 

He lets out a sigh, “I… didn’t think you were interested in me. Thought you just saw me as a brother, like Ş̶̦͑t̷̘̆e̷̹̒̔v̵͕̻̐̕e̷̦̮̅́.” 

“I.. don't believe you,” you whisper, clutching the stems of the flowers tighter. The newspaper crinkles under your hands. “You’re just saying this because you don’t want to lose me.”

“Doll,” he whispers, and a tingle runs down your spine. 

He’d never called you that before— he’d never called anyone that before, actually. You look up at him, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he confirms, reaching to hold your face in his hand. Your breath hitches at the contact. “However, I have watched you my entire life. I know everything about you. All your likes and dislikes. Everything you dream of and wish for. What you want in the future— I’ll give it all to you, if you’ll just let me.”

“What.. what if this ruins us?” you say, your voice trembling. “What if we break up—“

“I’m never letting you go, now that I have you,” he dismisses. “I promise, pretty girl. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of your heart and hold it so gently in my hands and keep it safe.”

“You… don’t exactly have a great track record with holding girlfriends,” you say, joking slightly. 

He chuckles, thumb brushing against your cheek. “None of them was you. Didn’t care enough to hold onto them.”

You let out a trembling breath, staring down at the flowers for a few moments. Your mind is racing, your heart is about to burst from your chest. 

“Want me to court you, doll?” he asks, breaking the silence. “I’ll court you. Let me work for it, let me show you how serious I am for you.”

“No,” you quickly say, looking back up at him. “I— That’s too much time wasted. I just wanna be yours already.”

“I’ve been yours from the start,” he whispers, and you hear it. The genuinity in his voice that makes your stomach flip. “Be my girl, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you nod, letting out a breath. 

He surges forward, holding your face in both hands now as he presses his lips against yours— like he’s been waiting his entire life to do this. You suppose he has, whereas you’ve only been waiting a few. 

You relax against him, pulling him into your home before shutting the front door behind him. He continues kissing you, pressing kisses all over your face as he whispers his gratitude. 

You giggle against him, holding him close to you as his lips finally find yours again. You sigh into his kiss, and he shifts the angle of your head to kiss deeper. 

His tongue slips into your mouth, licking into yours. You let out a surprised squeak against his lips, and feel him smile against you.

“Don’t like?” he whispers, lips ghosting against yours. 

“Just— new,” you stutter, heart racing. “Never done that.”

“Hmm.. I know,” he chuckles. Well, you knew he did. Your little trio of friends talked about relationships. He was the most well versed out of all three of you.

“Okay, Mr. Experienced,” you scoff, hitting his arm with the flowers. 

“Not totally experienced,” he corrects. “I’ve never gone all the way.”

You’re surprised. “You haven’t? I thought you did with Dot— prom night?” 

“No. Got close, but stopped,” he confesses, taking the flowers from your hands and dropping them onto the table by the front door. “Didn’t feel right. Wanted to wait for the right person.”

“Who’s the right person?” you ask.

“I’m holding her right now,” he whispers, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to him before pulling you back into a sweet kiss. 

You know he can feel your heart pounding in your chest as he holds you against him. You find that you don’t care, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. His hand moves to your chin, gently tugging— you know what he’s asking for. 

You open your mouth, prepared this time for his tongue. The feeling is strange, different, but you don’t hate it. He’s moving slowly against you, allowing you to adjust to him, to learn his movements

He’s being so patient with you it almost makes you want to cry. 

You learn quickly, sliding your own tongue over his, licking into his mouth the same way that he did with you. He lets out a soft moan into your mouth, squeezing your hip tighter in his hand. 

“So good, doll,” he whispers, pulling back briefly just to compliment you before meeting you once more. 

You find your back against the wall, his body a rock against yours. You find comfort in his touch, letting out soft noises you didn’t know you could make as he started kissing away from your mouth, down your jaw and to your neck. 

“Your Ma’ workin’ late tonight?” he whispers against your skin.

“Won’t be back till the morning,” you swallow. “Graveyard shift.”

“Doll… I want you,” he murmurs, “If you’ll let me.”

You know what he’s asking for, know what he means. You nod all the same, pushing him off of you gently just to take his hand to lead him to your room. Your heart is pounding in your chest, keenly aware of him and the amount of space he takes in your small room. 

