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All American-Bitch

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis She’s the Avengers’ perfect little Barbie: glowing, charming, untouchable. The media loves her. The tabloids fetishize her. And she smiles, nods, and answers dumb questions like a pro… She takes it all. And then she punches lockers, screams into towels, and rants in the quiet—safe only because Bucky is there to watch, listen, and maybe even join in.

Word Count 10k

Themes + Warnings D1 Crashout energy (rightfully so) , Slow-Burn Romantic Tension (COULD BE ROMANTIC OR PLATONIC) , Media/Societal Pressure , Anger / Rage Outbursts , Media / Objectification Themes

DISCLAIMER the skin color in the photos do not represent THE READER its pure aesthetic, the reader is up to your imagination!

— All American-Bitch I don't get angry when I'm pissed, I'm the eternal optimist! I scream inside to deal with it!

M. list | Request (Open but slow)

You were sunshine.

That’s what everyone said, anyway. The sunshine of the Avengers. The easygoing one. The optimist. The one who could take Steve’s stubborn silence, Tony’s biting sarcasm, and Thor’s booming arrogance and turn it into something like camaraderie. You were the smile when things got dark, the soft voice in the middle of shouting, the polite laugh that kept reporters from asking too many uncomfortable questions.

And God, you were good at it. Too good.

Which was exactly why no one noticed that you wanted to slam your head against the conference table twenty minutes into today’s strategy meeting.

“Tony, your plan doesn’t account for—” Steve started, voice sharp and clipped.

Tony immediately cut him off with a dramatic sigh. “Cap, my plan always accounts for your what-ifs. You’re just too paranoid to admit it.”

“Paranoid? I’m thorough.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me again how ‘thorough’ went last time when—”

Here we go again.

You plastered on the brightest smile you could manage and slid neatly between the two of them before Steve’s jaw could lock any tighter or Tony could launch into another ten-minute monologue. “Alright, alright, let’s all take a breath,” you said, voice light, hands held up in mock surrender. “Steve, you’ve got a point about structure, but Tony’s right too—sometimes improvising is necessary. Maybe we can… I don’t know, try not to kill each other in the process?”

A couple of strained chuckles. Tension diffused. Another victory for The Sunshine of the Avengers™.

Except under the table, your nails dug crescents into your palm.

Your eye twitched. Just a little. No one noticed.

The meeting dragged on. And on. And on.

Every time you opened your mouth, it was to smooth something over. Wanda sat quietly in her chair, eyes downcast, lost in her own little bubble. Nat didn’t need to step in—Nat was Nat. Everyone already took her seriously. She had that edge, that presence, the kind of sharpness that warned people not to cross her.

You? You were approachable. Gentle. The team’s little burst of sunlight.

Which apparently meant you were also the goddamn babysitter.

“Thor, please don’t throw Mjolnir at the table just to make a point.” “Sam, can we not place bets on who would win in a cage fight during a tactical debrief?” “Yes, Clint, you’re very funny, but maybe stop balancing pencils on your nose while Fury’s talking.”

Every word out of your mouth was met with a laugh or a nod, never taken seriously, never respected like Steve’s hard-edged commands or Nat’s quiet input. You were comic relief. The peacemaker.

It took everything not to roll your eyes so hard they’d fall out of your skull. You wanted to snap—tell them to stop acting like teenage boys fighting over a group project. Instead, you smiled again, the picture of patience, while your pencil snapped clean in two between your fingers. No one noticed. No one ever did.

You quickly bent your head, scooping the two halves into your lap before anyone could notice. Except—

Blue eyes flicked toward you from across the table. Bucky.

You pretended not to see him.

By the time the meeting finally ended, your jaw ached from clenching your teeth through another round of “let’s argue about nothing for two hours.” You escaped to your room the moment you could, pacing the floor like a caged animal.

It wasn’t even anger at Steve or Tony anymore—it was the gnawing frustration of having to be the one who never lost it. The “perfect” one. The calm one.

Did Wanda ever feel this? Did Nat?

Wanda had her own world, her own shadows. People let her drift on the edges. She wasn’t expected to smile and laugh and play nice every damn minute. Nat? Nat could shoot a glare and silence a room. You envied that. You envied the way she didn’t have to earn respect with a grin and a joke.

Meanwhile, you? You were the sunshine. Sweet. Approachable. Optimistic.

You wanted to scream.

You didn’t sleep. Of course you didn’t.

Instead, you found yourself wandering into the kitchen in the middle of the night, bare feet silent against the tile, chasing the hope that tea might calm the restless storm in your chest.

The overhead lights were too harsh, so you didn’t turn them on. The soft glow from the fridge was enough, washing the counters in pale light as you clattered a mug down a little harder than necessary.

“‘Take a breath,’” you mocked under your breath, rummaging through the cabinets for tea. “‘Be patient.’ Yeah, sure. God forbid I actually say what I’m thinking. No, no, gotta be perfect. Gotta be sweet. Gotta be the goddamn sunshine.”

The kettle clicked as it heated. You paced, muttering.

“They don’t even see me. I’m just… the smile. The prop. The one who makes it all look pretty while they tear each other’s throats out. Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine—”

“You always talk to yourself this much, doll?”

You froze.

Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair messy from sleep—or the lack of it. His voice was low, quiet, not mocking. Just curious.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

Heat crawled up your neck. “I—I wasn’t—” you started, fumbling for words. “I was just—”

“Ranting?” His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Sounded like ranting.”

You swallowed, mortified. Great. Just great. Out of all people to catch you spiraling at two in the morning, it had to be the man with a permanent scowl and more trauma than anyone on the team.

“Forget you heard anything,” you muttered, reaching for the kettle. “It was nothing.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He just walked forward, slow and deliberate, plucking another mug from the cabinet. He set it beside yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Not nothing,” he said simply. “But I’m not asking.”

You blinked at him, thrown off. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t pitying you. He was just… there.

When the kettle clicked off, he poured the water for you before you could stop him, then poured his own. You both stood there in the quiet kitchen, steam curling between you.

He didn’t fill the silence with words. Didn’t pry.

And for the first time all day, you didn’t feel like you had to smile.

You were already tired before training even started.

The debrief had run late, you hadn’t slept, and Steve’s motivational pep talk felt more like a lecture than encouragement. But you smiled, stretched, and cracked a joke about how Clint owed you coffee if you knocked him on his ass again.

Sunshine. Always sunshine.

