heldbybarnes

[heldbybarnes]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdVBt2ca/

… okay but dad!bucky and this, dad!bucky who will forever show his kids just how much he loves his wife and showing them how they should love their future partners

this is 1000000% dad bucky. anon, you get me

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Bucky Barnes has always been loud with his love.

Not in the way people expect, not in grand gestures that belong in movies or in over-the-top speeches shouted from rooftops. He’s loud in the everyday ways. The kinds of ways that leave an impression when you’re not even thinking about it. The kinds of ways that make it impossible for your children to miss how deeply their father adores their mother.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because he grew up in a world where love was often hidden, where fathers were stern and mothers were tired, where affection wasn’t always something you saw, even if it existed. He’s determined that won’t be the legacy his kids inherit.

So he makes sure every single day, in every single room of your home, they know.

They see it first thing in the morning.

Bucky’s already awake when you pad into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks up from the coffee pot like you’re the sun breaking through clouds. He doesn’t just smile—he lights up.

“Morning, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he slides a mug into your hands.

There are little footsteps behind you, the shuffle of pajamas against the floor. One by one, small bodies shuffle into the kitchen, and not one of them misses the way their dad pulls you in for another kiss before he serves up breakfast. They roll their eyes sometimes, or groan dramatically, but they’re watching. Always watching.

They see it in the afternoons, too.

When you’re in the middle of folding laundry and he swoops in to tug you into the hallway, ignoring your protests about baskets and socks. He sways with you, no music playing except whatever hum he makes low in his throat. He tells you you’re beautiful, even when you’re in the same sweatpants you’ve had on for three days.

The kids sit on the stairs, giggling and whispering. “Dad’s dancing with Mom again.”

They whisper, but they don’t look away.

They see it in the small things he refuses to compromise on.

He opens doors for you, every time. Pulls out your chair before dinner, every time. Walks closest to the street, carries the heaviest bags, notices the way your shoulders sag and wordlessly takes something from your hands.

They see him take your car to get the oil changed before winter, see him cover you with a blanket when you fall asleep on the couch, see him take over the dishes when he knows you’ve had a long day.

They see the way he always says thank you, even for the little things. They hear the way he calls you sweetheart like it’s your given name. They notice the way his whole body relaxes when you slip your hand into his.

And sometimes, they ask about it.

“Dad, why do you do all that?”

He never misses a beat.

“Because she deserves it. Because I love her. Because that’s what you do when you’re lucky enough to spend your life with someone like your mom.”

There are nights when you’re out, maybe running errands or meeting friends, and the kids curl up on the couch with him. They test the waters with questions, those half-curious, half-serious ones that only ever come out when it’s just them and him.

“Do you always have to kiss her in the kitchen?”

He chuckles. “Always. I hope you kiss your person in the kitchen someday too.”

“Even when we’re old?”

“Especially when you’re old,” he says.

And their cheeks flush when he catches them grinning, because the idea that love doesn’t fade—it’s sticking, even when they won’t admit it.

They see it when you’re fighting, too.

Because love isn’t just easy moments. Sometimes voices raise, sometimes doors close a little too firmly, sometimes you and Bucky disappear into the bedroom to argue in hushed tones while the kids press their ears against the door.

But what they also see—what he makes sure they see—is the way it always ends.

He apologizes out loud. He hugs you in the kitchen, whispers something that makes your shoulders drop, brushes a thumb across your cheek like he’s smoothing away the tension. He shows them that mistakes don’t mean love disappears, that anger doesn’t mean affection gets withheld.

That loving someone means choosing them, again and again, even when it’s hard.

They see it in the way he touches you, careful and deliberate, even in the smallest of ways.

The brush of his hand against your lower back as you pass by. The way he tucks your hair behind your ear while you’re talking. The way he notices when you shiver and immediately shrugs off his jacket to wrap around your shoulders.

Sometimes they roll their eyes. Sometimes they laugh. But they never stop seeing it.

They see it most of all in how he talks about you.

At dinner, when one of the kids asks about the day, and he launches into a story about how you handled something with patience or how you made him laugh so hard his stomach hurt.

On the sidelines at a soccer game, where he casually mentions to another parent how you’re the smartest person he knows.

In the living room, when he’s got them piled around him and he says, “Your mom is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

And he means it. God, does he mean it.

Years later, when they’re older, when they start to test boundaries and ask harder questions, they’ll still see it.

They’ll see it in the way he waits up for you, no matter how late you’re out. They’ll see it in the way he texts you to make sure you got somewhere safe. They’ll see it in the way he never leaves without a kiss, never goes a day without reminding you how loved you are.

And when they’re ready for relationships of their own, when they stumble through crushes and heartbreaks, through the shaky beginnings of young love, he’ll be there.

“Don’t settle for someone who doesn’t look at you the way I look at your mom,” he’ll say. “Don’t settle for less than someone who makes you feel safe and loved every damn day.”