He’s been in here thousands of times before. This is different. It’s different as he presses his chest against your back, hands roaming slowly around your body, giving you the opportunity to push him away or change your mind. 

You never do.

His breath hitches as you lean into his touch, murmuring your name softly. 

“I’m a little nervous,” you confess to him as you turn in his arms to face him. 

“So am I,” he replies with a laugh. “I’m glad this is with you, though.”

You grin at him, pressing on your toes to kiss him again. 

Clothes are slowly removed with shaking hands, both of you taking the time to pause, to look at each other in the dim light of your room. You’re entranced by him— you’ve seen him before, at the lake. Having him above you like this is different. 

He seems to feel the same, cursing under his breath as he takes in the sight of you completely bare beneath him. 

“I don’t know how many times I dreamt about this,” he whispers, fingers ghosting over the swell of your breasts. “Dreamt of you. Am I dreaming again, doll?”

“I’m in a dream with you, if you are,” you whisper back. 

You both are clumsy, breathless, sharing quiet giggles with each other as you try to figure out what feels good and what doesn’t. All the while, you share kisses between whispers of affection, and he never stops telling you how perfect you are. 

Finally, when you both deem that it’s time— he slides home. 

You’re taken back by the stretch, and he’s dying in his head, but comes back to life to kiss away your tears and comfort you as you get used to the feel of him. 

When pleasure finally overcomes pain, he moves. The first thrust is heaven. You moan in unison, holding on to each other like you’ll fall apart if you don’t. 

Neither of you last too long. It's an overwhelming mix of passion, pleasure, and love. He collapses on you, murmuring something about lasting longer next time, and you laugh. 

You’re lulled to sleep by him tracing incomplete shapes into your hip, tucked into his chest like something precious. You’re beginning to learn that you are—to him at least. 

You could constantly feel eyes on you, though you never knew where those eyes were. Whether it was at the diner, on campus, or walking home, you couldn’t shake the feeling. What was even more strange was that you didn’t feel like you were in danger, strangely.

You thought you were going insane, but that wouldn’t be an accurate description of anything. You should probably already be in an institution, but you simply remained undiagnosed. 

It was unnerving, to say the least. 

You still continued to keep an eye out for the two super soldiers. You hoped to see at least one of them. You kept telling yourself it was so that you could return the ten grand to them, even though you never actually carried the money with you. Maybe the next time that you saw them you would give one of them your phone number or demand one of theirs. Take their number and tell them that you would return the money or wire the money back to them via Zelle. If they had Zelle. You didn’t know how technology advanced the two World War II veterans were. 

“What paper are you angry typing up?” Peter asked from across the table. “Is it for your ethics class again?” 

“No, my ethics professor finally gave in to my study. It’s an email,” you said. “To your boss. Demanding to understand the details of my scholarship.”

“Isn’t this the fourth email you sent him?” Ned asked.

“Fifth,” MJ corrected from beside you. “And he still hasn’t responded? At all? Peter, why don’t you talk to him?”

“Nuh-uh,” Peter shook his head vehemently. “I am not gonna talk about scholarships with Mr. Stark. What if he takes away mine?”

“It’s alright,” you tell MJ with a sigh. “It’s not his responsibility.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about the scholarship though,” Ned said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a full ride and more. You’ve been able to get all of us free lunch at the cafeterias for the past two weeks.”

“Yes, but what if he takes it away because he realizes I am not qualified and then I get backlogged with payments that I can’t afford?” you shoot back. “And Peter has also been getting us lunch at the cafeteria, not just me.”

“I didn’t realize my scholarship also came with lunch,” Peter said, sheepish.  

“Also it’s not Peter’s responsibility for Tony Stark to respond to his damn emails,” you grunted. Peter let out a sigh of relief.

“Well, good luck with all of that,” MJ said with a snort as she packed up her things. “Gotta head to my next class. I’ll see you at the diner tonight.”

“Yup,” you mutter as she picks up her things. She rounds the table real quick to press a kiss to Peter’s lips before leaving the library. 

You press send on the email, and bury your face in your hands. You can feel a headache coming on. You were one more email away from finding out where the hell Peter went for his internship and banging down Tony Stark’s door yourself to demand answers.

You held back the desire to do so and went on with the rest of your day. You had one more class, one more pop quiz. Then you were on your way to clock in for work. Tomorrow, you had the day off. It was the weekend, too. It was a rare occurrence where you didn’t have both school and work. You would be able to sleep in if your mind allowed you to. Maybe you could finish that drawing you were working on.