“Alright, pair off,” Steve ordered, clapping his hands.

Of course you ended up with Sam.

“C’mon, sunshine,” Sam drawled, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see what you’ve got today.”

You forced a smile, even as your jaw tightened. He always called you that. Sometimes it felt affectionate, other times like a jab at the role you’d been boxed into. Sunshine, dollface, sweetheart. Anything but soldier.

The spar started fine. Quick footwork, sharp counters. You landed a clean strike that made him grunt. For a moment, you felt good—sharp, capable, like they’d have to notice your skill this time.

Then he started talking.

“You know,” Sam puffed, dancing out of reach with that smug grin, “you’re real good at smoothing things over. Like—when Stark’s about to blow a gasket? You’re always right there. I feel for your every little issue, you know? You just know what to say.”

He chuckled like it was a compliment.

Your teeth ground together. Every little issue?

You swung harder, aiming for his ribs. He blocked, still grinning. “Hey, hey—don’t get mad, sweetheart. I’m just saying you’ve got a gift. I know just what you mean half the time, but you say it better. You make it sound… nice.”

There it was again. Nice. Easy. Sweet.

Your fist connected with his shoulder harder than necessary. His eyes widened, and you saw the flicker of surprise—then amusement.

“Whoa,” he laughed, shaking it off. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

And that’s when you almost lost it.

Because of course he didn’t know. Of course none of them knew. You’d done nothing but fight tooth and nail to prove you belonged here, and still—still—you were just a face, a body, a fucking visual. The perfect, all-American bitch with the easy smile. Pretty enough to put on the cover of a magazine, harmless enough to make into a joke.

Not a fighter. Not a soldier.

Just… sunshine.

Your hands shook as you reset your stance. Wanda’s gaze flicked toward you from across the mats, her brows pinching. She knew. She always knew when you were on the edge, when the storm was building under your skin. She’d tried to ease you before, to breathe calm into your chaos, and you always brushed her off.

I’m fine. That was your line. That was your role.

But you weren’t fine. Not right now.

Nat leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like she was watching the start of a movie. She’d been waiting for this—for you to finally crack, to finally stop swallowing your fire and let it burn.

And God, you wanted to.

“Easy,” Steve’s voice cut through, firm and commanding. “You’re not here to hurt your teammates.”

You froze, chest heaving. Steve’s gaze pinned you in place—stern but well-meaning, like he was reminding a kid to use their inside voice.

He meant well. He always did. And that made it worse.

“I know you like to make light of the darkness,” Steve said, softer now, almost fond. “That’s good. We need that. But don’t lose focus.”

Light of the darkness. That’s all you were to them, wasn’t it?

The laugh. The easy one. The prop to make their sharp edges palatable. Never the blade. Never the weapon.

You bit your tongue, forced a nod, and stepped back. “Yes, sir.”

Training went on. You held it together, barely, every nerve screaming.

The moment training ended, you bolted.

You made it to the locker room, yanked your towel from the bench, and slammed a locker so hard the metal rattled.

Your chest heaved. Your vision blurred.

You pressed the towel to your face and screamed. A sound ripped from deep in your chest, raw and ragged, a noise you didn’t even recognize as your own.

It wasn’t enough.

Another scream tore out of you, shaking your whole body. The towel muffled it, but not by much. It was primal, ugly, the kind of scream that scraped your throat raw.

“Yeah, you know me,” you gasped between heaves, pacing like a caged animal. “Got sun in my motherfucking pocket, best believe. Always smiling. Always easy. Always perfect. FUCK—”

You threw the towel down, hands in your hair, pulling until your scalp burned.

“I’m not sunshine,” you spat, voice breaking. “I’m not your fucking sweetheart, I’m not your Barbie doll, I’m not your—” The words broke into another scream, louder this time, echoing off the lockers.

You kicked the bench hard enough to send it screeching against the floor. Punched the locker until your knuckles ached. Pressed your forehead against the cool metal and sobbed, breaths coming in sharp, ugly gasps.

All of it—the fake smiles, the dismissive compliments, the headlines, the way Steve’s disappointment still felt like judgment even when he meant well—it crashed down on you at once. Years of swallowing it. Years of being perfect.

And now you were shattering.

“Y’know,” a low voice drawled, “that towel didn’t do anything to you.”

You whipped around, heart lurching.

Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He must’ve walked in mid-scream.

Mortification flooded you. “Shit,” you muttered, fumbling for the towel, hiding your face. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Yelling into fabric?” His brow lifted, deadpan. “Yeah. I do that too.”

You froze.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Didn’t smirk like Sam would’ve. He just said it plain, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You…” you swallowed hard. “You do?”

“Not always a towel,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Sometimes a pillow. Sometimes a wall.” His mouth twitched, like he almost found it funny. “Walls usually lose.”

A breathless laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. Not the sweet, polite laugh you gave the team, but a raw one, jagged and a little unhinged.

The tension in your chest loosened, just a little.

He didn’t move closer, didn’t press. He just leaned against the lockers, arms still cro ssed, watching you with that steady, quiet gaze.

“Doesn’t mean you’re weak,” he said after a beat. “Means you’re human.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and realized he wasn’t saying it for you. He was saying it for himself too.

For a long beat, the locker room was silent except for your uneven breathing.

Then you nodded. Not perfect, not sunshine—just a raw, shaky nod.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel crazy for wanting to scream.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be clean, simple. Sweep the Hydra outpost, secure the files, get out. That’s what Fury said. That’s what Steve said. That’s what you told yourself when you forced your smile in place before stepping into the quinjet.

But missions never go like they’re supposed to.

The second the team hit the ground, chaos cracked through the plan like lightning splitting a tree.

It started with one wrong turn.

One miscommunication, one slip in the comms, and suddenly the whole mission went sideways. Hydra remnants were supposed to be boxed in, but somehow the perimeter collapsed and the team spent the next thirty minutes in pure chaos—ducking fire, shouting over each other, improvising plans.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

You smiled into the comms, kept your tone even, made a joke about “Saturday night traffic” when the escape route clogged with enemy trucks. You cracked a laugh when Tony muttered about Steve’s “outdated tactical playbook.” You even laid a hand on Wanda’s shoulder when she started panicking, grounding her while your own pulse hammered at a dangerous pace.

Tony complained about Steve’s “stone age comms protocols.”

Steve barked back about Tony’s “reckless improvisation.”

Sam swooped in with a sarcastic, “Are we fighting Hydra or each other?”

