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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Text

Swipe Right

Summary : You matched with Bucky Barnes, your teammate, on a dating app.

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

Warnings/tags : Fluff. Mutual pining. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 2.1k

Note : this was not on the posting schedule because it was only supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away. Also, would anyone be interested in joining a Bucky taglist if I started one?

You had invited Sam, Bucky, and Yelena over to your apartment for a chill evening, the kind of hangout that didn’t require much planning. After a couple of hours playing board games—you found yourselves sprawled across your living room in varying states of relaxation.

Sam had turned on The Great British Bake Off on your TV, and now all four of you were watching Paul Hollywood give commentary on yet another sub-par Victoria Sponge cake.

Oddly, a baking show made for soothing background noise.

Yelena had claimed the armchair, draped over it like a queen on her throne. One leg hung off the side as she shoveled popcorn into her mouth. Her muttered commentary—“Why would you even attempt caramel with five minutes left on the clock?”—only made you chuckle.

Sam was perched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, unironically invested in all of this. “That meringue’s gonna collapse,” he muttered, eyes narrowed. That was Sam—fully committed, even to a televised baking show. That man could not half-ass anything.

And then there was Bucky.

He was sitting at the opposite end of the couch from you. His vibranium fingers drummed softly against the armrest, his stare distant, like the show was just white noise for him.

It wasn’t fair how good he looked, even when he was doing absolutely nothing— no matter where he was, he always managed to make your heart do an embarrassing little flip.

You sighed, forcing your eyes away from him before someone caught you staring.

Lately, your hopeless crush on Bucky had been consuming far too much of your mental energy. Months of stolen glances, little moments where his smile sent your pulse racing, and a thousand tiny kindnesses had all built up to this… tingly feeling on your stomach.

Oh, who were you kidding?

This wasn’t a crush.

You were in love.

But it doesn’t matter anyway. He was your teammate— it would be unprofessional. He was your friend. And, most painfully, he was so far out of your league, it wasn’t even funny.

So, naturally, you’d done the most logical thing to distract yourself: redownloaded a dating app.

As Yelena gasped at a burnt shortcake on-screen, you fixed your eyes at your phone and started swiping, hoping the distraction might keep your thoughts from drifting back to the super soldier sitting just a few feet away.

But there was one problem: no one on this goddamn dating app compared to Bucky.

With a resigned sigh, you swiped left on yet another shirtless gym selfie. Then another. And another. It was a sea of flexing muscles, bad mirror lighting, and an alarming number of men posing with fish.

“Why are they all like this?” you muttered under your breath, swiping left on someone holding a bass as though it was the pinnacle of his achievements.

Yelena, still draped dramatically over the armchair, popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “What was that?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the TV.

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, your cheeks heating.

Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.

It was almost mechanical at this point—until…

Holy shit.

Name : Bucky Location : Brooklyn, NY Occupation : Freelance

Your heart stopped. No way. No. Way.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering above the profile picture. It was unmistakably him.

You looked across the room at the man who was on your screen and thank fuck he didn’t notice how stiff you’d become.

The first photo was classic Bucky: a candid selfie that looked like it had been taken under order, his lips pressed into a reluctant smile. The next was slightly blurry, probably the result of him not holding still long enough. Then there was a mirror selfie taken in his apartment. The final photo was a photo of Bucky and Sam, the former leaning on a wall while the latter held a peace sign.

Your chest tightened as you scrolled down to read his biography and prompts.

Hi, I’m Bucky. Not really sure how this works, but my friend Sam said I should give it a try. I like long walks, 40s music, and trying to figure out 21st-century pop culture. Bonus points if you know a good cat café.

Prompt: What’s your go-to comfort food? Meatloaf and plums. Prompt: What’s your most-used emoji? Probably the 🤔 because I’m still trying to figure out how to use them. Prompt: What’s your biggest red flag? Sometimes I get stuck in the past. But I’m working on it.

Your stomach flipped. It was so him. Honest, a little awkward, and undeniably charming.

You should’ve stopped right there. You should’ve swiped left, put your phone down, and continued pretending your feelings didn’t exist.

But your thumb didn’t move.

He was your teammate. Your friend. This was a line you absolutely couldn’t cross.

…And yet.

You were curious— just curious enough to try and swipe right. It wouldn’t mean anything. It wasn’t like he’d even see it, right?

But you knew you shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t—

Before you could stop yourself, you swiped right.

A second later, your screen lit up. You matched!

Your stomach dropped.

Oh no.

And then, across the room, Bucky’s phone buzzed.

Your stomach plummeted as you watched him pick it up, his movements casual at first—until they weren’t. His eyes flicked to the screen, and he froze.

Slowly, almost painfully, his wide-eyes lifted and locked onto yours.

The two of you stared at each other in mortified silence.

“Uh… you okay there, Buck?” Sam asked, tearing his attention away from the TV for a second. His brow furrowed. “You’re red. Like, really red.”

“M’ fine!” Bucky croaked, the word coming out far too loud and far too fast. He jerked his head back down, staring at his phone. “Just… it’s hot in here.”

Sam gave a shrug, already turning back to the TV.

But you weren’t watching Sam. Your focus was entirely on Bucky, whose ears were now a vivid shade of pink. Your heart beat out of your chest as you fumbled to unlock your phone, quickly typing into the chat.

You : hey.

His phone buzzed again.

You watched as his eyes darted to the screen. His grip on the phone visibly tightened. After a moment of hesitation, his fingers moved to type back.

Bucky : hey.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as you typed again.

You : Soooo… this is awkward. Bucky : I didn’t think you’d swipe right. You : I didn’t think you’d have Tinder. Bucky : Sam made me do it. You : Sure. And I swiped for research purposes only. Bucky : Sure.

You risked a glance across the room. Bucky was staring at his phone with disbelief, like he was a kid caught sneaking sweets in his room past his bedtime. His human knuckles were white, and you briefly wondered if he might crush the device with his vibranium hand.

You : We are in the same room. Don’t look at me. Bucky : Wasn’t planning to. You’re making this worse. You : Oh, I’m making this worse? You’re glaring at your phone like it killed your cat. Bucky : Am not. You : Are too.

“What is wrong with you?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze, and you nearly jumped out of your seat. She turned to you, suspicious. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Uh, I think I’m just dehydrated!” you blurted, the words tumbling out too quickly. You stood up so fast you almost knocked over the coffee table. “I need water.”

You glanced desperately at Bucky, who looked like he’d rather melt into the couch than meet your eyes. “Bucky, you look thirsty too, right? Come with me to get water?”

For a split second, he didn’t move. Then, he stood, his face pale except for the blotches of red spreading across his cheeks. “Uh… sure,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Together, the two of you shuffled out of the living room, leaving Sam and Yelena staring after you with raised eyebrows.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, away from prying eyes and ears, you spun around to face him, your heart pounding out of your chest.

“Why did you swipe right?!” you whisper-shouted, jabbing a finger in his direction like he’d committed a crime— one that you were also guilty of.

Bucky’s eyes widened, still comically surprised. “Why did you swipe right?!” he shot back.

“I asked you first!” you hissed, your voice climbing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, well, I’m asking now!” His arms flailed slightly, throwing them up in exasperation. It was utterly unfair how his messy hair and blue eyes made him look stupidly handsome, even when he was bickering like a five-year-old.

Your brain was spinning out of control, your thoughts racing so fast you were sure they were about to break the sound barrier. And before you could stop yourself, before you could think, the truth — the big, scary truth — came out of your mouth.

“Because I’m in love with you!”

The words came out in one breathless tumble, like they were trying to run away from your brain. You slapped a hand over your mouth as soon as they escaped, wide-eyed and mortified.

Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, Bucky definitely heard that.

Bucky just stood there. Completely frozen.

His jaw dropped a little, and his metal arm let out a tiny mechanical whir, like even it was short-circuiting over what you’d just said.

“What?!” he finally blurted, his voice increasing in both pitch and volume.

“Shush!” You lunged forward, clasping your hand over his mouth before he could alert the whole damn neighbourhood. The move was instinctive, but the moment your palm brushed against the stubble on his jaw, your brain screamed TOO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE.

“I need you to shut up or the Bake-Off Twins are gonna hear!” you hissed, jerking your head in the direction of Sam and Yelena, who were in the other room, probably arguing over whether pie crusts were better made with butter or shortening.

He gave a jerky nod. Slowly, you pulled your hand away, suddenly hyper-aware of how soft how lips felt on your palm.