One night, one of them will come home late. They’ll find him sitting at the kitchen table, waiting.

“Dad… how do you know if it’s real?”

He’ll think for a moment, fingers drumming against the table. Then he’ll smile, tired but sure.

“You know it’s real when you want to keep choosing them, even on the days it’s hard. When you can’t help but want to make their life better. When the thought of them being without you makes your chest ache. That’s how I know with your mom.”

And they’ll nod, tucking it away like a secret.

They grow up with it woven into their bones: the knowledge that love isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence. It’s about patience. It’s about showing up, every single day, even when no one’s watching.

They grow up knowing how they should be loved—because they’ve seen it their whole lives.

And someday, when they’re older, they’ll be standing in a kitchen of their own, pouring coffee for someone they love. They’ll smile at the memory of their dad kissing their mom good morning, of dances in the hallway, of whispered apologies, of laughter that shook the walls.

And they’ll realize: they’re not just repeating what they saw. They’re carrying it forward.

The greatest legacy Bucky Barnes could ever give them.

[heldbybarnes]

imagine bucky and reader like enemies with benefits and they’re arguing and she’s like ‘fuck you barnes’ and he’s just like ‘when and where?’ like UGHHHHH

ughhhhh is right.....this was delicious

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The mission debrief had already gone sideways before you even opened your mouth.

You sit at the edge of the table, arms crossed tight over your chest, glaring at the stack of files like they personally offended you. They didn’t, of course. But James Buchanan Barnes did.

Bucky leans back in his chair across from you, all smug grin and lazy posture, vibranium fingers drumming against the table like he’s tapping out your last nerve.

“You could’ve waited,” you snap finally, unable to take it anymore.

He arches a brow, slow and infuriating. “For what? You to catch up? Sorry, doll, but I don’t like babysitting.”

The words dig under your skin, sharp and merciless. Your teeth grind together. “Babysitting? You nearly got me killed running in like some half-cocked hero—”

“Nearly?” He tilts his head, smirk spreading. “Funny, ‘cause I don’t see you dead. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he drawls, eyes glinting, “you keep hanging around.”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? You hate him. God, you hate him. The arrogance, the smirk, the way he knows exactly how to needle under your skin until you’re raw. But you also hate that you know what his mouth tastes like. That you’ve been pressed against walls, tangled in sheets, panting his name when you swore you’d never give him the satisfaction.

It’s an ugly little secret—one neither of you speaks out loud. A handful of late nights, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission gone wrong, arguments sparking into something hotter, rougher, so much worse. Enemies with benefits. Not friends. Never friends.

You stand, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Fuck you, Barnes.”

The words leave like a weapon, sharp and final.

Except he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just leans back further in his chair, cocking his head like he’s been waiting for it all along.

“When and where?”

Your jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

He shrugs, easy. “You’re the one offering.”

“It wasn’t an offer.”

“Sure sounded like one.” His smirk deepens, slow and lethal. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your pulse stutters. God, you should walk away. You should storm out of this room and never look back, leave him sitting there with that smug little look plastered all over his face. But the air between you crackles, thick and charged, and your body betrays you with a traitorous pull toward him.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, voice low.

“And you’re still here,” he fires back.

Before you can think better of it, you’re crossing the space, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and dragging him up out of the chair. The scrape of it against the floor echoes loud, but neither of you care. His mouth crashes against yours, teeth clashing, all spit and desperation and fury.

Every kiss is a fight. Every touch a battle.

You push him back into the wall, nails scraping down his chest, and he groans against your mouth like he’s been waiting for this since the last time you swore it was the last time.

“Tell me again,” he rasps against your lips, breath hot and ragged.

“Tell you what?” you gasp, biting at his jaw.

“That you hate me.” His vibranium hand grips your hip hard, hauling you closer. “Tell me how much you can’t stand me while you’re grinding against me like this.”

“I do hate you.” The words tear out of you, even as your body arches into his.

“Mm.” His teeth graze your throat, sharp enough to make you shiver. “You taste like you don’t.”

You want to slap him. You want to sink your nails in and mark him up until someone else asks questions tomorrow. You want to make him regret that smirk and that cocky drawl. But more than anything, you want him.

Your fingers fumble at his belt, yanking it loose, and he laughs into your mouth. The bastard laughs, even as his own hands are just as desperate, shoving up under your shirt, gripping at your ribs like he’s starving.

“Still waiting on that time and place,” he murmurs.

“Here,” you growl, shoving him harder into the wall. “Now.”

He groans like you’ve just handed him the world.

It’s messy. It always is. A clash of teeth, the rip of fabric, the muffled sound of someone’s name—his, yours, both—echoing off the walls. He lifts you easily, your legs locking around his waist, and you hate how natural it feels, how your body remembers every angle, every rough edge, every place he knows to touch you until you’re burning.

“Say it,” he demands again, voice low against your ear.