And you—stuck in the middle—kept the smile plastered on your face, even as your temples throbbed.

“Hey,” you’d said into the comms, tone deliberately light, “let’s save the lovers’ quarrel until after we’re not dodging gunfire, yeah?”

It got a huff of laughter from Wanda, at least. Even Natasha smirked faintly before leaping into the fray. But Steve and Tony? Still at each other’s throats, even while fighting.

You wanted to scream right then. Just rip the comm out of your ear and scream.

Sunshine. Always sunshine.

Instead, you ducked a bullet, grit your teeth, and kept the “perfect teammate” mask cemented in place.

By the time the Hydra agents were scattered and the files secured, your nerves were singed raw. mission technically accomplished—you were fraying at the edges. But you didn’t show it.

Everyone else argued their way down the street toward the exfil point, voices ricocheting in your skull.

“I told you we should’ve flanked—” Steve started.

“Yeah, and I told you your tactics are older than dial-up—” Tony cut in.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear into both of them, because you’d watched the plan unravel, and you’d patched it together in real time, but nobody noticed. Nobody listened.

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, “I feel like I’m stuck in a group project with divorced parents.”

“Not helping,” Steve snapped.

“Didn’t know you had that in you,” Sam tossed casually over his shoulder at you as you jogged to catch up.

You blinked. “What?”

He grinned, like it was harmless. “All that fancy footwork back there. Guess you’re not just here to smile for the cameras after all.”

Something in your chest tightened.

It was a joke. You knew it was a joke. But it hit right where all the ugly thoughts lived. Because wasn’t that exactly how the world saw you? Pretty face. Good for PR. Always composed, always agreeable. Perfect little All-American sweetheart.

You laughed it off, because what else could you do? “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

But inside, you were already spiraling.

You kept thinking about Wanda, how she drifted in her own little bubble of chaos, untouchable. Nat, too—so untouchably herself, so unapologetically sharp. Nobody expected them to smile through everything, to be palatable and pleasant and perfect.

Why was it only you?

Why did you have to swallow the screams, curl your nails into your palms, let your jaw ache from holding it shut?

The final straw came when Tony clapped you on the shoulder as if handing out candy.

“At least you kept it together,” he said, loud enough for Steve to hear. “Light as a feather, fresh as the air. Always steady. Always perfect. I mean—class, integrity… just like a goddamn Kennedy.”

And then he laughed, already turning back to argue with Steve again.

It wasn’t praise. It was a sentence. A reminder. Stay pretty, stay polished, stay perfect. Stay in your box.

You smiled, because of course you did. You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.

But you were one breath away from shattering.

So you slipped away.

Turned down a narrow alley, heart pounding, jaw locked, lungs burning for release. You pressed your back against the cold brick, dragged air into your chest—and exploded.

“I swear—” your voice cracked, guttural, “with love to spare—”

And then you screamed.

It tore out of you like a grenade, ricocheting off the alley walls, raw and ugly. You screamed until your throat scratched, until tears blurred your vision.

“I am light as a feather,” you spat bitterly, mocking Tony’s words. “I’m as fresh as the goddamn air. I’ve got class and integrity, just like a fucking Kennedy—”

Another scream ripped through you. Louder. You dug your nails into your palms until crescents marked your skin, your body shaking with the force of it.

You screamed again. And again. You screamed until the sound turned jagged, then broke into harsh, gasping sobs. Until your head spun. Until you thought you might collapse from the sheer weight of holding it in for so long.

“Y’know,” a voice cut in, casual, almost amused, “for a second I thought we were under attack again.”

You froze.

Your head whipped toward the mouth of the alley, blood roaring in your ears.

Bucky Barnes leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression neutral.

Of course. Of course he’d followed.

Mortification clawed up your throat. “Shit—” You straightened so fast you almost stumbled, swiping at your face. “I wasn’t—this isn’t—”

“Relax.” His tone was even, quiet. Not mocking, not sharp. Just steady. “I’m not here to stop you.”

You blinked, chest heaving. “You’re… not?”

He shrugged, metal shoulder shifting. “Nah. Thought maybe I’d join in.”

Before you could process that, he tipped his head back—and screamed.

Loud, guttural, echoing like thunder.

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—”

He screamed again, louder, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Something cracked inside you, but this time it wasn’t pain—it was laughter. Sharp, startled, bubbling out of you before you could stop it.

Then another scream built in your chest, and you let it rip, matching his.

Soon it was both of you, side by side in a dingy alley, screaming like lunatics.

Civilians passing on the street slowed, whispering. Are the Avengers fighting? Should we call someone?

But you didn’t care.

You screamed until your ribs ached, until your throat felt raw, until your body vibrated with the release.

You screamed until the anger dulled

Screaming until it turned into shaky, helpless laughter spilling out of you both.

When the noise finally died, you slumped against the wall, chest heaving. until you were doubled over, breathless, tears on your face but laughing anyway.

Bucky dropped beside you, shoulder brushing yours. His hair stuck to his temple, his voice rough from the yelling.

“Feel better?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Like shit.”

“Yeah.” He smirked faintly, eyes crinkling. “But… lighter, right?”

You exhaled, head falling back against the brick. For the first time in days, weeks, maybe months—you actually felt it. Lighter. Not fixed, not perfect, but like you’d finally dropped something you’d been hauling alone.

You considered it. And he was right. There was still anger coiled in your gut, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was manageable.

Still, embarrassment prickled at your skin. “You’re insane.” You nudged his arm, weakly.

“Maybe.” His gaze lingered on you, steady and soft in a way that made your chest ache. “But so are you.”

You didn’t deny it.

For the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to.

Because with him, you didn’t have to.

The cameras were already flashing before you even sat down.

That wasn’t unusual—you’d grown used to it, the way lenses tracked your every move, how hands holding microphones seemed to lean closer when you opened your mouth. But today, it felt heavier. Like the air itself was pressing down, telling you to sit straighter, smile brighter, keep it together.

The long table on stage stretched with nameplates in front of each Avenger. Steve at the center, Tony just off to his right, Natasha cool and composed at the far end, Wanda half-checked out with her chin propped on her palm. Sam leaned back in his chair like he owned the room.

And then there was you—seat positioned right where the lights hit hardest. America’s sweetheart. Sunshine girl. The “perfect” one.

You smoothed your skirt as you sat, fixed your hair, tilted your lips into that practiced curve. Easy. Harmless. Approachable. Perfect.