“S-Since when?” he stammered, his expression a mix of shock and—was that… hope?

“I don’t know!” You panicked. “Three months, maybe? Since that Alaska mission. When we were stuck in that cabin together?”

“Three months?!” he demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because you’re out of my league!” you blurted, as if that were the most obvious explanation in the world.

The offended noise he made was almost comical, like you’d just insulted his grandmother. His brows knit together, and he looked at you like you’d just confessed to committing arson. “I thought you were out of my league!”

You blinked at him. He blinked at you.

Surely, he cannot believe that to be true, right?

“Oh, come on, Bucky. Look at you!” You gestured wildly at him, as if the unfairness of his existence needed no further explanation. “It’s like Caravaggio painted you to be an angel!”

“I— What?” He choked out. In truth, he would say the same about you, but he lacked the guts to.

But you?

You were all guts and no filter.

There was no stopping you. “You’ve got the jawline of a marble statue, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. It’s unfair! It’s like you just walked out of some Renaissance masterpiece, except instead of holding a harp or a cross, you’re just standing there in a Henley, looking like a sin. It’s distracting, and—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Without warning, his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks and then— he kissed you.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It wasn’t careful or calculating. It was decisive, like he’d been waiting months for this moment and had finally decided, screw it.

You froze, your brain lagging a good five seconds behind reality. But when your mind finally caught up to your body, you melted into his touch, your fingers grabbing his Henley for dear life.

Was this really happening?

After all this time pining over him, he actually felt the same way?

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours. “Shut up,” he muttered, breaking the silence. He didn’t need you to praise him for being a masterpiece, not when he believed you were the one who belonged in the Louvre. “Just… shut up.”

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower, more careful, like he was memorising every second of it. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheek.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Yelena raised an eyebrow at the faint rustles coming from the kitchen.

"I bet they’re sucking each other’s faces off," she said, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth.

Sam shrugged, “obviously.”

-end.

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

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Bloodstains and Daydreams

Summary :You and Bucky fantasize about starting a family while tending to each other’s wounds.

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

Warnings/tags : Injury, Blood, non-sexual nudity. It’s a teeny bit angsty with lotsa fluff!!!

Requested by : myself lol

Word count : 1.8k

Note : I’ve had this idea for a while now. Enjoy!

Requests are open!

○support my ko-fi○

You opened the door to your and Bucky’s apartment with a loud creak. The lack of sound in your home was a little too quiet compared to the chaos you had both just escaped.

You were lucky that none of the neighbours saw you. Last time you saw Mrs. Jones from downstairs this bloody, she had called the ambulance. You had to assure her that you had everything you needed in your apartment.

You heard the soft click of the floorboards under you. Sometimes, you found that the little sounds in your home annoyed you, but you’d take it over the gunfire and shouting that still echoed in your ears. You and Bucky staggered inside, utterly exhausted, bloodied and bruised. The dim living room lamp was just enough to frame Bucky’s features. Just enough for you to recognise the love of your life limping in after you.

You dropped your gear by the door, wincing as a wheezing pain shot through your side. Your fingers came away slick with blood when you pressed against the wound, dripping down to the white carpet you just bought last week. Great, another one ruined.

You've lost count of how many rugs, welcome mats, and blankets you’ve needed to replace.

Bucky closed the door behind him, his movement sluggish despite having accelerated healing. He had it bad, since he threw himself on the line of impact to shield you from the debris of an explosion. He was lucky to walk away from that one with a only few cuts and bruises.

He slumped against the wall for a moment, eyes closed as he let out a long breath. You heard a thud from his head resting back on the wooden panel of the living room.

His tactical gear, like yours, was torn in places, stained with both his blood and the blood of others he had gotten in contact with. Despite a cut along his cheekbone and a bruise already forming on his jaw, his focus was still on making sure you were alright.

He eyed your side, the torn fabric gaping where a blade had sliced, thankfully not leaving a deep enough cut to cause permanent damage to your insides. It was deep enough to stay with you forever, though.

“You’re bleeding,” he said softly, his voice rough and dry. He needed water.

You slowly made your way to the kitchen, ignoring all the pain receptors in your body telling you to sit down.

You walked back and gave him the glass. He devoured it, but left some for you to finish.

“You too,” you nodded toward the gash on his forehead.

It had been a close call— too close. You both knew it.

You did what you always did after these particularly rough missions. You unzipped his jacket as he did yours, helping each other get undressed, leaving all the gear by the door.

Bucky was a specimen of a man, you couldn't deny that. But times like these, when you were naked and vulnerable after taking one too many hits, none of your thoughts were sexual. You only wanted him to love and to hold. For comfort.

You both made your way to the bathroom, turning on the shower to clean the injuries before you could tend to it. The two of you spent five minutes there, embracing wordlessly.

After rinsing both your wounds, Bucky picked up the medical kit, while you managed to fill up a clean bucket with water and grabbed a couple of washcloths.

Bucky huffed grumpily, staggering himself toward the couch, his metal arm hanging a little too stiffly at his side. You followed closeby.

“You first,” he murmured, sinking onto the edge of the fluffy couch with a groan. The cushions squeaked under his weight as he tapped at the seat beside him, motioning you closer.

You hesitated for a moment, looking down at the wound on you that was still bleeding. “We’re gonna ruin the couch,” you said with a sigh.

“Doll.” The word left his lips like he was begging for you to listen to yourself.

It was always like this with him— no matter how bad he had it, no matter how much worse he was than you, he always insisted you went first.

No one had ever cared for you the way Bucky did.

You finally relented, sitting beside him. You felt the familiar warmth of his presence extending to you. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the busy outside, people living their peaceful existence, a luxury neither of you can afford.

Bucky’s hands were gentle as he studied the scar along your bare ribs. His lips pressed into a tight line, worried.

“I should’ve gotten you out sooner,” he muttered, opening the medical box that had seen more use than you liked to admit.

He first used the washcloth and pressed it to your scar to stop the bleeding.

You winced when he began to clean the wound with antiseptic. “I’m fine, Buck,” you reassured him, though the sting of the cut made you bite your lip to the point where it was swollen. “It’s just a scratch.”

“You say that every time,” he said, shaking his head. His fingers were gentle, working with the skill of someone who had patched up countless wounds, both of himself and of others. “I’m scared that one of these days,” he stopped, hesitating before continuing, “You’re going to go where I can't follow.”

You met his eyes, knowing that if your wound had been just an inch deeper, you probably wouldn't be here. “I could say the same for you.”

He didn’t say anything and just resumed tending to you, though his touch was a little more careful, trying to make sure he didn’t cause you any more pain than necessary.

There was a deafening silence in the air from something that had been hanging over you both for a while now. It wasn’t just about the injuries or the blood on the couch. It was the exhaustion. The non-stop fighting. The feeling like no matter how many times you stopped a threat, another would emerge.

When Bucky finished bandaging your wound, he leaned back and wiped his hands on the already bloodstained towel. “All done.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. You sighed, eyeing at the dark red spots on the cushions beneath you.

He squeezed your hand in his human one. “Guess we’ll just have to get a new one.”

It seemed like an easy solution, but this was your fourth couch in six months. Definitely not sustainable.

Bucky smiled faintly as he continued his little bit. “Maybe we should just buy one of those ugly plastic ones that doesn’t stain.”

You chuckled. “I’m not living in a 90s sitcom with plastic-wrapped furniture.”

As you reached for the first aid kit, you motioned for him to sit still. “Your turn.”

Bucky sat back, his head tilting against the back of the couch. His eyes shut as you worked on the gash on his forehead, one just above his eyebrow. The bleeding has stopped, but it still needed to be cleaned a little more thoroughly.

“You should’ve ducked,” you teased gently, trying to bring a little laughter to the room.

“Yeah, well, no one warned me of a flying brick,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

“You are such a hero,” you said, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth. “Trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Not everyone,” Bucky murmured, his voice a little more serious. His steely eyes fluttered open to meet yours. You both knew what he was talking about. There were too many people you couldn’t save. Too many you couldn’t protect.

Of course, he tried. But if he could save just one person, it would have been you.

You sat back, letting your hands fall into your lap helplessly. Exhaustion crept into your bones, finally catching up with you. “Do you ever think about stopping?”

Bucky’s gaze softened.

“The missions. The fighting.” You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “It feels like it never ends, Buck. I’m tired.”

He sat up a little straighter, the pain in his body forgotten for a moment. His human hand found yours, his thumb rubbing your palm in slow circles. “I think about it all the time,” he admitted quietly. “Every time we go out there.”