“Fuck you, Barnes.”

“When and where?” His smirk ghosts against your skin.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “Here. Now. Always.”

And then there’s no more talking, just the sound of bodies colliding, breathless curses tangled with groans, and the sharp reminder that hate and want are sometimes the same thing.

Because tomorrow you’ll fight again. Tomorrow you’ll glare across briefing tables and trade barbed words sharp enough to wound. But tonight? Tonight he’ll ruin you in every way you’ll let him. And you’ll let him, again and again, because nothing feels more dangerous—or more inevitable—than the two of you colliding.

[heldbybarnes]

(please feel free to ignore this one, once again). I just finished baking a birthday cake and I thought about this :

Reader does not know how to bake but she wants to do something really special for Bucky. She asks Tony to help (either find her someone to teach or using his apartment/room to bake/watch course/whatever you see fit). Bucky wonders what the heck is going on with her often with Tony, thinking she has fallen under his charm (or cheating?). And then : either Bucky decides to break and reader is heartbroken, or make a scene, or just leave silently (angst). Steve slaps some sense into Bucky's and probably into Tony who is far to smug (don't tell me he wouldn't relish the possibility of making Bucky a bit miserable - while staying honorable and not hitting on reader). The way Steve shut up Tony is up to you too (a kiss, Pepper coming to the rescue, as you wish). Anyway... A little thing I was thinking about. And if you're not into it, it's 200% okay too.

You’ve never baked a day in your life. Not properly, at least. Sure, boxed brownies with directions printed on the side don’t count—they never have. But now? Now you’ve decided that for Bucky’s birthday, you’re going to do it. You’re going to bake him a cake. From scratch. No shortcuts.

The problem is… you don’t know where to start.

That’s how you end up in Tony Stark’s penthouse kitchen, flour already dusting your sweater, a YouTube video paused on the holographic screen, and Tony leaning against the counter like some smug culinary overlord.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Tony says, sipping a glass of wine at ten in the morning. “You know I could’ve ordered the most decadent cake Manhattan has to offer, flown it here by drone, and no one would know the difference.”

“I’d know,” you mutter, measuring flour with all the precision of a bomb technician. “And Bucky would too. This has to come from me. He deserves… effort. Real effort.”

Tony lifts a brow. “What a novel concept. You’re aware you’re currently making your first ever attempt with me as your sous-chef? If this goes south, it’s not my fault. I don’t do aprons.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Honestly, you’re grateful. Tony had been your first (and only) option—his kitchen is big, well-stocked, and far away from prying super-soldier ears. Still, sneaking away for hours at a time hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Because Bucky… has noticed.

The first time he saw you and Tony whispering in the hall, he brushed it off. You had friends on the team; he wasn’t the jealous type. Not anymore. But then it happened again the next day, and the day after that. And then, he came looking for you one evening and found you slipping into the elevator beside Stark, heads bent close like you were sharing secrets.

That’s when something ugly started curling in his chest.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t do jealousy. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself while pacing his room at midnight, staring at the ceiling, replaying every time Tony made some slick joke that made you laugh. Every time you didn’t tell Bucky where you were going. Every time you brushed off his questions with a quick kiss and a vague excuse.

By the time your cake is cooling on the rack—slightly lopsided, but smelling heavenly—you’re exhausted, grinning through the powdered sugar streaking your cheek.

“It’s not terrible,” Tony admits grudgingly, poking the sponge with one manicured finger. “Against all odds, you might’ve actually pulled it off.”

“High praise from you,” you deadpan, reaching for the frosting bowl.

He smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head, kid. And remember—you owe me. Big time.”

You’re laughing when the elevator doors slide open.

And Bucky steps inside.

His expression is unreadable. Too unreadable. Blue eyes flick from you to Stark, to the counter littered with mixing bowls, to the streak of frosting smeared across your wrist.

“Buck—” you start, but he shakes his head once, sharp.

“I get it,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “Should’ve known better.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

“Wait, no, it’s not—” you try to explain, but he’s already turning on his heel, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.

The doors close behind him.

Your stomach drops.

It takes Steve Rogers to fix it.

Fifteen minutes later, Bucky’s storming down the training room, fists taped like he’s seconds away from putting a dent in the punching bag. Steve intercepts him, stepping into his path with a sharp frown.

“Want to tell me why you just looked at me like you’re about to defect again?” Steve asks dryly.

Bucky doesn’t answer, just shrugs, but the tightness in his throat gives him away. Steve narrows his eyes.

“Is this about Stark?”

That cracks it.

“She’s been with him every damn day this week,” Bucky snaps, voice low and rough. “Whispering, sneaking around, lying about where she’s going. And then I walk in, and she’s laughing with him like—like—” His voice breaks off, knuckles flexing.

Steve stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. “You’re an idiot.”