The first questions weren’t about you.

They never were.

A reporter from the Post stood and asked Steve about leadership challenges within the team. Another pressed Tony about tech development and ethics oversight. Sam got asked about flight tactics; Natasha was hit with a sharp one about international diplomacy.

You sat quietly, nodding along, folding your hands neatly on the table. Like good set dressing.

And then, predictably, the spotlight shifted.

“You,” a woman in the third row said brightly, leaning toward her microphone, “you’ve been described as the sunshine of the Avengers. Always calm, always smiling. How do you stay so pretty under all that pressure?”

The word snagged. Pretty.

You smiled wider, because what else could you do? “Lots of sleep and tea,” you said, light as a feather, voice smooth as glass. “Helps to have a good moisturizer too.”

The crowd chuckled. Cameras clicked.

Inside, your jaw ached.

The questions kept coming, and not the kind that mattered.

“What’s your morning routine?” “What brand of mascara do you use?” “Do you and Bucky have chemistry off-screen?” “Who’s the funniest Avenger?” “Do you ever worry about wrinkles with all that stress?”

Every answer had to be sweet, careful, soft-edged. You deflected with practiced charm, just as you always did.

Sam teased at one point, leaning toward his mic with a grin. “C’mon, she’s basically perfect. She probably wakes up with that smile.”

The crowd laughed.

You laughed too. That’s what they expected.

But beneath the table, your fingernails dug half-moon crescents into your palm.

Then it came.

The question.

You didn’t see the man’s face clearly—only the mic lifting, the smirk in his tone.

“So,” he said, “being on a team full of guys, do you ever feel… pressured? Y’know, to keep them in line? Or do you just bat your eyelashes and let them do the heavy lifting?”

The air shifted.

Your head snapped up.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed immediately, sharp as knives. Wanda straightened in her chair, jaw tightening. Both of them poised, ready to slice the question in half for you.

But you smiled. Too bright. Too fast. You laughed it off, swallowing the scream clawing up your throat.

“Guess I just try to keep up,” you said breezily.

It landed like ash.

A few weak chuckles scattered through the room. Someone on the team made a sound—Sam maybe, a nervous “heh”—but nobody shut it down.

Nobody said a damn thing.

And the spotlight was back on you.

You opened your mouth, ready to deflect again, but the words snagged. Because it wasn’t just a question. It was every headline. Every whisper. Every time your skill was downplayed, every joke about you being eye candy, every careless comment about how “pretty girls don’t get angry.”

It was all of it, condensed into one smirking little jab.

And before you could stop it—your eyes burned.

A tear slipped down your cheek.

The room went dead silent.

The cameras snapped like gunfire. Reporters shifted in their seats. Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line; Tony’s eyes darted toward the man who’d asked.

And you—America’s Sweetheart—did the most PR-trained, soul-crushing thing possible.

You laughed. Shaky, too high. Waved a hand like it was nothing. “Sorry,” you said, voice breaking. “Didn’t mean to—get so emotional.”

You smiled. Bright. Too bright. The crowd softened, murmuring reassurances.

You laughed again, apologetic. “See? Sunshine. Even when I cry.”

The cameras loved it.

But your stomach burned.

The room chuckled nervously and erupted in clicks, shutters going off rapid-fire.

“Ohhh,” the reporter drawled, like he’d been waiting for this, “you’re pretty when you cry.” The reporter who’d asked leaned back, smug.

It was casual. Almost teasing. And it burned worse than any villain’s blade.

It wasn’t cruel, not exactly. It wasn’t sharp. It was worse—it was casual. Like it was normal. Like reducing you to a face, to a body, to a performance, was the most natural thing in the world.

That’s when it happened.

Bucky Barnes, the man who never said a damn word in these settings, leaned toward his microphone.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

The words cut through the tension like a blade. The room erupted—reporters gasping, laughter bubbling, cameras flashing like lightning.

The interviewer stammered, red-faced.

Natasha pounced, her voice slicing clean: “Next question.” Wanda added, sharp and pointed, “Try asking something worth answering next time.”

And just like that, the tide shifted.

But you? You kept smiling. Because that’s what you had to do.

You didn’t remember leaving the stage. Didn’t remember answering the rest of the questions. Didn’t remember the flashbulbs or the murmurs or Wanda’s side-glance that said she knew exactly how badly you wanted to scream. or the murmurs or Natasha’s sharp-edged smirk of solidarity.

You only remembered slamming your bedroom door so hard the frame rattled.

You remembered the glass of water in your hand, sweating against your palm—before you hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards raining down like diamonds.

“Oh, all the time,” you snapped, pacing. Your voice was already breaking. “I’m grateful all the fucking time.”

Your reflection in the window stared back—flushed, red-eyed, trembling.

“I’m sexy, and I’m kind,” you mocked, the words tasting like poison. “And I’m pretty when I cry.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow, buried your face in it, and screamed until your throat burned raw.

Tears blurred everything, anger clawing up your chest like fire. You punched the bed, kicked the dresser, paced and ranted and spiraled until the walls felt too close, too suffocating.

“I can’t—” you gasped, gripping your hair with both hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—smile, and nod, and be their fucking sweetheart. I’m not—”

Another scream ripped out of you, ragged and broken.

Another scream tore out of you, ragged and raw.

You didn’t hear the knock at first. Didn’t hear the door creak open.

It was the soft scrape of something against the floor that finally snapped you out of it.

You turned, chest heaving.

Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway.

In his hands: a broom and a dustpan.

He didn’t speak. Just moved past you quietly, crouched down, and began sweeping up the shattered glass.

“Bucky—” your voice cracked.

“They’ll never get it,” he said simply, not looking up. His voice was steady, unbothered, like this was just another mission. “But I do.”

Your throat tightened.

The rage ebbed, just a little. Enough for you to sink down onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands.

The sound of glass being swept into the dustpan was strangely grounding. Rhythmic. Steady.

Bucky didn’t ask you to explain. Didn’t tell you to calm down. Didn’t say you were overreacting.

When he was done, he set the broom aside, sat next to you. Not too close, not far either. Just… there.

The silence stretched, heavy but safe.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

The crash had drawn him to your door.

He hadn’t planned on following you after the conference—though he’d wanted to. He’d seen it, the way your shoulders went stiff at that question, the way your laugh cracked around the edges, the way that tear broke free before you could swallow it. He’d wanted to tear the mic out of that asshole’s hands himself, but he’d barely managed his one-liner. He wasn’t good at these things. Not words, not rooms full of people.