This was the first time either of you ever spoke about this. There were hints of it from time to time, but it was never really mulled over the way it was now. Tired and afraid, you were both as vulnerable as you could be to each other, all the skeletons in your closet aired out.

“I want to believe,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “that one day the world will be good enough for us to stop.”

“We’ll get there,” he said. “Maybe not tomorrow, or soon. But one day. No more missions. No more blood on the couch.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “If we survive long enough to even replace it.”

“We will,” he promised, his voice firm despite the tiredness in his eyes. “And when we do, we’ll get out of this life. We’ll find somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from all this. Maybe… start a family.”

Your throat tightened before you could speak. You both have been through so much, you both have seen the worst of the world. You both, especially Bucky, had survived horrors that most people couldn’t even begin to comprehend. But here you were, sitting together on a bloodstained couch in your apartment, fantasising about something so fragile, so precious. Something that would require so much love and care and time to build.

The idea of starting a family together seemed so far removed from the violence that dictated your lives. But both of you had a spark that no amount of bloodshed could extinguish.

“I want that too,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “One day.”

“Do you know what I want to name our daughter?” Bucky asked as you taped up his would.

Your heart swelled with insurmountable adoration. “Mmhm?” you willed him to go on.

Bucky said your name, and it felt so comforting coming from his lips. “I want her to be named after you,” he continued.

Your heart felt like it could explode. “Only if we can name our baby boy James.”

Bucky chuckled, pulling you closer into a loving embrace, feeling his bare skin on yours. “Deal,” he agreed, pressing his lips to yours gently, as if he was afraid to hurt you.

His hands found yours, intertwining your fingers together as if you were one unit.

The city outside grumbled with life, but in the quiet of your apartment, there was peace. A fragile peace, but peace nonetheless.

One day, you told yourself. One day, we would both be free.

-end

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

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Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.

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

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

17K notes · View notes

dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Text

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Text

Stay for Everything

Summary: After a terrible doctor’s appointment where you were dismissed and invalidated, Bucky doesn’t push you to talk. Instead, he brings you home, quietly cooks your favorite comfort food, and offers gentle presence. No expectations and no pressure, just soft love and steady arms when you need to fall apart. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness along with dismissive medical professionals. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

It started with a clipboard and a smile that didn’t reach the specialist’s eyes.

You’d known the signs the moment you walked in. The slightly rushed tone, the way the nurse didn’t ask follow-up questions, and the way the doctor skimmed your chart like a grocery list instead of a person.

You sat through it. The tight-lipped phrases: “Nothing concerning.” “Well, some people just have a lower pain tolerance.” “Have you tried yoga?”

You nodded, stiff-jawed, and blinking hard. You didn’t speak much then. You were too tired to argue. Too exhausted to beg someone else to believe your body was trying to kill you.

When you walked out into the parking lot, Bucky was waiting.

He didn’t get out of the car right away, instead watching you from the driver's seat, his thumb nervously tapping the edge of the steering wheel. The moment your hand touched the passenger door, he was already opening it from inside.

“Hey.” His voice was low, careful.

You nodded in greeting as he searched your face. You weren’t crying, but your silence was louder than any sobs.

“Do you want to talk about what they said?”

You shook your head. Just once.

“Okay,” He said softly. “That’s alright.”

You climbed in, closed the door, and clutched your jacket tighter around you even though the car was warm. Your hands were shaking, but not from the cold.

Bucky had returned to the driver’s seat. He didn’t start the engine and he didn’t say a word. He just… waited.

A full minute passed in silence before you whispered, “They said I’m fine.”

His jaw clenched.

“They didn’t even look at the labs. Barely asked anything. Just said… maybe it’s anxiety.”

You weren’t angry, not yet. You were too hollow for that. Too tired of screaming into rooms where no one listened.

You stared straight ahead, blinking at the dashboard. “I wish it was in my head. Then at least I could fix it. Meds, therapy, breathing exercises. But this…” Your voice trembled. “I’m not crazy. I’m sick. And none of them give a damn.”

Still, Bucky didn’t speak.

You turned to look at him, hesitant, almost bracing for him to say They probably meant well, or You should go to someone else.

But his eyes were glassy.

And when he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I believe you.”

Three words. Full stop and solid as steel.

“I know what it’s like,” He continued, “To have your body turn against you. To be hurt, and told it’s your fault. To have people try to explain your pain away so they don’t have to carry it.”

You felt your chest go tight.

He reached for your hand, slow and gentle, as if you were made of glass.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Just a noise, small and helpless. He tugged you gently into his chest. Your head hit his shoulder and that was it. You crumpled.

You sobbed into his jacket, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

He held you like he was built for it. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He didn’t lie and say the next doctor would be better. He just stayed.

And that, more than any medicine, more than any promise, was what you needed.

Someone who would say nothing yet stay for everything.

You were quiet the whole ride home.

Not the kind of quiet that begs to be broken. More like the kind that needs to stretch out and settle until the ache finds room to breathe.

Bucky didn’t interrupt it.

He played nothing on the radio. Drove one-handed, letting your fingers rest in his free one. Thumb brushing yours now and then, just so you didn’t feel alone in the silence.

By the time he unlocked your front door, the emotional fatigue had sunk in. You were limp-limbed and hollowed out. You didn’t bother turning on the lights and just dropped your bag at the entrance before moving to the couch like your body was made of wet sand.

You didn’t cry again. You didn’t even speak.

You just curled in on yourself, as small as your joints would allow.

Bucky watched you for a long second, not unsure, just thoughtful, then wordlessly slipped into the kitchen. He didn’t ask if you were hungry. He knew you wouldn’t be. But he also knew the quiet comfort of food made by someone who gave a damn.

So he started with broth.

Something warm, light. Easy to swallow when your throat was raw from tears and disappointment. He moved slow, careful not to clang pans or disturb the fragile peace. Occasionally, you heard the soft sound of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. The kettle heating for tea. The smell of garlic and thyme drifted through the room. Subtle. Calming.

Then, a gentle touch on your shoulder.

“I made you something.”

You blinked up at him. The kitchen light haloed him from behind, softening his edges. Your mouth parted for an apology, maybe. Or guilt. But he just shook his head.

“No words, doll. Just come sit.”

He helped you up carefully and guided you to the kitchen table where two bowls waited. There was a folded blanket already draped over your chair.

You sat down as he placed the warm bowl in front of you. It wasn’t too hot. The broth was golden, dotted with soft herbs containing vegetables and tiny grains of rice.

It smelled like care.

You took a sip. Then another. And something in you, tight, shaking began to loosen.

He didn’t press conversation.

Instead, he started talking about the deli he found last week. The one with the old man who tried to sell him an entire wheel of cheese because “you look like you need feeding.” He told you about the dog that barked at his metal arm for three blocks, then decided to sit on his foot like nothing had happened.

You laughed. Quiet, but real.

He smiled at the sound.

Later, after you’d finished almost the whole bowl, he brought your tea to the couch and wrapped you in a blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and the soft laundry soap he liked. He pulled you into him and turned on some movie neither of you would finish.

You muttered a soft thank you even though you didn’t need to. Because he knew.

Because sometimes love doesn’t come in declarations or grand speeches. Sometimes it comes in spoonfuls of broth. A warm blanket on a cold day. A hand that doesn't let go, even when everything hurts.

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Text

Off Limits, Barnes

Summary: You’re Sam Wilson’s longtime best friend who has been crashing at his apartment for a while. But much to his dismay, Bucky Barnes starts falling for you and flirting in secret to avoid Sam’s constant threats. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

A/N: This fic is dedicated to this comment/conversation from @eeveedream and everyone who’s been requesting fluff nowadays! I absolutely love this story and it’ll be a good buffer to some angst coming up soon. Happy reading!!

Main Masterlist

You’d known Sam since college. Well, technically since the fire drill where he saw you hauling your art portfolio and three half-finished canvases down six flights of stairs and took pity on you.

After that, you were just in. Friends. The kind that could go months without talking and still pick back up with inside jokes and shared eye-rolls.

You’d crashed on his couch more than once over the years during bad breakups, cross-country moves, or “temporary” life pauses. This time, it was supposed to be just a week or two, long enough to get settled and figure out the next steps.

You hadn’t planned on staying longer than that. And you definitely hadn’t planned on Bucky Barnes.