Bucky’s head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Steve says evenly. “You think she’d look at you the way she does if she was messing around with Stark? You think she’d stay up until two in the morning waiting for you after missions, just to make sure you had someone to come home to? You think she’d—God, Buck—she was baking you a birthday cake.”

That stops him cold.

“…What?”

Steve’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “You really think Stark lets flour touch his Armani? Come on. Use your head.”

And when Bucky still looks doubtful, Steve claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Go apologize before you lose her over your own paranoia.”

Meanwhile, Tony’s still in the kitchen with you, gloating.

“Well,” he says, swirling the last of his wine, “that went about as catastrophically as I predicted. Ten bucks says Barnes comes back groveling within the hour.”

“Tony,” you warn, heart in your throat, “this isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t laughing,” he says smoothly. “Although, if he does try to deck me, I expect Steve to jump in. My face is worth far too much to the public.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Flattering, but true.”

And that’s when Pepper walks in, heels clicking against the tile. She takes one look at the disaster zone of the kitchen, the flour on your face, and Tony smirking with a wineglass, and sighs.

“Tony, what did you do?”

“Nothing! For once.”

Pepper levels him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Apologize.”

Tony opens his mouth, but Pepper just arches a brow. He wilts instantly. “Fine. Sorry. Sort of.”

You don’t have the energy to deal with his theatrics. Your chest aches too much.

When Bucky finally finds you, you’re sitting at the counter, staring at the cake like it personally betrayed you.

“Doll,” he says hoarsely, and you look up to find him in the doorway—hair messy from running his hands through it, guilt stamped all over his face.

You want to be angry. You want to tell him how much it hurt, how quickly he assumed the worst. But the truth is, your throat closes up just seeing the regret in his eyes.

“I thought—” he swallows hard, steps closer. “I thought I was losing you. And I panicked. That’s no excuse, I know. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, you just look at him. Then, softly: “You really thought I’d choose Tony?”

His mouth twists. “I thought you’d choose anyone but me.”

That cracks your heart wide open. You push up from your chair, crossing the room until you’re close enough to grab his hand, lace your fingers with his.

“Bucky Barnes,” you whisper, “there is no universe where I’d ever choose anyone but you.”

His breath stutters, and before you know it, you’re in his arms, his face buried in your neck, murmuring apology after apology. You hold him tight, feeling his pulse racing beneath your palm.

When he finally pulls back, you nod toward the counter. “I made you a cake.”

His brows lift. “You… made that?”

“With Tony’s help. And a lot of swearing. Don’t laugh.”

Bucky stares at the slightly uneven layers, the frosting that’s not exactly smooth, and then back at you. His eyes go suspiciously wet.

“You baked for me?” he whispers, like it’s the most impossible miracle in the world.

You shrug, cheeks hot. “Happy birthday, Buck.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else, soft and deep and grateful, like he’s tasting every ounce of love you poured into flour and sugar and imperfect frosting.

And when he finally tries the cake, laughing when the frosting smears on his lip, he swears it’s the best thing he’s ever had.

[heldbybarnes]

closing my ask box for the rest of the week. people have decided to be assholes not just to me but to folks i care about, and i’m not here for it.

i hope to reopen it at the end of the week to celebrate (because i’d much rather be having fun with y’all than dealing with nonsense), but we’ll see how things go.

tl;dr: if you can’t play nice, you don’t get to play at all.

[heldbybarnes]

OK. I WAS THINKING…. imagine instead of Clint and Nat fighting over who has to sacrifice themselves for the soul stone, it’s Bucky (he didn’t get snapped) and the reader <\3 and the reader ends up sacrificing themselves and it’s just a whole lotta angst and when he gets the soul stone he’s just so incredibly frustrated (idk if you’ve done it yet, imnso sorry but you already have) (also may I be 🪩 anon if it hasn’t been taken yet… <3 ) THANK YOU

this was so fucking rude. i should block you for this. omfg (im kidding never leave)

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You’re both out of breath by the time you stumble to the top of Vormir’s jagged cliff. The wind bites at your skin, the sky an endless swirl of storm-colored clouds. You’d been told this mission would come with a cost, but hearing it and standing in the shadow of it are two different things.

The Red Skull’s voice still echoes in your ears: A soul for a soul.

You glance at Bucky, at the way his jaw tightens as he takes it in. His vibranium hand curls into a fist, the metal groaning faintly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say softly.

His gaze snaps to yours. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided.” You swallow hard. “Like you’re the one who’s going to do it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Your chest aches. “Bucky…”

He steps forward, so close you can see the wild panic behind his eyes. “You think I’m gonna let you jump? After everything? After all those years I spent thinking I’d never get a second chance?” His voice breaks. “I can’t lose you too.”

You want to touch him, to hold his face in your hands and smooth away every wrinkle of grief. But there isn’t time—not for comfort, not for pretending.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you whisper. “The stone… it needs someone who means something. That’s why it works.”