But he’d seen you leave with your jaw tight, your steps too sharp. And when the sound of glass shattering rang down the hall, he didn’t even think. He grabbed the nearest broom from a supply closet and went.

Now, standing in your room, he didn’t say a word. He just swept.

The shards glittered against the floor, catching the light like razors.

He knew that kind of rage. The kind that made your hands twitch for something to break, to prove you could feel anything other than the mask you wore.

He’d lived it.

He remembered nights in dingy apartments, fists bleeding against walls. The scream that tore out of your throat into a pillow—he knew that sound. He’d heard it in his own chest, muffled against cheap fabric so no one would come knocking.

That’s why he didn’t judge. Didn’t flinch.

As the broom brushed glass into the pan, he thought: They don’t see it. They don’t want to. But I do.

You’d quieted a little by then, breaths coming in ragged pulls, body hunched on the edge of the bed. He glanced at you, just once, and for a moment it was like looking into a mirror he hated—someone trying so fucking hard to hold it all together when the cracks were already running deep.

He wanted to tell you he understood. That it was okay to break.

But Bucky Barnes didn’t have speeches in him. Not anymore.

So he swept. Careful, steady. Making sure every piece was gone so you wouldn’t cut yourself later. It was the only language he had left: actions instead of words.

When he was done, he set the broom aside and eased down next to you. Not too close—he never wanted to crowd you—but close enough that you’d feel he wasn’t leaving.

The silence hung between you, thick but not suffocating.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke.

And then, unexpectedly, the words came easy.

“Used to break a lotta things,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. His voice was low, almost rough with memory. “Walls. Plates. My own damn knuckles.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still muffled behind your hands. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Sometimes still do. Helps.”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward, even as your eyes shone red. “You scream into pillows too?”

He huffed—almost a laugh himself. “Yeah. I do that too.”

The silence after wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else. Something softer.

He wasn’t good at small talk. Never had been. Most conversations these days felt like walking barefoot across broken glass—every word dangerous, every step too much.

But with you, it was different. The words didn’t scrape on the way out. They came natural.

“You don’t have to be perfect, y’know,” he said after a while. The admission sounded clumsy in his own ears, but he meant it. “Not with me.”

Your breath hitched. And for a second, he thought maybe he’d said too much. But then you leaned into him—just barely, your shoulder brushing his—and the smallest sigh slipped out.

That was enough.

He didn’t need speeches. Didn’t need to fix it. He just needed to sit there, with you, and let you know that someone finally fucking saw you.

📰 EXCLUSIVE: America’s Barbie Joins the Avengers Byline: Taylor Knox, Celebrity Features Editor

She’s optimistic, she’s beautiful, and she’s battle-ready—at least, that’s what Earth’s Mightiest Heroes would like us to believe. But behind the vibranium shields and Stark-level tech, is [Y/N] really a fighter… or just the Avengers’ living, breathing Barbie doll?

Ever since her first public appearance alongside the team, the 24-year-old has been branded “America’s Sweetheart” and “the sunshine of the Avengers”—nicknames that fit, considering her dazzling smile and picture-perfect personality. Always poised, always polite, always pretty. (Seriously, have you ever seen a hair out of place? We haven’t.)

Her teammates clearly adore her—but not necessarily for her combat skills. While Captain America and Falcon handle tactical leadership, and Black Widow and Scarlet Witch strike with lethal precision, [Y/N] tends to shine brightest on the red carpet. Whether in couture gowns or spandex suits, she’s the one who turns heads. And maybe that’s the point.

A high-ranking PR insider told The Daily Bulletin: “She’s the perfect all-American package. She’s young, gorgeous, relatable, and safe. She makes the team look good. Fans—especially young women—see themselves in her, even if she’s not the one taking down aliens.”

When asked about her training regimen, one source close to the Avengers laughed: “She works hard, no doubt, but she knows her place. She’s not there to outshine Rogers or Romanoff. She’s there to lighten the mood and look good doing it. And honestly? She does that better than anyone.”

And the world seems to agree. Social media is already flooded with edits dubbing her the “Avengers’ Barbie”—with perfect lips, perfect hair, and yes, perfect hips. (One viral tweet racked up 300k likes with the caption: “She’s not saving the world, she’s saving the vibe.”)

So, is [Y/N] the future of superheroism? Or is she simply the team’s PR dream—America’s Barbie in spandex, smiling for the cameras while the real heroes get their hands dirty?

She’s got the face of a starlet and the body of a cover model. The Avengers’ resident sweetheart—the PR dream. Who says heroes can’t be pretty?

One thing’s for certain: She knows her place. And for the Avengers, maybe that’s all they need her to.

…what the fuck

The headline hit the news cycle like wildfire: “The Avengers’ Barbie.”

Bright pink letters splashed across a paparazzi photo of you smiling on your way into Stark Tower. Your uniform had been replaced by an airbrushed mock-up of a sparkly dress and a plastic crown, like some editor had gotten a little too creative with Photoshop. The article itself was worse—half jokes, half digs, all wrapped in that tone people use when they think they’re flattering you.

“She’s got the face of a starlet and the body of a cover model,” it read. “The Avengers’ resident sweetheart—the PR dream. Who says heroes can’t be pretty?”

Pretty. Barbie. A doll.

When the team saw it, they’d laughed.

Even Steve chuckled—good-natured, like he thought it was harmless. Sam had nearly fallen off the couch. “Damn, Barbie! Do we gotta start calling you Malibu now?”

You smiled. Of course you smiled. You tossed your hair, rolled your eyes, made some joke about requesting a Dreamhouse on the roof of the Tower. Natasha smirked but didn’t join in. Wanda didn’t laugh at all—her eyes cut to you with that razor-sharp understanding she always carried, the kind that made you want to look away before she dug too deep.

But still, you kept up the act. All sunshine. All sweetness. All Barbie.

Inside? It was rotting you alive.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, the word Barbie burned neon behind your eyelids.

Not warrior. Not strategist. Not teammate. Barbie.

Hell it was even worse cause they were also just dismissing all of barbie’s accomplishments because of her looks.

Steve’s chuckle replayed in your head like a needle skipping on a record. Sam’s cackle. Tony’s dismissive, “Well, at least they called you marketable. Could be worse.”

Marketable. A product.