The Friday dinner rush came and went. It got so busy that the bell ended up breaking at the door. You two would have to look up to see if a patron walked in. Thankfully, you were at the tail end of the night, and usually you guys never saw anyone at this time. You only had about an hour left before you would start your closing duties and then head home for the night. 

You and MJ decided to beg the cooks in the back for a snack, and they gave you an order of large fries to share. After wiping down the bar counter, you and MJ sat at the diner bar to chat. Your feet were killing you after running around all night. 

“Fuck, marry, kill. Captain America, Thor, Iron Man,” MJ suddenly said.

“You know your boyfriend is part of that team, right?” you mutter under your breath.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re playing, not me,” MJ grinned. 

“Kill Iron Man,” you said instantly.

“Because he’s not answering your emails?”

 “Exactly,” you grunt. “Bad communication. Terrible for marriage. Don’t even wanna think about going to bed with that. Pisses me off.”

“Understandable,” she nods. “Two left.”

You groan, sighing deeply. “I don’t think marrying Thor would be good for the long run. Marrying a God seems like a bad idea. Maybe fucking him once is good?”

“So you’ll marry Captain America?” she asked, surprised. “He’s like, a hundred. Are you sure about that?”

“He was born during a time when men were chivalrous and gentlemanly,” you argue. “Also, he’s a hundred, but does he look like it? Steve Rogers looks like sex, MJ.”

A ring of the call bell at the hostess stand makes both of you freeze. You both turn to the front, finding a customer waiting to be seated, but it’s not just any customer. Bucky is standing there, staring at you with his hands in his pockets. 

You want to fucking die. 

“That’s your circus,” MJ quickly said, grabbing the basket of fries before running into the kitchen.

“You–!” you hissed at her as your cheeks turned red. You swallow down your embarrassment as you go up to the stand, grabbing a menu from the podium as you clear your throat. “Just for one tonight?”

“Yeah,” he answers, nodding. 

“Bar or table?” 

“Bar is good.”

After leading him to the bar, you bring him a glass of water as he looks over the menu. Your cheeks are still burning with heat, and your heart is still thumping. You don’t know how long he has been standing there. You don’t know if he’s heard the entire conversation to know the context, or if he was only able to hear the end of what you said about his friend.

“Can I get you something other than water to drink?” you forced out.

“Do you have beer here?” he asked. “Kinda need it. I just heard somebody say my best friend looks like sex.”

“We have beer,” you whispered, swallowing thickly as you turned towards the kitchen to grab a bottle.

MJ is lucky that you don’t find her during your quick walk through otherwise you would’ve smashed the bottle over her head. Not literally. You wanted to though. You should. You won’t. Maybe later.

“One beer,” you said, placing it in front of him. “And I’m so sorry.”

Bucky lets out a small laugh, and you finally look at his face. He’s smiling. “No worries.”

“Were you listening– Did you hear the whole conversation?” you asked, nervous.

“Nope. Just the last part.”

“Do you know what the game fuck, marry, kill is?”

Bucky stares at you like you’re speaking a different language for a few moments as he rests his hands on the bar counter. You just might be making zero sense, honestly. You normally wouldn’t even be bringing this up with a patron. You would just let it go and pretend that this wasn’t a thing, but you were desperate to clear up this misunderstanding. 

“Basically you choose three people, and you have those three options. My friend gave me three Avengers to choose from.”

“You chose Steve to fuck?” Bucky asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“No, I chose Thor to fuck. I chose Steve to marry,” you quickly corrected him. “And I killed off Tony Stark.”

“Oh. Steve would be the best option to marry out of those three,” Bucky nodded, taking a long drink of his beer. You let out a breath, relief filling your body. “Still doesn’t explain your comment.”

“I– she was saying that he’s old. And asked me why I would be okay with marrying someone old. I said that he doesn’t look old– that he looks…”

“Like sex?” he completed for you, a small smirk on his face.

“Are you going to order?” you asked, regretting everything leading up to this moment. 

Bucky chuckled, looking back down at the menu for a second before nodding. “Yeah. Is the hamburger steak good?”

“It’s good,” you said with a breath. “I’ll put that order in for you.”