Bucky shakes his head violently. “No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make this sound noble.” His breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps. “We’ll figure out another way. There’s always another way.”

You almost believe him. Almost. But in your heart you know Vormir isn’t bluffing.

The cruelest part is how certain you are. That deep, awful clarity that the universe is demanding you. Not him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe.

Before he can stop you, you lean in and kiss him. It’s desperate, messy, the taste of salt between your lips—tears, his or yours, you don’t know. He clutches you like a drowning man, like maybe if he holds tight enough he can anchor you here forever.

You pull back, barely a breath apart. “I love you.”

Then you run.

His roar splits the air. “NO—!”

Your feet pound against the stone as you sprint toward the cliff’s edge. The wind howls, whipping hair into your face. And then you leap—weightless, suspended for a heartbeat in the stormy sky.

For the briefest instant, you feel peace.

And then gravity takes you.

Bucky hits the ground on his knees. He doesn’t even remember falling. All he knows is the cliff is empty, your voice gone from the air, and his chest feels like it’s been ripped wide open.

“No. No, no, no, no—” His metal hand scrapes the ground, desperate for purchase, for anything. He almost throws himself after you, almost follows you into the void, but something stops him.

The soul stone.

It appears in his flesh hand, heavy and warm, glowing with quiet finality.

He stares at it, hatred boiling in his veins. “This isn’t worth it. You hear me? She was worth everything. Not this—” His voice cracks on the last word.

The stone doesn’t answer.

He clutches it until the edges bite into his palm, hot tears spilling freely. For once he doesn’t care if anyone sees him like this, broken and undone. The only person who mattered isn’t here to see him fall apart anyway.

He tips his head back and screams. It rips from somewhere deep, raw and feral, echoing against the cliffs. A sound of pure loss.

When he returns to the others, the stone burns in his pocket, a sick reminder of what it took. Steve’s eyes widen the second he sees Bucky’s face.

“Where is she?” Steve asks carefully.

Bucky can’t answer. His throat closes up, his jaw locking against the words. Because saying it out loud will make it real.

The silence is enough. Steve’s expression crumples.

Bucky turns away, shoulders rigid. He won’t let them see him break again. He can’t—because if he does, he might never stop.

That night, alone in the corner of the compound, Bucky finally allows himself to replay the moment. Your kiss. Your last words. The way you ran before he could stop you.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest, like maybe he can keep the ache from splitting him open.

“You promised me forever,” he whispers into the darkness. His voice is hoarse, shredded from screaming. “And I was supposed to give you forever too.”

His metal fingers curl, digging into his thigh hard enough to leave dents. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve—” His voice breaks again, a sob punching out of him before he can smother it.

He’s Bucky Barnes. He’s survived wars, brainwashing, decades of pain. But nothing compares to the empty space beside him now.

Because what is survival worth, if you aren’t here to share it?

The days blur. Missions, planning, the endless fight to undo what Thanos did. Bucky goes through the motions, because what else is there? But every time he closes his eyes, he sees you falling. Every time someone mentions the stones, rage simmers in his chest.

When they finally succeed—when the snap is undone and half the universe breathes again—he doesn’t feel relief.

Because you aren’t among them.

A soul for a soul. Irrevocable. Permanent.

The world celebrates. Bucky mourns.

Sometimes, late at night, he imagines what he’ll say if he ever sees you again. Maybe he’ll tell you how furious he still is, how selfish your choice feels even though it saved them all. Maybe he’ll tell you how much he loves you, how that love is the only reason he didn’t jump after you.

Most nights, he doesn’t say anything. He just whispers your name into the dark, again and again, like a prayer he doesn’t expect to be answered.

The stone remains locked away, a jewel of unimaginable power. No one touches it except in strategy meetings. But Bucky feels its weight always, even when it’s not in his hand. He hates it, hates what it represents.

Because the soul stone isn’t beautiful. Not to him.

It’s the color of your blood. The weight of your body slipping from his grasp. The echo of your voice saying I love you.

It’s loss, condensed into crystal.

And Bucky Barnes will never forgive it.

[heldbybarnes]

bucky barnes isn’t real. not in your bed, not in your browser history, not standing behind you saying, “actually, i’d never do that.”

he is ink on paper, pixels on a screen, a story stretched a hundred different ways.

your trauma isn’t his, your headcanon isn’t law, and your hate isn’t holy scripture.

he’s not real. but your cruelty is. and that’s the part he sure as hell wouldn’t approve of.

[heldbybarnes]

CONGRATS ON 1K OMGGGGGHGB

thank you :)))

[heldbybarnes]

just a friendly reminder….

[heldbybarnes]

Hiii can you write bucky x reader with secret family trope

He's bringing the thunderbolts home because of a mission gone wrong, and nobody at his place is aware that he's bringing the team home. So when he comes in, his wife is pouncing and kissing him unaware that they've audience and bucky forgets they're there too.