Not human.

Your jaw ached from how hard you’d clenched it during that whole exchange. The skin of your palms still bore half-moon indents from your nails. You’d dug in so hard you almost bled.

And the worst part—the very worst part—was that Natasha and Wanda noticed.

Wanda had lingered when the others dispersed, coming to stand beside you at the kitchen counter where you’d been pretending to scroll on your phone. “You know they’re idiots, right?” she murmured, her accent soft but firm. “They don’t get it. Not the way we do.”

Nat had leaned casually against the fridge, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her voice cutting. “They’re laughing at the headline because it’s easy. They don’t care enough to see the insult under it. But don’t let them win by playing along.”

Her words had struck like a blade: don’t let them win.

But you only smiled, brushing them both off. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t fine. You were about to snap.

When the clock blinked 12:37 a.m., you cracked.

You threw on sweats, bandaged your hands with muscle memory, and stormed out of your room. The Tower was dead quiet, city lights flickering through the massive windows as if mocking you. Every step toward the gym felt like stomping into war—your chest a battlefield, rage boiling in your veins.

You slammed the gym door behind you. The sound echoed in the empty space, sharp enough to make your ears ring.

You didn’t bother with lights. You didn’t need them. The world was already burning white-hot behind your eyes.

Straight to the heavy bag. No warm-up. No gloves. Just raw fury.

And you went feral.

Punch after punch, knuckles screaming through the wraps, sweat pouring down your spine. You weren’t throwing calculated strikes—you were wrecking. Hitting until your arms shook, until your chest heaved with sobs you wouldn’t let out.

Every punch had a word in it.

Barbie. Crack. Sweetheart. Crack. Marketable. Crack. Perfect. Crack.

The sound filled the room, each impact ricocheting through the walls like gunfire.

Your breath ripped out of you ragged and broken. “I know my age and I act like it,” you spat between hits, mocking the article’s backhanded compliment about your “maturity.” Another blow. Another hiss of pain.

“I’m a perfect all-American bitch,” you growled, striking harder, voice cracking. “With perfect all-American lips—” smack— “and perfect all-American hips.” Another slam. Your hand nearly split the bag open.

The words tasted like blood and bile on your tongue.

“I know my place, I know my place, and this is it.” Punch. Punch. Punch.

And then—silence.

The bag didn’t sway the way it should’ve.

You froze, breath shuddering. That was when you realized someone was holding it steady.

Bucky had been there the whole time.

He’d come down earlier, chasing his own sleepless demons. The gym was his sanctuary too—silent, cold, a place to burn the rage out of his system before it ate him alive. He’d been working the speed bag in the corner when you stormed in. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t interrupt.

But when your fists started slipping, when your body started to shake, he moved.

He held the bag firm, silent and steady.

And the sight of you—hair falling loose, sweat soaking through your shirt, eyes wild and furious—hit him harder than any punch could. He’d seen you polished, perfect, smiling for the world. But this? This was the raw, uncut version. No mask. No Barbie. Just you.

And for the first time, he thought you’d never looked more gorgeous.

He said nothing at first. Just braced the bag with both hands, muscles tense, letting you burn it all out.

Finally, when your punches slowed, his voice cut through the sound of your ragged breathing. Low. Rough. Quiet enough it almost disappeared.

“Don’t hold back. I got it.”

You didn’t hold back.

You hit until your body betrayed you, collapsing against the bag with your forehead pressed into the canvas, tears hot against your cheeks. Your arms hung heavy, trembling with exhaustion.

You slid down to the floor, back against the bag, chest heaving. A sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, then another, until you were laughing through the crying, half-hysterical.

“Barbie,” you spat bitterly, wiping your face with the back of your shaking hand. “Fucking Barbie.”

Bucky slid down across from you, arms draped over his knees. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it wasn’t a big deal. Didn’t minimize it the way the others did.

He just nodded, like yeah, he got it.

“They see what they wanna see,” he said finally. His voice was steady, unflinching. “Not what’s real.”

The words split you open worse than the headline had. Because wasn’t that the truth? They didn’t see you. They saw a mask. A smile. A doll.

And he knew what that felt like.

You buried your face in your hands and let yourself fall apart.

And he just sat there. Quiet. Present. Steady in the way only Bucky Barnes could be.

Minutes passed. Hours maybe. Eventually your sobs softened, your breathing evened. You leaned back against the bag, drained and raw, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t move. Didn’t rush you.

When you finally looked at him, eyes swollen, face damp, he met your gaze without a trace of judgment. Only understanding.

For the first time, you felt like someone was taking you seriously.

Not the Barbie. Not the sweetheart. Not the PR dream.

Just you.

And that, more than anything, was what made the tears fall all over again.

The gym smelled like sweat and iron. The world outside didn’t matter—just you and the wreckage inside your chest.

Your fists throbbed with every heartbeat, skin split raw beneath the bandages you’d wrapped in your rush. The pain was sharp but grounding, the kind you almost welcomed. Proof you weren’t made of plastic. Proof you weren’t Barbie.

You sat there on the mat, knees pulled close, trying to breathe through the tangle of sobs and laughter. Every exhale hitched, shaky. Every inhale carried the bitter taste of humiliation you couldn’t scrub out.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved. He was stone-still, arms resting on his knees, gaze steady. Not pitying. Not curious. Just… there.

It should’ve felt suffocating, being witnessed like this—messy, broken, mask shattered. But it didn’t. Somehow, with him, it felt like the first time in weeks you could breathe.

Eventually, you let your head fall back against the bag with a dull thunk. “They’ll never stop, will they?” you whispered, voice shredded. “No matter what I do, it’ll never be enough. It’ll always be my face. My body. My smile. Never me.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet. For a split second, you thought he was leaving—your chest caved at the thought—but then he crouched beside you, flesh hand reaching for yours.

Wordless. Gentle.

He turned your hands palm-up. The wraps were damp, streaked red where your skin had split open. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just started unrolling them, slow and careful, like every tug of fabric mattered.

You wanted to tell him he didn’t have to. That you were fine. But the words caught in your throat because for once, someone wasn’t asking if you were fine. He was just being there.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy. Almost unbearable in how tender it felt.

He worked with methodical precision, fingers surprisingly steady as he peeled the wraps away. His thumb brushed your wrist, calloused skin against yours, and you nearly shivered at the warmth of it.