You quickly turn and disappear into the kitchen to put the ticket in. You wish that the diner was busy so that you would have more time to hide, have some time to cool off and potentially forget about the conversation, but unfortunately luck is not on your side. The cooks have the order finished and ready within moments. MJ is still avoiding eye contact with you, even though you can see an amused look on her face. 

You bring the plate back out to him, muttering a soft enjoy before trying to spin on your heel again.

“I’ll leave you another large tip if you run,” he said.

“Are you really threatening me with money?” you asked, shocked. You turn around to find him already cutting into the gravy smothered meat, and he shrugs.

“Maybe.”

“For what reason?” Despite your words, you return to the counter, right across from him with your eyebrows raised. 

“Seeking company while I eat,” he responds, glancing up at you before bringing a cut of the hamburger to his mouth. Then, he looks surprised. “It is good.”

“Of course it’s good. Did you think I was lying?”

“Thought you were just tryna get me to stop talking about my friend looking like sex to you, doll,” he said, chuckling.

“Are you ever going to drop that?” you frown at him.

“It happened like two seconds ago. Let me enjoy the moment.”

“Just don’t tell Steve. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again in person, but I don’t think I’ll be able to look him in the eyes if he knows I said that,” you begged, inwardly cringing.

“On one condition. Take Iron Man out. Put me in. How does the scenario change now?” 

Your mind was short circuiting in real time. You were staring at him, and he was waiting patiently, a smile on his face as he stared at you. His fingers rested on his lips, eyes never leaving yours, waiting for a response.

“I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation to be having with a customer,” you finally whispered.

“I could always tell Steve,” he shot right back.

“Kill Thor,” you started immediately, watching the smile on his face grow. “Though I really don’t know how it’s possible to kill a God.”

“For the sake of the game,” Bucky brushed off. “Steve and I next. Who are you bringing to bed, and who’s waiting for you at the altar?” 

“Do I really have to answer this?” you plead.

“No,” he said with a shrug. “But I could just call Steve.”

“Marry you,” you finally said, looking everywhere but him.

“Because Steve looks like sex?” 

“No!” you exclaim, cheeks burning hotter than you ever thought was possible. “You just— I’ve met you, what, three times? You stole pickles off my sandwich without me saying anything, and gave me a fat tip for mediocre service. I feel that I would be taken care of for the rest of my life. Fuck is just.. the only option left… So yeah. Steve is, by default, who I’m gonna fuck.”

Bucky looks utterly satisfied for whatever reason that you cannot understand. He picks up his fork and knife and continues to cut into his meat, bringing the food back to his mouth to eat quietly. You still feel like disintegrating on the spot.

“You can’t tell him I said any of that,” you finally said, watching him bring a broccoli piece to his lips.

“Our little secret, doll,” he hummed. “Didn’t think I was marriage material though.”

“For the sake of the game,” you said, shooting the words back at his face. You watch as he smiles a bit more, nodding to himself more than you. 

“Not too old for you either?” he asked, and you could hear something teasing in his voice. “Or do I also look like sex?”

“I’ll ban you from ever entering this diner again,” you threatened, though your words hold zero weight.

“Then I’ll just leave another ten grand for your tip before you throw me to the streets.” 

“Do you always just carry alarming amounts of money with you?”

“Only when I know I’m going to see a pretty waitress at a diner,” he replied. 

“Sergeant, if I knew any better, I would say you were attempting to be flirting with the pretty waitress at the diner,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Bucky paused mid-bite, then shrugged just slightly. He didn’t look bothered or flustered at all.

“Is that an issue with you?” he asked. “Is there a boyfriend that I need to fight?”

“You tell me,” you said dryly. “What does your background check on me say?”

The smile returned to his face as he looked back at you. There was a sparkle in his eyes that you hadn’t seen earlier, that made your breath catch in your throat, and your chest tighten.

“There’s none,” he answered.

“Eat your food, Sergeant,” you huffed. “I’ll be back to check on you. Need to start my closing duties. Don’t rush though– I haven’t practiced the heimlich maneuver in years. I don’t know what I’ll do if you start choking.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, looking back down at his food. 

You were relieved to finally move out of his line of sight. 

Bucky seemed different today. Where the last two times you saw him, he was tense and uptight, he seemed a bit more relaxed today. You weren’t sure if it was due to the beer he was drinking or if it was the playful banter that was passed between the two of you, but either way it was nice. Natural. As if you had been through this thousands of times before and speaking to him was as easy as breathing air. 