But the first time you met him was after Sam dragged you along to some post-mission get-together. You’d shown up in jeans and paint-splattered sneakers, balancing a tray of cookies you made as a thank-you for Sam’s team. You didn’t expect to be introduced to an actual super-soldier who looked like he'd walked out of a noir film.

“This is Bucky,” Sam introduced. “He’s… well. He’s Bucky.”

Bucky gave you a once-over, subtle but obvious. His gaze lingered on you, not in a sleazy way. It was more curious, like he was trying to figure out what exactly he’d just stumbled across.

You offered your hand. “Hi.”

“Hey,” He said, slow and warm, and ignored your hand completely to take the tray from you instead. “Let me help with that.”

Sam narrowed his eyes like Bucky had just proposed marriage.

That was three days ago since you’ve been staying at Sam’s apartment, took over his kitchen, and used his good conditioner without remorse. That was before Bucky Barnes started hovering.

And it wasn’t subtle either.

Not when he “just happened to be jogging by” every morning at the same time you went out to drink your morning tea. Not when he invited himself over under the guise of helping Sam with some mission reports, but never once looked at Sam’s laptop. And definitely not when he started flirting.

“Can I ask you something?” You said to Sam one morning, stirring coffee with the spoon you used to flip pancakes because his kitchen was chaos.

He looked up from his phone. “Please don’t.”

You ignored that. “Does your friend Bucky have… a thing for baking?”

Sam frowned. “No?”

“He asked me if I had a favorite kind of muffin yesterday.”

Sam let out a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper.

You weren’t stupid though.

You knew what flirting looked like. You also knew the difference between harmless, one-off flattery and the kind of focused attention that felt like gravity. The kind where someone lingered in a room a little longer than necessary. Where they asked questions just to keep you talking. Where they looked at you like they were memorizing your laugh.

It continued with a glance here, a comment there, him helping carry things you didn’t ask him to, or sitting beside you even when there were five other empty seats in the room. It was him genuinely laughing at something stupid you said, the kind of laugh that sounded like it surprised even him.

The worst part? You liked it.

The actual worst part? Sam noticed.

He knew the way Bucky looked at you when he thought no one was watching. And worse, he knew exactly what that look meant. It wasn’t just a passing crush or a one-time occurrence. It was Bucky Barnes leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you laugh like it was the only sound that mattered. It was the way his jaw relaxed when you entered a room or how his eyes tracked your movements like he couldn’t help it. It was… annoying.

“You’re not slick,” Sam muttered to Bucky one night while you were in the kitchen trying to fix his unreliable blender with the end of a fork and more optimism than sense.

Bucky raised a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re about five seconds from writing poetry about my best friend, Barnes.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Would she like that?”

Sam squinted like he was doing mental math on how far he could launch a grown super-soldier out the window without causing a citywide panic. “Don’t test me.”

Now, it was the fifth morning in a row Bucky showed up at Sam’s place under some other flimsy excuse, "forgot my phone charger," "needed to talk about logistics," "just in the neighborhood"; when Sam finally snapped.

“You don’t live in this neighborhood,” Sam exasperatedly pointed out while watching Bucky lean against your side of the kitchen counter, far too interested in how you flipped pancakes.

Bucky just smiled. “Neighborhood’s growing on me.”

You tried to stay focused on pouring batter, ignoring the buzz in your stomach.

Sam dragged his palm down his face. “What are you even doing? What is this energy?”

“I’m being friendly.”

“You don’t even like pancakes.”

“I like watching her make them.”

You almost dropped the bowl.

Sam stared at the two of you like he was trying to will time to rewind. “Oh, come on. You asked her about muffins. What’s next? Croissants? Scones? Should I just send you a spreadsheet of her entire pastry hierarchy?”

“I’d actually really appreciate that,” Bucky said, without missing a beat.

You didn’t mean to smile. You really didn’t, but it snuck up before you could stop it, and Bucky saw. You felt him see it too in the way his gaze dropped for just a second to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and that grin of his turned slow and sharp, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Sam caught it too. And that’s when he groaned: loud and theatrical, like a man who had just seen the train wreck coming but couldn’t stop it.

“Do not fall for him,” He said, stabbing a finger toward you without looking away from Bucky. “He’s like one of those stray cats that shows up all mangled and broody, and then suddenly it’s living in your house and you’re buying it furniture.”

Bucky looked utterly unbothered. “Furniture sounds nice.”

“I swear to God, Barnes–”

Later that evening after Bucky finally left, after Sam made sure to escort him to the door and linger dramatically to make sure he left like a sitcom dad, you curled up on the couch with your tea while Sam dropped beside you with a grunt.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment as he simply stared ahead. Then:

“I know that look.”

You blinked. “What look?”

“The ‘I might like him’ look. You had it last time before that disaster with the musician who couldn’t commit to a city, much less a relationship was around.”

“Hey, he was talented.”

“He played a kazoo, and you cried for three weeks.”

You let out a quiet snort. “Bucky’s not a kazoo guy.”

“No. He’s a hundred-something-year-old supersoldier.”

You sipped your tea. “Better resume, honestly.”-

Sam didn’t laugh.

He just stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to Jedi mind trick the feelings out of your system. Then he mumbled something under his breath about “cleaning his knives in front of people” and got up to go brood in the kitchen.

After that night, things got weird.

Not between you and Bucky; no, that got more interesting. But Sam? He went full protective-big-brother mode.

At first, it showed up in subtle, small ways. He started inviting other people over whenever Bucky was around. Made sure you were never alone in a room together for too long. Talked louder than necessary when Bucky so much as looked at you across the room. You’d catch him squinting at Bucky during casual conversation like he was watching a lion pretend to be a housecat.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, but he started shifting tactics. He stopped being obvious. No more flirting over pancakes. No more charming smirks while standing too close. No. Instead, he got… stealthy.

Sometimes it would be a glance across the room when Sam’s back was turned, a brush of fingers when he passed you something, or a low comment murmured too close to your ear when no one else could hear.

For example, you were sorting through some of your art supplies in Sam’s living room one day when Bucky leaned over your shoulder and said quietly:

“You know, you always get paint on your hands when you’re focused. I like watching what you make.”

You froze, paintbrush in your hand. “Bucky…”

He smiled, too innocent. “Sam’s in the shower.”

Then he walked off like he hadn’t just set your pulse skipping. You didn’t even notice Sam coming back into the room until he cleared his throat sharply.

“You two good?”

You turned quickly, too quickly. “Yep. Fine. Great.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. Bucky was suddenly very interested on the plant near the window.

After that, it became a game.

A terrible, wonderful game of secret smiles and low-voiced compliments, hidden under Sam’s ever-watchful eye. If Sam left the room? Bucky found a reason to be at your side. If you both reached for something at the same time? His fingers brushed yours, lingering just a little too long.

You weren’t sure if it was more fun because it was secret, or if it was just Bucky. Probably both.

But eventually, it got to the point where Bucky started getting more bold.

Like the time you were out with both of them for tacos and Bucky leaned across the table with a warm, playful look and asked if you wanted to try the salsa. It wasn’t a big deal, really. He just scooped some onto his chip and held it out to you. But it was soft somehow, gentle in a way that felt uncharacteristic for the man who regularly punched things for a living.

You met his gaze, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“This a trick?”

“Maybe.”

Still, you took the chip and still, you ate it.

Sam watched the entire exchange like someone who had just discovered mold growing in his favorite hoodie.

“I will bury you in the desert,” He told Bucky flatly, chewing.

“I’m just sharing,” Bucky said innocently, licking a bit of salsa from his thumb.

“That’s not sharing. That’s foreplay.”

Bucky coughed. You nearly choked on your taco.

Later that week, Bucky caught you alone on the back fire escape, curled up with a sketchpad and a cup of tea. The city buzzed below, but up here it felt distant, quiet. You didn’t look up when you heard the sound of boots behind you. You knew it was him.

“You’re brave,” You said calmly, flipping a page.

“How so?”

“Sam told me if he caught you flirting with me again, he’d replace all your shampoo with glitter glue.”

There was a pause and then a quiet chuckle as he sat beside you.

“That explains why he handed me a Target bag this morning and told me I ‘might need a new hair routine soon.’”

You grinned. “He’s ‘subtle’ like that.”

You felt his gaze more than you saw it; heavy, focused, and thoughtful. You turned a little, looking him over in the soft orange haze of the sunset.

“You gonna keep doing this?” You asked.

He tilted his head. “Doing what?”

“Waiting until he leaves the room to flirt with me?”

He hummed, gaze flicking to your lips and back to your eyes.