When the last strip came free, your knuckles were raw, the skin torn and angry. He reached for the med kit stashed under the bench, flipping it open with practiced ease. Alcohol pads. Ointment. Fresh gauze.

The first press of antiseptic burned like fire. You hissed through your teeth, jerking, but his hand tightened around yours—not harsh, just firm enough to ground you. “Easy,” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl.

Not annoyed. Protective.

You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned every cut, every scrape, then wrapped your hands again—neater, stronger than you’d ever managed on your own. It wasn’t just bandaging. It was ritual. It was care.

And he did it all in silence.

By the time he tied the last knot, your chest had gone hollow. Not from rage this time, but something quieter, heavier.

You stared at your hands, snug in their fresh bandages, then at him. “Why are you doing this?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just sat back on his heels, wiped his palms on his sweats, and finally met your eyes.

“Because I know what it’s like.”

Your throat tightened.

“What?” you whispered.

He shrugged, gaze flickering down. “Being looked at. Judged. Labeled. People think they know you, but they don’t. They just take what’s easiest to see and run with it.” His jaw clenched. “I spent years being nothing but… that guy. The Winter Soldier. The monster. The headline.”

The way he said it—flat, steady—sent something jagged through you. Because he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He wasn’t dumping trauma for you to carry. He was just telling the truth. Quietly.

“And you…” he added, softer now, eyes lifting back to yours. “They don’t see you either. Not the way you deserve. But I do.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Your chest went tight, tears burning again.

You looked away, swallowing hard, desperate not to crumble all over again. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

Silence. Thick. Stretching between you like a wire pulled taut.

For a moment, you swore the world narrowed down to just the sound of your breathing and the weight of his gaze.

You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted to scream, laugh, cry—all of it at once.

But all you did was lean back against the bag again, pulling your knees close, trying to calm the storm.

Bucky shifted too, lowering himself down beside you this time instead of across. Close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. Not touching. Just… there. Solid. Steady.

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

And you sat there in that silence, raw and wrecked, feeling something strange settle into your chest. Something you couldn’t name yet. Something you were too exhausted to even try.

But you knew one thing.

With Bucky, you didn’t feel like Barbie. You didn’t feel like a headline.

You felt like yourself.

And for tonight, that was enough.

The studio lights hit first, blinding and harsh, sending a wave of static through your chest. Cameras swiveled, microphones perched like predators, and the hum of the audience filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Tony leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen, smirking like he owned the world. Steve sat perfect, posture straight, answering every tactical question with careful precision. Bucky… Bucky sat silent, still, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes sharp, calm.

And then there was you.

You sat there, heels tight on your toes, posture perfect, smile locked in place, hands folded neatly in your lap, knuckles pale from clenching, heart hammering. I don’t get angry when I’m pissed. I’m the eternal optimist, you repeated silently, over and over, a mantra to hold yourself together.

The first few questions were easy enough: strategy, tactics, leadership. Tony joked. Steve answered with precision. Bucky clipped a concise tactical response that left the audience impressed. You smiled and nodded, careful, polite, the perfect sunshine of the team. But every tick of the clock hammered inside your chest, pulse rising, jaw clenched, eyes twitching.

Then the host leaned in, grin sharp, voice too sweet:

“And now… for [Y/N] herself—our America’s Sweetheart! Tell us, are you ever going to settle down? Do you have suitors lined up for you? Or will you leave the world-saving to the others?”

The world slowed. The audience chuckled lightly, but your pulse accelerated into chaos. The others? Clearly, they meant super-soldiers, witches, wizards, men in suits.

You rolled your eyes, laughing lightly but sharply. Not ditzy. Not fake. Perfectly real. “Settle down?” you asked, voice laced with amused venom. “Are you kidding me? I’m at the top of my game. Literally right up there with super-enhanced humans. Ladies, c’mon. Leave saving the world to the men? I don’t think so!”

A giggle escaped, dark and ironic. “I… don’t think so.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked toward you, tense, protective. Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, suppressing a grin. Steve stiffened ever so slightly, while Tony just nodded, pretending he wasn’t watching the storm in your eyes.

Good. You owned it. That simmering rage, the brilliance, the fury—it became power. If they want Barbie, they’ll get Barbie. Not fake, not plastic. Real. Dangerous. Gorgeous. And glowing with lethal confidence.

Before the applause could fully settle, the host pivoted, smirk intact. “And now, [Y/N], tell us your skincare routine!”

The room tilted.

Smile intact. Perfect posture. The mask on. But inside, everything screamed. I shower, don’t you? When are you going to ask about my battles? Or are you just too scared to let a lady shine? I mean, you have no problem with letting Nat and Wanda shine—but I’m the easiest target, huh?

Your jaw clenched. Eye twitching. Pulse hammering. Heart racing. Every microsecond of your being wanted to tear into the absurdity of the question. But the mask held. Perfect smile. Polite answer. “Oh, just sunscreen and water. And sleep when possible,” you said, voice sweet, biting back the venom, tasting it like metal on your tongue.

The host laughed. Audience laughs with him. Your teeth ground together. Every tick of the teleprompter, every flash of the cameras felt like nails against your skull.

You ripped off your mic. Hard. The cord tangled in your fingers. You didn’t care. “Wonderful day, everyone,” you muttered sarcastically, storming off the stage. Heels clicking, muttered curses under your breath, words you hadn’t spoken in weeks pouring out in uneven, furious bursts.

Bucky followed immediately, not hiding it. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just followed. Steady. Quiet. Calm. Safe.

Backstage, you finally let go. Fist slammed into the wall. CRACK. Pain radiated up your arm. Breath came in ragged bursts. Hair stuck to your damp forehead. Knuckles raw. Rage unspooled and twisted into exhaustion, frustration, humiliation.

“Skincare routine?” you hissed, voice hoarse. “After everything—after risking my life, after fighting gods, aliens, chaos—you want to know how I keep my skin clear? Are you kidding me?!”

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirk faint, eyes steady. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, love,” he said softly.

You spun, cheeks flushed, teeth clenched, hair wild. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. Calm. Grounded. Watching.

The adrenaline still racing, you slumped against the wall. Knuckles throbbing. Breath shaking. He crouched beside you, wordless, pulled out a first-aid kit. Alcohol pads. Tape. Gauze. His hands were steady, methodical, wrapping your hands, cleaning cuts with quiet care.

“Easy,” he muttered when you flinched. “Don’t hurt yourself more than you already have.”