There wasn’t much for you to do in terms of closing. MJ had flitted about while you embarrassed yourself in front of the superhero, and you printed out his receipt. You knew better this time than to try and give him a complimentary meal again otherwise you would be stuck with another stack of bills behind your dresser that you would be too scared to touch.

You stared at the receipt for a few moments, then picked up a pen. Your heart was racing as you quickly scribbled on the end of the customer copy, and made sure to keep it carefully hidden under the restaurant’s copy. 

“I hope you enjoyed your meal tonight,” you told him as you dropped off the checkbook.

“It was great,” he said, offering you another smile as he took out his wallet. He opened it up, checked the price, and took out the according number of bills before. Then, another hundred came out, and he slid it to you. “For you.”

“Bucky–”

“For putting up with my shit tonight,” he cut you off.

You couldn’t argue with that. You grumbled under your breath as you took the cash, shoving it into your pocket as you took the restaurant receipt and his money. You watched as Bucky’s eyes fell on his copy of the receipt, and stared for a few moments. 

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up the receipt.

“I’m sure you already have my number from whatever intelligence you ran on me,” you said, clearing your throat as you refused to meet his eyes. “Consider this permission to use it.”

“Are you flirting with me now?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Your heart was pounding as you watched as he put the receipt into the pocket of his leather jacket carefully. 

“Not flirting. Networking, if you will. Expanding my options for after I graduate. The Avengers need therapists right? You guys have a lot of unsolved trauma, even if you guys won’t say that in the interviews that you have.”

Bucky barked out a laugh at your response, shaking his head. “I’ll ask around. See who needs a student therapist to poke around in their heads for your thesis.”

“You really know too much about me.”

“I’m sure that you know just as much about me,” he promised.

You believed him, for some odd reason.

next chapter

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[bruiscdlikeviolets]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ Bambi ⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

dad!bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff and humour, established relationship (marriage), parenthood, girl dad bucky, the new avengers (post thunderbolts*), auntie yelena, alexei shenanigans… and bob is an ipad kid.

summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!

word count: 2275

A/N: kinda inspired by this fic written by @buckysleftbicep (absolutely loved it) so everyone go check it out right now!! Posting fluff in celebration of reaching 1k followers!

The moment you step into Avengers Tower, your daughter’s tiny hand wrapped in yours and her beloved deer plush tucked under her arm, you brace yourself.

Not for an attack. Not for a mission.

But for them.

Yelena’s the first to spot you from across the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her boots on the coffee table, casually eating pickles out of the jar like it’s an Olympic sport. Her eyes light up instantly.

“You brought the gremlin,” she says, hopping over the back of the couch like it owes her money. “Finally.”

Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”

Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”

You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”

Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”

But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.

“OH MY GOD.”

You freeze.

“THERE IS A CHILD.”

Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.

“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”

Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”

“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.

“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”

“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.

He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”

Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.

Yelena whispers it to him.

Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”

Then he spots the plushie.

His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”

She nods.

He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”

You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”

“Why are you like this?”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.

He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.

Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”

“She’s three,” you say.

“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”

Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.

Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”

You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.

“Haha! See?! Bambi!”

“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.

Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”

Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”

“Yes.”

Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.

Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.

“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”

Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”

“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.

You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”

“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.

“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.

Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”

You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”

You smile gratefully. “Please.”

Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”

Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”

Your daughter yawns.

“Yeah,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “She’s terrified.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”

———

The common room is unusually quiet.

Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.

You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.

Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.

“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”

Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”

Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”

Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.

“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”

“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.

“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”

Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”

“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.

Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”

“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”

“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.

Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”

That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”

You blink at her.

“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.

Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”

And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.

All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.

Bucky’s the first to clock you.

Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.

He stops cold.

“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.

Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.

“Daddy!”

And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.

The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.

He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”

She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”

Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”

There’s a stunned silence behind him.

John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”

Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”

Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.

“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.

You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”

“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”

Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.

“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.

“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.

“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”

Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.

“Did you bring me a snack?”

“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”

She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”

You sigh.

———

Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.

Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.

“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”

Bucky, absolutely smitten, nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Of course I’m listening, Bambi. Pickles smell bad. Got it.”

She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”

Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”

She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”

You stifle a laugh into your mug.

Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.

“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”

“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”

You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”

Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”

You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”

Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list)