“Only if it keeps you curious.”

You blinked. “What if I already am?”

This time, he didn’t answer right away. He just smiled, slow and secretive, the kind that made your breath catch.

And when Sam opened the window behind you and shouted something about needing help with a stubborn light fixture, Bucky stood without a word… but as he passed, he let his fingers brush yours again.

Barely there, but enough. Enough to keep you thinking.

And then came the fateful day where it all fell apart.

It wasn’t like you and Bucky had planned to get caught.

If anything, you’d been careful, ridiculously careful, thanks to Sam and his constant hovering, his random walk-ins, his overly casual “just checking in!” texts whenever Bucky was over for more than fifteen minutes and he wasn’t there to supervise.

But this particular afternoon, Sam had gone out. Grocery run, he said. Be back in an hour, he said.

You and Bucky lasted twenty-seven minutes before you found yourselves tangled up in your own personal storm cloud on Sam’s worn-out couch; laughter breathless, limbs intertwined, and his hand cupped gently at the back of your neck while yours tugged at the collar of his shirt like you couldn’t quite get him close enough.

It wasn’t scandalous really. No clothes had been removed, but the tension was unmistakable. Warm, quiet, and crackling. You’d just pulled back from a kiss that made your knees weak when–

The door opened.

And Sam Wilson walked in with a paper bag of apples and immediate betrayal on his face.

You and Bucky both froze. Sam didn’t.

He shut the door slowly, set the bag on the counter, and stared at the two of you with the expression of someone watching his car roll off a cliff in slow motion. There was about five seconds of silence before he exhaled and pointed accusingly.

“On my couch?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Bucky looked like a kid caught sneaking out past curfew, but with far less shame.

Sam walked over in three deliberate steps and leaned down toward Bucky like he was about to deliver the wrath of God himself.

“I told you,” He said slowly, voice dangerously low. “I warned you repeatedly. Threats were made.”

Bucky blinked. “Technically, there was no formal ban on kissing.”

Sam stared at him, mouth open.

You tried to help. “We weren’t— I mean, we were, but not in a—it wasn’t—” You stopped and sighed. “Okay, yeah. I got nothing.”

Sam shifted his focus onto you, eyes narrowing.

“I trusted you,” He stated and began pacing to the other side of the room. “I let you in my kitchen, I shared my Netflix password, and this is how you repay me.”

Bucky crossed his arms, calm as ever; but you stood up, heart still thudding, and cheeks warm. “Sam.”

“No.”

“Sam, come on–“

“I don’t need the visual,” He snapped, turning around and pointing between the two of you. “I don’t need that visual burned into my brain. You were on the couch.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s a good couch.”

You smacked his arm.

Sam looked to the ceiling like he was asking the universe why it hated him personally. “This is like if your best friend starts dating your sister while you’re in the room. No warning. Just–bam. Tongue action.”

Bucky tried and failed to stifle a laugh.

Sam turned to him, glaring. “You,” He began. “Are lucky you’re not six inches shorter. Because if you were, I’d knock your metal ass out on principle.”

Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You could try now if it’d help.”

You stepped between them before Sam could launch into a full big-brother tantrum. Your hand touched his arm, and to your surprise, he deflated just a little at your touch.

“Hey,” You said softly. “I’m not some kid you have to protect from boys with bad intentions. I’m not fragile. And Bucky’s not–”

“…Trying to hurt you,” Sam finished with a sigh. “I know. I know that.”

There was a pause. You waited.

“But I swear, if he breaks your heart,” Sam continued, looking Bucky square in the eye, “I will make it my personal mission to invent new ways of non-lethal pain.”

Bucky’s face softened a little. “Fair enough.”

Sam finally looked at you again. “And maybe next time don’t let him charm you on the couch I take naps on?”

You smiled, sheepish. “Noted.”

There was another long beat.

And then, like the dramatic sitcom character he absolutely was, Sam waved a hand and headed toward the kitchen.

“I’m gonna go make tea and pretend I didn’t walk in on that. You two figure out if this is real or just hormonal chaos.”

As he walked away, Bucky leaned close, his voice low in your ear.

“That went better than I expected.”

You snorted. “He threatened to invent new forms of pain.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t throw me out the window.”

You gave him a look. “Yet.”

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Note

Hello love

I really enjoy all of your content and i was wondering if you would write something about Bucky and femxreader. Angst, fluff, more angst, happy ending. Them hooking up once a while but not really dating, just casual. When reader gets knocked up and kinda spirals. She does tell Bucky but she tells him not to worry, she'll take care of it. Shes a pain in the ass stubborn and doesn't want to be inconvenient. And Bucky gets furious, because why would she do that. And reader doesn't want to make things more hard for him, because hes been dealt a shitty hand anyway, so thats the why she decides against having it. But Bucky is devastated and reader secretly wants to keep it to. Basically HUGE misunderstanding but she doesn't go through with it and Bucky is over the moon. And they both try to work things out. Even though its not planned and so on. But when they are both on the same page with the whole baby thing, she loses it or it was a false positive, like there is no baby when they go in for their first scan. But now they want a baby, so they work on their relationship and try etc... and eventually have a little family...

If this is too weird to write or makes you uncomfortable i totally get it and would understand if you don't want to do this.

I already appreciate you taking the time reading this!

Thank for all the hard work and love you put into your fics!!!!

*muah* 💋

Hello there!!! I must say this was certainly a well-loved request and I hope I was able to turn it into something you’ll enjoy! Thank you so much for the care, time, and thought into sharing this with me!!! A lot of this fic is pretty angsty due to the content and I do advise to read the disclaimer before diving into it. Nonetheless, thank you for the kind words and happy reading!!!

Built From Loss

Summary: You and Bucky were never supposed to be serious, just something casual, simple, and unspoken. That is until a surprise pregnancy sent you spiraling and pushed him into a fury you didn’t expect. After heartbreak, healing, and choosing each other for real, you build a life together, one filled with grief, growth, and the family you never knew you both needed. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.8k+

Disclaimer: ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Grief. Scenes that reflect/are similar to having a miscarriage. A few time skips. Pregnancy. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You and Bucky had an understanding.

It wasn’t love. Not officially. It wasn’t anything serious. No labels, no messy attachments. Just long nights tangled in sheets, moments stolen in quiet corners of the Tower, and a mutual need for something that felt human in a world that so often wasn’t. You never stayed the night, never called first, and never expected a “what are we?” talk.

And that was fine. That was safe.

Because you’d seen what happened when people tried to ask for more. Relationships in your line of work didn’t often survive. Feelings got people killed. Or worse, they made you weak, and you’d worked too hard to be seen as anything but capable.

So when the nausea started, you ignored it. When your chest ached and you missed your period, you rationalized with stress or hormones. Maybe a cold. It wasn’t until you stood shaking in your bathroom with a test in hand, staring at two faint pink lines, that reality punched you in the ribs.

You were pregnant.

Pregnant with Bucky Barnes’ baby.

You sat on the cold tile floor, knees pulled up to your chest, and let the silence settle like dust around you. The world didn’t end. The building didn’t fall down. But something inside you cracked.

There was no plan for this.

You weren’t the kind of person who got pregnant. You were the kind of person who avoided feelings, who kept people at arm’s length, who prided herself on being low-maintenance and invincible. And now? You were a walking contradiction. A walking liability. A complication Bucky didn’t ask for.

So you made a decision.

You wouldn’t tell him. You couldn’t. It would ruin everything. Your dynamic, your fragile trust, and the little unspoken comfort that came from pretending you weren’t already halfway in love with him.

But you did tell him.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe a part of you needed to see what he’d say. Maybe you just… wanted him to know, even if it was only for a moment. So you waited until you knew he’d be alone, found him in the training room with sweat slicked down his neck and his fists taped.

And you told him.

“I’m pregnant,” You admitted quietly, arms crossed, and trying not to look him in the eyes. “It’s yours.”

His world slowed to a halt. You could see it in the way his body tensed, every inch of him going rigid like he’d been yanked back to the war or to Hydra or to one of the million things that had taken choice away from him. You hated that you’d done this to him. That you were another problem he’d never asked for.

“I’m handling it,” You added quickly, before he could speak. “You don’t have to worry about it. I just thought you should know.”

You didn’t tell him how terrified you were, how much a part of you secretly wanted to keep it, or how your hand had drifted over your stomach that morning without thinking.

You just stood there, waiting for him to be relieved. Maybe even grateful. Because if he didn’t want this, neither did you.

You were doing the right thing. Weren’t you?