You slumped fully now, trembling. “I scream inside to deal with it… but it’s never enough,” you admitted, voice low, breaking.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just sat with you, finished wrapping your hands, slow, deliberate. Then softly:

“Then don’t scream inside anymore. Scream where someone hears you. Scream with me.”

A bitter, raw laugh escaped you. Relief mingled with fury.

Finally, you rose. He rose with you. Shoulder brushing his, small, grounding contact, cameras flashing, lights burning—but you weren’t alone. You weren’t pretending anymore. You weren’t just “sunshine.”

Barbie. You embraced it. Perfect, untouchable, real. Dangerous. And for the first time, you loved it.

Walking out, shoulder to shoulder, slow-motion in the camera flashes, chest decompressing just slightly, hands brushed together. Subtle tension. Subtle comfort. Rage still there, but tempered by the only person who could hold the storm without flinching.

You weren’t alone anymore.

The training room smelled of sweat and rubber mats, a faint metallic tang from the weights lined along the wall. You were focused, as usual, keeping the mask in place—the “sunshine of the Avengers,” calm, smiling, light-hearted, joking with Sam when he pushed too far. But beneath it, your body was taut, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jaw clenched, knuckles pale from gripping your gloves, eye twitching from nerves you refused to admit to anyone.

Bucky was there, quietly observing. His gaze caught every subtle movement—the way your shoulders tightened when Steve barked instructions, the slight flare of your nostrils when Sam teased you again, the microsecond flinch at Tony’s sarcastic quip about “America’s perfect little angel.” And he noticed the tiny victories you gave yourself, small gestures that no one else saw: how you exhaled slowly to center yourself, how you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from losing your composure.

“Hand me the weight plate,” you said, voice light, smiling at Sam.

He smirked. “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he teased, sliding the plate toward you.

Inside, something snapped. Not a full meltdown, not yet—but your mind spun, fiery. I’ve done everything to prove myself. I’ve trained, I’ve fought, I’ve saved the team’s ass more times than I can count, and I’m still the ‘perfect eye candy.’ Still the Barbie everyone thinks is just… nice and shiny. Nice and safe. But not real. Not me.

You felt your pulse spike, the heat rushing up your neck, the subtle twitch behind your eye. You bit back the words you wanted to shout at him, the ones that would ruin your “perfect” image. Instead, you flexed your fingers, fists tightening, then relaxing.

Bucky noticed.

He slid closer under the guise of adjusting his stance, hand brushing yours for a moment as he passed. Not enough for anyone else to see, but enough for you to feel the anchor, the grounding presence. Your chest eased fractionally. I feel safer letting him see me like this than anyone else.

Later that night, after the press conferences and tabloids had done their worst, you snuck into the quiet room near the gym. The weight of the day finally hit. Your heels clicked against the floor, sharp and fast, every step a beat of frustration. You grabbed a pillow, fists clenched, and slammed into it, muttering curses under your breath—words no one else would hear, but that burned with truth.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, quietly, no judgment. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask if you were okay. He just watched, letting you scream, letting you crash out. When you finally stopped to catch your breath, shaking and flushed, he moved closer. Wordless. Calm. Grounding. He sat beside you, helping you wrap your knuckles, his hands steady, deliberate, patient.

“You don’t have to hold it in with me,” he murmured quietly, adjusting the tape over your raw knuckles.

“I like that you see this side of me,” you whispered, voice still shaky. “I don’t have to hide the crash-outs with you.”

He gave a small, rare smile, nodding. That was all. No words needed. Just presence. Just understanding. You leaned slightly against him, too long, aware of the heat from his body and the calm steadiness that countered your chaos. Tiny comfort gestures, grounding, simple, intimate, safe.

The next week, you returned to public appearances with a new fire burning inside. The tabloids had tried to brand you as “The Avengers’ Barbie,” patronizing and backhanded, and you’d leaned into it—flawless, sarcastic, sharp. You answered ridiculous questions with wit, not sweetness:

“Skincare routine?” → “Sunscreen and saving the world, same as always.”

“Are you planning on settling down?” → “I’m busy fighting gods and aliens. Romance will have to wait.”

Fans adored you for it. The applause, the flashes, the commentary praising your confidence—it lit a spark in you. Not the “perfect Barbie” they thought they wanted, but the chaotic, brilliant, unapologetic you.

Backstage, though, you still needed your release. You crashed into a quiet room, fists slamming a pillow, muttering curses and half-laughed expletives. Bucky followed, silent. Sat beside you. Adjusted the tape. Hand brushing yours for grounding. His rare soft smile letting you know he understood completely.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low, calm. “I see all of it. The chaos, the fire, the rage. And I like it.”

You laughed, bitter and raw. “I don’t even know if I like it half the time.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, shrugging slightly. “I do.”

Over the following days, subtle moments became routine. Training sessions weren’t just drills—they were sparks of private tension:

Hands brushing over gear.

Leaning on him slightly during late-night sparring.

Tiny glances that lasted too long, letting him know you trusted him with your chaos.

Your public persona stayed strong, sharp, dazzling Barbie: witty, sarcastic, flawless. But in private, with him, you were messy. Real. Human. Raw. He didn’t push, didn’t judge. Just sat there, steady, letting you crash out, letting you be everything the world didn’t get to see.

The duality became empowering. You realized you could be both: the icon the world adored and the chaotic, fiery, messy person Bucky got to know. And for the first time, it didn’t hurt—it strengthened you. Your confidence grew, public appearances became performances you controlled, and your private moments with Bucky were anchors in a storm of expectations and scrutiny.

He never commented on your public image. He didn’t need to. He just nodded approvingly when you returned from the stage, adjusted your gear, or let out a sigh of exhaustion. Tiny, grounding touches. His presence alone was enough.

The world saw the perfect all american bitch, flawless, witty, unflappable, still a crashout. Bucky saw everything else. And that, finally, was enough for you too.

(You've got mail!) I SCREAM INSIDE TO DEAL WITH IT LIKE AH, LIKE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AH AH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH OH MY FUCKINGG GODDDDDDDD. All the time 😇. LMFAOOO anyways life has been kicking my ass work has been kicking my ass and honestly this was so therapeutic to write. STAY TUNED I HAVE MORE COMING UP SHORTLY!!! But hope yall enjoyed this, this was lowkey fun to make. I left some little Easter eggs in here hope you find them

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

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck @peanutbutt3rcup @piatosniathenie @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @star-yawnznn

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