Then maybe his kids come running and grinning and he's all theirs until reader notices her husband has some guests waiting wide eyed on the porch😜

Also how would thunderbolts react upon seeing this?? and I'm sure bucky would threaten them to death about keeping this a secret

hi there!

so i actually already have a fic out that is that exact idea! while it's the original avengers that find out about buckys secret family, it is still the same concept :)

here it is: The Place No One Knew

[heldbybarnes]

✨✨um. excuse me?? there are 1,000 of you here???

i had to double-check that number like five times because i fully thought tumblr was glitching. but nope. somehow a thousand of you have chosen to stick around while i spiral over bucky barnes, drown myself in angst and fluff, and write way too many words about fictional men.

i don’t think i can ever say thank you enough. the reblogs with feral tags, the sweet comments, the anons who scream with me at 2am—you’ve made this little corner of the internet such a warm, chaotic, wonderful home.

so!!! here’s how we’re celebrating:

✨ one long oneshot coming your way:

-> Dollhouse — Mob AU. Bucky doesn’t just want your loyalty; he wants your complete surrender. Obsessive, dangerous, and possessive in a world of power and blood—yet somehow, being with him feels like the only place you want to be.

✨ blurb day (to be held on 9/6) — you get to vote on the theme! here are the options:

-> Stolen Moments — the little things no one else sees: secret kisses, hidden touches, stolen time. -> Unspoken — meaning without words: gestures, notes, and confessions that slip through in silence. -> What If? — alternate universes and canon twists: small changes that flip everything upside down. -> Touch-Starved — the gravity of touch: craving it, fearing it, finally letting it in. -> Wrong Place, Right Time — chaotic coincidences and fate’s timing: chance meetings, mishaps, and being stuck together. -> all of the above and then some — girl, these sound great but why not do all of them combined?!?!?

thank you, truly, for making this space so special. i appreciate you more than i can ever put into words. 💙

[heldbybarnes]

hi, i love your writing and hope ur doing well.....Reader loves hearing Bucky’s voice when he’s falling apart. What if he begged so sweet you couldn’t resist giving him what he wanted?

are you trying to kill me? honestly

-----------

You’d told him no. Firm, sharp, the way you always did when his eyes went all glossy and his mouth trembled with too-much need.

But Bucky never made it easy.

Not when his voice cracked like it did now, low and broken, rasping out please like it hurt him to hold it back.

“Doll—” he gasps, hips straining against the grip you have on him. His thighs are shaking, his head tipped back into the pillows, damp hair sticking to his temple. His chest heaves, slick with sweat, and his hands curl tight in the sheets because you told him not to touch.

You’re sitting astride him, slow roll of your hips keeping him just barely inside you, only the head, no more. Enough to make him ache, not enough to let him have what he wants.

He looks ruined already.

“Not yet,” you murmur, nails dragging lightly over his chest, down his ribs, making him twitch. You grind down harder, then lift again, leaving him hollow. He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a whimper and a sob, and your lips curve because God, you love it.

“Please—fuck, please, baby,” he chokes. His voice has gone soft and sweet, like you’ve stripped it raw. “I need it. Need you, I—don’t make me wait anymore, I c-can’t—”

You laugh, low and cruel, bending over him until your lips are brushing his ear. “Yes, you can. You always can. Look at you—shaking, crying already—and you’ll still take what I give you, won’t you?”

He nods frantically, eyes clenched shut, but it’s not enough.

“Eyes on me, Buck.”

He forces them open, and oh, they’re wet. That glassy blue you love, all glazed with tears. “I’ll take it, I promise. Just—please—don’t tease me anymore.”

And here’s the problem: you love his voice too much.

It always happens this way. You set your boundaries, draw your lines, tell yourself you’ll keep him there on the edge until you decide he’s had enough. But then he begs. And it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. The cracks in his voice, the way his Brooklyn rasp softens until he sounds like he’s praying. Like you’re the only salvation he’s ever known.

It gets you every time.

You kiss him hard, teeth catching his lower lip until he groans into your mouth. Your hips sink down at last, taking him deep, and he sobs—loud, wrecked, so sweet you can feel it in your bones.

“Thank you—oh, fuck, thank you, doll—”

“Shut up,” you growl, even though you don’t mean it. Your hand closes around his throat, not tight, just enough to feel him swallow. “You begged so pretty. That’s the only reason I’m letting you have this.”

He nods wildly, desperate. “Anything, anything you want—just don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

And you don’t. You ride him hard, pace brutal, making up for every second you held him on the edge. His moans come ragged, broken by sobs and choked laughter like he can’t believe you’re actually giving it to him now. He’s so beautiful when he falls apart, voice all shredded and raw, begging even as you give him exactly what he asked for.

“Feels good, huh?” you taunt, nails biting into his chest as you drag them down. He arches into it, groaning your name. “That’s what you wanted, right? To get fucked until you forget your own name?”