But when you saw his expression, you realized you weren’t actually sure what reaction you expected from him.

Shock, maybe or silence. You thought he’d give a tight nod and a quick exit. Maybe he’d feel relief even, hell, maybe even indifference. That would’ve hurt, but it would’ve made this easier. You had braced for that.

But not this.

Not the way Bucky stared at you like you’d ripped something out of him. Not the way his expression cracked, so visibly and so fast, you were certain you’d never seen him look so… wrecked.

“What do you mean you’re handling it?” He asked slowly, voice gravel-deep, controlled only by a fraying thread.

Your throat felt dry. “It’s not– Bucky, come on. You and I both know this wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s not– this isn’t what you need in your life right now.”

He took a step toward you, fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild. “You think I don’t need you? You think I wouldn’t want… this?”

That stunned you into silence.

The words echoed strangely in your ears. You’d always been a temporary fix, a comfort in passing. That was the unspoken deal. This wasn’t supposed to become real.

He kept going, voice rising just enough to make your heart stumble, like he was unable to stop himself.

“You think I’ve ever had a choice in anything?” “You think when Hydra was ripping my mind apart, I got to choose who I was?” “You think when I got it all back, I didn’t wonder what the hell was left for me?” “And now I get told maybe—maybe—I’ve got something that’s mine, and you’re just gonna decide I don’t get that either?”

Your chest squeezed. His eyes were burning. And not with anger but with grief.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” You whispered.

“You didn’t even ask me.”

That broke something in both of you.

He stepped back like your silence had hit him harder than any Hydra agent ever could. His shoulders fell. His mouth opened to continue before he closed it again. Then he turned away and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh.

You felt like you were floating outside your body.

Maybe you should’ve asked. Maybe you should’ve given him the chance to tell you what this meant to him. But everything about this felt impossible: too messy, too fast, and too much. And you were always the one who didn’t ask for too much.

That was the whole reason he liked you, right?

Low maintenance, easy, and detached. Not emotional, not vulnerable, and not pregnant.

“I didn’t think you’d want this,” You said, too quiet. “I thought you’d feel trapped.”

He turned back toward you. His jaw clenched.

“You weren’t a mistake,” He said sharply. “You think anything we’ve been doing has felt casual to me? Jesus… have you even looked at me lately? You think I stare at anyone else like I stare at you?”

You blinked. He was right. You just hadn’t let yourself believe it. You’d pushed it down, told yourself none of it meant anything because it wasn’t allowed to mean anything.

You opened your mouth to apologize. He beat you to it.

“I should’ve said something sooner. I should’ve told you what I wanted instead of assuming you didn’t want the same.”

You shook your head. “No. This is on me.”

But he stepped closer again, gentler this time. One hand hovered near your arm, not touching, just waiting.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” He said, softer now. “Not if you don’t want to.”

And that was when your walls finally cracked.

You didn’t cry, but instead leaned forward and let your forehead press against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around you like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You still didn’t know what was going to happen. You were still scared. Still overwhelmed.

But now, at least, you weren’t alone.

And that changed everything.

Everything between you and Bucky shifted after that day.

He didn’t just show up, he stayed. Walked you to appointments, made your tea in the mornings, and sat next to you on the couch when the anxiety got too loud. He asked about how you felt. He let you lean on him even when you didn’t know how. He kissed you like he was trying to make a home out of every second.

You hadn’t planned on having anything with him. But somehow, you started planning anyway. Not with calendars, names, or Pinterest boards; but with the way he pulled you close when you woke from a nightmare. With the way his hand always found yours under the table during team meetings or with the way he whispered We’ll figure this out into your skin when the doubt crept back in.

You caught yourself dreaming of soft blankets and tiny socks. Of a nursery you didn’t have yet, of a future you didn’t even know you wanted until now.

And Bucky? He never missed a moment.

He’d never admit it, but he was excited. Nervous, yes, but you saw the way he lit up every time he talked about the baby: “Maybe they’ll have your eyes or your sarcasm. Or maybe my hair.” The thought of someone small, someone half you and half him, gave him something to hold onto. Something that was finally his.

The first scan came faster than expected.

The exam room was too bright, too cold. Your fingers were locked with his as the tech rolled the wand over your stomach. Bucky had barely blinked the entire time. His grip on your hand was steady, but his knee bounced nervously, like he couldn’t quite keep all the emotion still.

The silence stretched.

The technician tilted her head. Clicked a few buttons then tilted her head again.

You knew. You felt it. Something was wrong.

You didn’t want to be the one to say it. You just kept staring at the monitor, looking for something, anything that would tell you this wasn’t what it felt like.

The woman’s voice was soft, apologetic, and clinical even when trying not to be.

“I’m… I’m sorry. There’s no heartbeat.”

You blinked at the screen. You stared at the blur of grey and white static, your mind refusing to connect the words with what they meant.

“I don’t understand,” You whispered. “I–I took the tests. I’ve been sick. I–”

“It may have been a false positive,” She explained gently. “Or… it may have stopped developing early on. It happens. It’s no one’s fault.”

But that didn’t stop it from feeling like one.

Bucky’s hand slipped from yours. Not because he pulled away, but because you went numb. You sat there with your legs still covered in the crinkling paper, your shirt hiked up, and the gel still on your stomach.

You didn’t cry. You just felt hollow. Like something had been carved out of you without warning. The woman gave you two some space, stepping out of the room for a moment.

Bucky moved slowly, standing and crouching beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. He just rested his forehead against your arm and stayed there, breathing unevenly, like his lungs didn’t quite work right anymore.

“I wanted them,” He said after a long time, voice breaking. “I didn’t even know I could want something like that, but I did.”

You reached for him, fingers trembling as you touched his hair. He leaned into you, and suddenly you realized you weren’t comforting him, he was keeping you from falling apart.

“I did too,” You admitted, and this time, the tears came.

The rest of the day blurred.

They let you leave through the back door so no one would see you cry in the lobby. Bucky held your coat for you, carried your bag, and kept his arm around your shoulders as if he thought you might disappear. Maybe he was afraid you would.

You spent the night on his couch. There wasn’t any talking, just existing in the same space and surviving the heartbreak in the same room.

There was no baby. There was nothing in your belly but silence.

But something still lived in that space between you and him, and neither of you were willing to let it go.

The grief didn’t come all at once.

It snuck in slowly, between sips of coffee and empty spaces where a hand used to rest on your stomach. It curled up in the quiet between conversations, in the way Bucky looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. It lived in the routines you never got to build, the milestones you never got to reach.

For a while, you didn’t know how to talk about it.

You’d wake up in his bed and wonder if it still made sense to be there. He’d make you breakfast without asking how you were. You’d both pretend everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

You were two people grieving a future that had never really existed.

Except..in a way it had. Because hope was real, because plans had started to form, and because you’d let yourself imagine life with him, not just next to him.

One night, nearly two weeks after the scan, it all cracked open.

You were sitting beside him on the floor, your legs stretched out and a blanket tossed over both of your laps. You were staring at the muted TV, neither of you watching it.

“I keep thinking I did something wrong,” You whispered.

His head turned immediately, eyes narrowing.

“You didn’t,” He said, with such finality that it made you flinch. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t start that.”

“I know,” You said. “I just… I can’t stop feeling it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, “Me too.”

You looked over at him. Bucky wasn’t great with words. He never had been. But something had softened in him over the last few months, especially when it came to you.

“I keep thinking if I hadn’t hesitated that day, maybe you would’ve told me sooner,” He said. “Maybe we could’ve been more ready. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so damn much.”

You frowned. “You think I didn’t want it just because I panicked?”

He met your eyes. “Did you?”

You swallowed hard. The answer was fragile, but it was still the truth.

“No,” You said. “I wanted them. I think… I was scared of what it would mean. What it would do to you. I didn’t want to be one more burden around your neck.”

“You’re not a burden,” His voice was low, certain. “You’ve never been.”

Silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t heavy.

You rested your head against his shoulder. He leaned into you like he needed it too.

“Do you still want this?” You asked softly.

He didn’t pretend not to understand. Didn’t dodge or change the subject.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I want it with you.”

You turned to face him, heart catching. He looked tired, still grieving, still healing; but there was light behind his eyes. There was something unshakable beneath the pain.

“I think I do too,” You said.

“You think?” He teased, lips twitching.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

His arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close. “We don’t have to rush it, but I want to try again. When you’re ready, when we both are.”

“And if it doesn’t happen again?”

“Then we keep trying, or we don’t. Doesn’t matter. You and me? That’s what I want.”

The tears came again, but this time, they didn’t sting the same way. These ones weren’t hollow. They were warm and grounding, healing.

You kissed him. Slow and soft as he kissed you back like he was choosing you all over again.

This time, with no rules.

No maybes.

Just you and whatever came next.

Trying again didn’t mean pretending it never happened.

There were still quiet days where you didn’t talk much, where he held you longer in the morning and didn’t ask questions when you stared too long at the window. There were nights when Bucky would wake up sweating, arms trembling around you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He never said what the dream was, but you always knew.

But now, you talked, really talked. When the sadness crept in, you let it stay a while instead of hiding it. And when hope flickered again in that faint and unfamiliar way, you didn’t shove it down.

You’d never planned on being in love with James Buchanan Barnes.

And yet somehow, you found yourself brushing your teeth beside him each night, folding his clothes with yours, learning how he liked his coffee, and where he liked to be touched when words failed him. He made you laugh again, when you didn’t think you had laughter left. And you made him smile without the weight he usually carried behind it.

Trying for a baby wasn’t romantic at first. It was awkward, clinical sometimes, a mix of schedules and tests and disappointing results. You told yourselves you weren’t getting your hopes up. You were just seeing what happened.

But the truth was, every time your period was late, your breath caught. Every time you held your stomach absentmindedly, Bucky’s eyes softened.

And honestly, you weren’t even sure exactly when it finally happened.

You’d been tired for days, really tired, and the smell of Bucky’s protein shake had made you gag. You hadn’t mentioned it because you didn’t want to hope.

But then Bucky found the test you hadn’t meant to take.

You’d left it on the edge of the sink, still sitting there while you paced in the hallway, unable to look at it.

He picked it up and came out holding it with both hands, like it was something sacred.

And then he smiled slowly, like the sun coming through winter.

“Sweetheart,” He said, voice almost shaking. “It’s positive.”

You stared at him, frozen.

“What if it’s like last time?” You whispered. “What if we get excited and it’s not–”

His hands cupped your face, grounding you.

“Then we’ll hurt together,” He said. “But this time, we can hope together every step of the way.”

The first appointment came with fear, but also something else.

You were lying on the table again, holding Bucky’s hand in the same room near the same machine, but everything felt different. The tech clicked buttons, moved the wand, and then: there it was.

A heartbeat. Tiny. Steady. Real.

You both cried. Neither of you tried to hide it.

He kissed your knuckles over and over as he whispered, “There you are…”

That night, you curled up against him on the couch and let him rest his hand on your belly for the first time. There was no pretending it wasn’t happening. No fear of being too much. Just the warmth of his palm and the rise and fall of your breathing together.

“I still don’t know how we got here,” You murmured.

“I do,” Bucky said, tracing slow circles on your skin. “We stayed.”

The last month of your pregnancy felt endless.

You were heavy, tired, and sore in places you didn’t know could hurt. Bucky was worse. He was hovering like a nervous shadow, trying not to hover, and constantly checking in. He massaged your back every night, timed your contractions more than once only to groan when it turned out to be false labor, and you were pretty sure he had a go-bag packed in three different closets.

You’d never seen him like this.

So soft, so devoted, and so in awe of everything about you even when you were snapping at him for breathing too loud or crying because some Instagram post made you emotional.

“You’re doing great,” He kept whispering. “You’re doing so damn good, sweetheart.”

And then one night, it was time.

It was messy, loud, and terrifying. But Bucky was there for every second whether it was for holding your hand, kissing your temple, or whispering just one more push with tears in his voice and a strength in his arms you could lean into when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

And when it was over–

You heard the cry.

High-pitched, beautiful, and alive.

They placed the baby, your baby, on your chest. And the whole world cracked wide open.

Bucky didn’t speak for a long time. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on the two of you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he reached out, gently ran a trembling finger down the baby’s cheek.

“Hey, little one,” He murmured. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

You looked at him through bleary, exhausted eyes.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” You whispered. “Any of this.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” He said. “But maybe we both do.”

And so, weeks passed.

You learned quickly how to change diapers with one hand. Bucky learned how to swaddle like a pro. There were sleepless nights, quiet mornings, and little moments that made the exhaustion worth it. Sometimes it was a tiny fist curled around his pinky, their first sleepy smile, or the way the baby settled instantly when resting against Bucky’s chest.

Sometimes you caught him rocking the baby in the nursery, whispering old lullabies in a language he barely spoke anymore. You’d stand in the doorway and watch, heart full of something too big to name.

One night, you said it out loud.

“We made a family.”

Bucky looked up at you, eyes soft.

“Yeah,” He said, grinning. “And maybe we’re gonna mess it up sometimes, but we’ll love the hell out of each other while we do.”

You stepped into his arms and held him close, your baby sleeping in the crib nearby.

For a man who never thought he’d have anything of his own, he had you.

And for a woman who never thought she’d be wanted, you were everything.

Your family wasn’t perfect or initially planned, but it was whole and full of life.

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @eeveedream @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake @hits-different-cause-its-you @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @mouseratface @mel-reads

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 20 days ago

Text

7 Firsts With Bucky

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Content: a little bit of everything - fluff, angst, smut (p in v unprotected sex), oral sex (m & f receiving), pregnancy, marriage, the whole enchilada

Synopsis: Snippets of seven pivotal moments in your life with Bucky that turned into your forever.

A/N: I wrote this fic to celebrate 700 followers - thanks guys! My blog is a bit chaotic - you never know what you’re going to get, but I guess some of you like that! Thanks for sticking around. I hope you enjoy this! 💗 Also fun fact: this was legit what my first date with my husband was like lol I did indeed fall asleep on his shoulder during the movie but hey my smooth moves seemed to work in my favor!

The First Spark

You wait patiently on the Quinjet. It was supposed to be a quick extraction. In and out. Easy. Simple. You were no Avenger, but you knew it was taking too long. Something was wrong. Something must have happened.

“You’re biting your nails again,” Ashton mutters, raking a hand through his blonde hair. You look at your colleague and shrug.

“Do you think they’re okay?” You ask him, pacing the length of the jet, filled to the brim with nervous energy.

“We’re about to find out. Besides, that’s what we’re here for. Don’t get all worked up. Send anyone with an open wound to me. You take any breaks or fractures.”

You nod. You’ve done this countless times. You don’t know why you’re so anxious all of a sudden.

“Here they come,” Ashton announces, standing up and walking to the entrance. You can see Yelena clutching at her side, hunched over in pain. Alexei is helping Bucky up the ramp as he limps, not bearing weight on one foot. Walker has a clear bullet wound in his shoulder. Yeah, this definitely didn’t go to plan.

Yelena sits down on the bench, breathing slowly and carefully. “Ash, take Walker first. He got shot.” Ashton nods as Walker settles in for bullet extraction and stitches, steel-faced and ashen.

“Yelena, are you okay?” You ask, assessing her.

“I’m fine. Superficial wound. Bucky fucked up his ankle. Take care of him.” She nods to the injured super soldier hobbling toward the bench. You rush to his other side, letting him rest an arm around your shoulder as you lead him to take a seat with Alexei’s help.

“What’d you do this time, Barnes?” You ask quietly.

“Nothing impressive. I… tripped over Walker’s shitty shield,” he grunts, plopping down and hissing before glaring over at John. “He dropped it and I didn’t see it before… yeah. It’s embarrassing.”

“Let’s take a look,” you say, gently unlacing his boot. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, his jaw clenching as you carefully work his heavy boot off his swollen foot. You remove his sock and examine the bruises and swelling, softly flexing it and moving it around. “Yeah, it’s definitely a sprain, but you should heal up soon with that serum running through your veins. Until then, let me grab you an ice pack.” You scoot an empty crate his way and point to it. “Elevate!” He lifts his foot and sets it down on the box slowly as he watches you.

You bring an ice pack back and press it to his ankle, sitting down halfway on the crate. You settle your other arm on his calf, steadying yourself as the Quinjet takes off. He’s strong - sturdy. You always knew this, but actually feeling his flesh, bone, and muscle under your own hands was a different story. He’ll be fine in no time. You look at Bucky’s face and give him a reassuring smile. He actually smiles back at you - a rare occurrence.

“You probably think I’m a wuss,” he muses, shaking his head and looking at his foot.