“Yes—yes, doll, that’s—fuck, that’s all I want—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You slap his chest lightly, making him jolt. “You’re greedy. I should edge you again, make you cry for me twice as hard.”

“Please, no—please, I’m sorry—” His voice cracks beautifully, and his hips buck helplessly beneath you. “I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, just let me come, I can’t—oh God, I can’t—”

You lean down again, teeth catching the shell of his ear. “Beg louder.”

He does. God, he does. Pleading with you like his life depends on it, every word drenched in desperation. You drink it in, your pace never faltering, because you want him wrecked.

And when you finally let him go—when you whisper, “Come for me, Buck, give it to me”—he shatters.

It’s loud, messy, overwhelming. His voice cracks on your name, breaking open into sobs as he spills inside you. His whole body shakes beneath you, thighs trembling, hands fisting the sheets until his knuckles are white. He keeps begging even through it—thank you, thank you, oh fuck, doll, love you, love you—until it all dissolves into choked moans and tears.

You ride him through it, cruel and unrelenting, until he’s gasping, whining, too sensitive. Only then do you slow, leaning down to kiss the tears from his cheeks.

“Sweet boy,” you murmur, brushing his hair back. “You always beg so pretty. How could I ever resist?”

He blinks up at you, ruined and blissed out, lips parted around a shaky smile. His voice is wrecked, but he still whispers it anyway:

“For you? I’d beg forever.”

[heldbybarnes]

if not boyfriend why so boyfriend coded

[heldbybarnes]

the shirt very much STAYS ON. until it’s my turn.

[heldbybarnes]

Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes Captain America: Civil War (2016)

[heldbybarnes]

[heldbybarnes]

as slow as i like

pairing: super-soldier!bucky barnes x female reader

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, bdsm dynamics, restraints, dirty talk, pet names (bunny), established relationship

word count: 300

a/n: as someone whose fics definitely tend to run long (very long sometimes 😅) i figured i'd give @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles a shot! probably won't be able to do every day, but we'll see. this is a really great and fun writing exercise!!

"Slower."

Bucky Barnes growled through gritted teeth, his blue eyes blazing, his handsome face twisted into a mask of irritation. But you didn't know where he got off ordering you around—after all, he was the one tied to a chair.

His glorious chest heaved with ragged breaths, and the muscles of his arms bulged as he tugged on the restraints binding his hands behind his back. But he was still just as much at your mercy as he'd been a moment ago.

Instead of following his command, you continued to bounce on his cock the way you liked—which was fast and hard. Your hands were braced on his thick shoulders, your tits bouncing in his face, your pussy clinging to his hard length as you impaled yourself over and over.

"Fuck, bunny, 'm gonna cum," he snarled.

You gave a breathless laugh at just how angry he sounded, but didn't slow down. In fact, you sped up even more, grinding harder on Bucky's cock.

"Sounds like a you problem," you said flippantly, shooting Bucky an unapologetic smirk.

The super-soldier's handsome face twisted with fury. His low, feral growl was your last warning.

Then, there was a sudden, sharp snapping sound, and you were tumbling backwards to the floor. Bucky's strong arms cushioned your fall—and then he was on you.

Bucky's big body pinned you down, your thighs spread obscenely wide, making it easy for him to bury his cock to the hilt inside your hole. He pumped his hard length into you in a slow, maddening rhythm that had you whining for more.

"You shouldn't have tortured me like that, bunny," Bucky rumbled, a ruthless grin spreading across his face. "Now I'm going to go as slow as I like—and you'll just have to take it."

[heldbybarnes]

Hey, first off, I wanna start with no pressure on this request and take your time, babes. But picture this: Bucky and reader in the last book series you (author) read. I had a dream where this happened with characters from a different cinematic universe in one of Alex Michaelide's books. Crazy, right? IDK if you're gonna do this, but if you are, have fun

-- (ballet slippers) (Don't have the emoji, I'm on my laptop) xxx

OOOOOH, so i kind of recently did this with my breakaway fic (which is inspired by off campus). i recently reread the addicted/calloway sister series as well so i spun it with that series. rose and connor are my favorite couple and i can so see bucky having a relationship similar to that!

-----------

The Avengers compound was not built for privacy, but then again, neither were you.

“You’re staring,” you said without looking up, nose buried in the half-finished crossword spread across the table. Pencil tapping. Brain humming. His gaze had been a steady pressure on the side of your face for the last five minutes, and though you could’ve pretended not to notice, you thrived on calling him out.

Across from you, Bucky Barnes lounged with the kind of calculated ease that came with decades of practice. One arm slung lazily over the back of the chair, vibranium fingers tapping soundlessly. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you answered flatly, penciling in laconic for 12-Across.

His brow quirked. “You sure you’re not just craving my attention?”

You finally looked up, deadpan. “You’re confusing me with yourself.”

The smirk sharpened. Most people flinched under it, but you weren’t most people. If he was a chessboard, then you were the one who looked at the pieces and thought—Fine, let’s play.

Bucky had met a thousand people who wanted to conquer him, command him, or cradle him. You? You only ever wanted to match him.

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees. “We both know you like it when I look at you.”

“And we both know you like it when I don’t,” you countered smoothly, pencil scribbling again.

The grin he gave you was wolfish, proud. Like you’d handed him a victory when really, you’d only tilted the board in your favor.

Sam entered the room just then, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He glanced between the two of you, took in the electricity humming like a live wire across the table, and groaned. “Jesus Christ. Do you two ever stop?”

“No,” you said, at the exact same time Bucky replied, “Why would we?”

Sam muttered something about needing noise-canceling headphones as he left. You and Bucky never broke eye contact.

Nights were worse. Nights were when he tested the sharpness of your mind with all the patience of a man who had waited too long for someone like you.

You sat cross-legged on his bed, hair falling into your face as you read from the novel in your lap. He was stretched out beside you, back against the headboard, shirtless because he knew exactly what that did to your concentration.

“You skipped a line,” he said idly.

You didn’t look up. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” His tone was silk, smug. “Page 142. You jumped straight from ‘the ocean churned’ to ‘the sun broke through.’”

You exhaled through your nose, flipping back a page just to prove him wrong. And damn him—he was right.

“Stop watching my lips when I read,” you muttered.

“That’s impossible,” he replied instantly.

You shot him a glare, but it was undercut by the flush creeping up your neck. And he saw it. He always saw it.

“Embarrassed?” he teased.

“Smug?” you volleyed back.

He tilted his head, smile softening just slightly. “Always.”

You hated that it made you smile. You loved that it made you smile. With him, those contradictions never felt like fractures—they felt like truth.

The first time you told him you loved him, it wasn’t on accident. It was calculated.

Not romantic. Not whispered in the dark.

You were in the training room, sparring mats beneath your sneakers, chest heaving from exertion. He had you pinned—metal arm caging you in, body pressed too close for thought.

“Yield,” he said, voice low.

You smirked, breathless. “I love you.”

The words hit him harder than any punch. He faltered. Just long enough for you to twist, flip him, and slam him onto the mat. His back hit with a dull thud, a grunt escaping his lips.

You stood over him, triumphant, hair sticking to your forehead. “Yield,” you repeated sweetly.

For a moment, he just stared up at you—this man who had stared down wars, monsters, and his own ghosts. Then, laughter burst from his chest, deep and real and stunned.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, pulling you down onto the mat with him. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was all teeth and victory.

That was how you loved him. Fearless. Tactical. Loud in the quietest ways.

But sometimes—sometimes—he reminded you that he loved you in ways no one else could see.

You didn’t cry often. You hated the vulnerability of it, the mess. But one night, after a particularly brutal mission, you locked yourself in the bathroom and let it happen. Silent, ugly sobs against the tile floor.

You hadn’t realized he was outside the door until you opened it, puffy-eyed, ready to make some excuse.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. He just cupped your face in both hands—warm flesh and cold metal—and kissed your damp cheeks like they weren’t weakness but proof. Proof that you were human. Proof that you were his.

It broke something in you. Or maybe it healed something. With Bucky, you could never quite tell the difference.

People never understood your relationship. They thought he was too sharp, you were too blunt. That you’d clash until you burned out.

But they didn’t see how you sharpened each other. How he steadied your chaos, and you lit a fire under his control.

You remembered one party in particular—Stark Tower, crowded and glittering. A woman had sidled up to Bucky, laying it on thick, hand brushing his arm like you weren’t standing right there.

You didn’t get jealous easily. You didn’t need to.

“Your date seems… occupied,” she said slyly.

Bucky’s eyes slid to you, glinting with challenge. Daring you to answer.

You sipped your drink, smiled faintly, and said, “He’s not my date.”

The woman’s face lit with triumph. But before she could open her mouth, you leaned closer, added, “He’s my husband.”

The way Bucky’s hand found your waist in that moment—tight, possessive, worshipful—told you everything you needed to know.

Later that night, pressed against the wall of your shared bedroom, his lips at your ear, he whispered, “You didn’t have to say that.”

“I know,” you breathed, fingers digging into his hair.

He smiled against your throat. “But I loved that you did.”

Your love was not soft. It was not fragile.

It was a chess match, a sparring session, a fire that burned steady and fierce.

It was him watching you across crowded rooms, eyes saying everything his mouth didn’t.

It was you reading his silences like they were sonnets.

It was respect. It was wit. It was power traded back and forth until no one could tell who held it anymore.

And it was enough. More than enough.

Because in the end, when the board was cleared, when the lights were off, when the world finally left you both alone—he always looked at you like you were the only game he’d never grow tired of playing.

And you, pencil in hand, smirk tugging at your lips, always let him win. Just once in a while.