“No,” you start, and lower your voice, “you’re just a human, Bucky. And you got hurt. Even if you tripped over the shield like an old man.” He grumbles at your jab and huffs, but that half-smile remains on his face. It even reaches his eyes this time. You shift on the crate, not used to being on the receiving end of his grin.

“Regardless, thanks for taking care of it… of me,” he tacks on gruffly, but his eyes are soft.

“Just doing my job,” you remind him, searching his eyes.

He looks down to your hand still on his calf and nods. “Right, just doing your job.”

You pick your hand up immediately and put it in your own lap.

“Do you want some water or anything? I should get you some pain meds.” You jump up and start toward the makeshift infirmary. He looks pained as you walk away from him, but nods his head when you ask about water.

You grab two from the mini refrigerator that Ashton keeps stocked along with two extra strength painkillers before walking back to Bucky. The Quinjet lurches a bit and his ice pack clunks to the ground. He starts to bend over to retrieve it, but you stop him with a hand. “I’ve got it,” you say calmly, handing him a water and the two pills. You pick up the ice pack and adjust it carefully over his ankle, looking at his face for any signs of pain. His eyes don’t leave yours as he downs the water and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, sighing. “Really. You’re good at this.”

“At putting ice packs on sprained ankles?”

He smiles, but shakes his head. “At taking care of people.”

He silently wonders if someone is taking care of you and hopes that you’re not spoken for. He makes a promise to himself right then and there to find out when you all got back on land and back to the Watchtower. It’s time to “shoot his shot” or whatever Sam says.

The First Date

Valentina said it was fine, since you’re technically not an Avenger. So here you are, curling the last strands of your hair in the bathroom mirror. Bucky asked you out quietly a few days ago, not wanting to cause a scene if you weren’t into the idea or him. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or pressured into anything, especially since you kind of sort of worked for him. It was a murky area.

Earlier that week…

It was a random Tuesday morning. You were helping Ava with a torn rotator cuff in the small infirmary wing off the gym. Bucky walked in as Ava walked out, pretending to look for more hand wraps. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

“Hey Bucky,” you said, looking up from your laptop where you were charting Ava’s progress. “You need something?”

He smiled. “Hi. I’m just outta tape for my hand. Getting more wraps.” He gestured to his right hand and flexed his fingers. No need for protection with the left.

You nod toward the cabinet. “There should be some in there.”

He walked over to the cabinet, but didn’t open it. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. His eyes were fixed on the floor like he was trying to find any specks of dust you’d missed cleaning last night.

“What?” You asked, brow furrowed.

“I lied. I don’t need tape,” he muttered, looking over at you.

Your stomach flipped. This wasn’t his usual behavior. You closed your laptop and really looked at him. “Okay… is everything alright?”

“Yeah, uh - I don’t know how to do this,” he started, running a hand down his face. “So I’m just going to ask. Do you want to go see a movie this weekend? Maybe get some food?” He swallowed nervously and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

“A movie and food? Like a date?” You clarified, eyeing him curiously. You did your best to keep your calm, but inside your heart was pounding.

“Yes, a date. With me.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile, butterflies flapping their wings erratically in your stomach. “I’d love that.”

Bucky blushed immediately and the smile that crept across his cheeks didn’t retreat for the rest of the day.

Now…

Now he’s here, waiting with a bouquet of wildflowers outside your front door. He hopes it isn’t too forward. Do people still bring flowers to first dates? Was he overdressed? You open it and take him in. His hair is slicked back. He’s wearing a black button-down dress shirt under his coat and black jeans with boots. He looks handsome and charming and nervous as hell.

“Hi,” he says quietly, offering the bouquet to you. You take it and invite him in with a soft smile.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this,” you say. “Let me put these in a vase. How’d you know I love lavender?” You walk to the kitchen and fill a ceramic vase up with water before arranging the flowers in it and setting it on the dining table. He knew because you smelled like lavender any time you walked past him in a rush to help a teammate or leaned in close to examine a pulled muscle or sprain. The calming scent won’t leave his nose, and he’s just fine with that. “Let me just get my purse.”

He stands there politely, hands behind his back, watching you flip off a few lights and grab your bag and coat. He holds out a hand and takes your coat from you, helping you shrug into it.

“Such a gentleman,” you muse, tying the coat belt around your waist. “Thank you.”

“I’m just old school,” he mutters. “You ready? You look really beautiful by the way. I mean, you always look beautiful, but especially tonight. I should have said that already.” He’s blushing like a school boy.

You feel blush heat your cheeks as well and slip your arm through his. “You clean up nicely yourself, Barnes. Lead the way. And don’t be nervous. It’s just me.”

Dinner is delicious. A little Italian joint downtown. Quiet. Dim lighting. Nice, but not in your face fancy. You both discuss your families, your favorite movies, books, and hobbies. Beloved pets. Worst first dates. Your dream vacation. By the time the check comes you’ve split a bottle of red and a slice of tiramisu. Bucky pays quietly, not making a show of it. He’s a gentleman, after all, and you’re not quite used to such sweet treatment. “You have cocoa on your lip,” you tell him, looking down at his perfect pink pout. He blushes and wipes it away with his napkin.

The movie showtime is much later than what you’d normally go to, but you walk into the building feeling wide awake, holding hands like it’s second nature, not like it was your first time. He’d offered his as you walked to the theater, and you accepted gratefully. His hand is warm and calloused and encompasses your own entirely. He feels safe. Yes, it’s exciting, but there’s a layer of peace and safety surrounding it that feels different. It feels right.

You settle into the crook of his neck (God, he smells good) as the movie is almost over and feel your eyelids flutter once, twice, three times, before closing. The next thing you know Bucky is rousing you awake by rubbing your arm gently. “It’s time to go,” he whispers. His heart is more full than it’s been in decades. You fell asleep on his shoulder - like he wasn’t a former assassin, like he wasn’t a weapon, but like he was simply a man on a date with a woman he had dangerously serious feelings for already. You wake and blush, not believing that you let yourself fall asleep on a first date. How embarrassing. How rude. You start to apologize, but can’t compute why Bucky’s eyes are soft and fuzzy as he looks at you, the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen him sport painting his face.

“Don’t apologize please,” he says, leading you out of the theater with a guiding hand on your middle back. “That was the most relaxed I’ve felt in years.”

“Years, huh?” You ask as he opens the car door for you. He chuckles quietly, shuts your door and zips around to the driver’s side.

“Yeah, it was nice. Don’t be embarrassed. The movie wasn’t that good anyway,” he adds. You smile and steal glances at him the entire way back to your house. His profile is perfect - brow bone that slopes out just so, an adorable almost-big but not quite nose, and the softest looking lips you’ve ever seen. He side eyes you at a stoplight. “Are you staring at me?”

“Maybe,” you admit sheepishly. “You’re kind of beautiful, Bucky.” He looks over at you fully, eyes wide. You lean into him and glance down at his mouth, but suddenly the light turns and he’s focused back on the road. You sit back and sigh.

He pulls up to your place and shuts the car off. “I hope you had a nice time. I know I did,” he says, looking at you.

“I had a lovely time, Bucky. Thank you for asking me out. We should do it again.”

“We will do it again,” he promises. The car is silent save for the low hum of oldies radio playing through the speakers.

“You should kiss me,” you whisper, twisting your body toward him. He wastes no time closing the gap between the two of you, crashing his lips into yours. It’s a good kiss - deep, soft, warm, and a little wet. You break off first and vow to yourself that you’re going inside alone. You don’t want to rush this. It’s too good. Too right. Too perfect.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you whisper across his lips. He shivers.

“Goodnight,” he whispers back, saying your name. It sounds heavenly coming from his mouth, and like you want to hear it for the rest of your life.

The First Time

“Bucky!” You squeal, trying to wriggle out of his wandering hands. “That tickles! Seriously, I’ll kick you by accident if you keep tickling me!”

“I can take it,” he says gruffly, continuing his barrage of tickles to your sides, his hands coming up under your shirt, hot and heavy. He laughs and kisses you. His hands move up to cradle your face and he deepens the kiss. A small moan escapes your lips and he laughs into your mouth.

“You okay down there?” He asks with a smirk, pulling away to look in your eyes. You nod and swallow, eyes wide. His expression turns more serious as he looks at you. He sits up, shifting his weight off of you.

“Why’d you stop?” You breathe out, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Well, you, uh, you made a little noise,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Thought maybe we could use a breather.”

“What if I don’t want a breather?”

“You don’t want a breather?” He asks, scooting closer to you again. You shake your head.

“Make love to me,” you whisper as his lips brush across yours. He doesn’t say anything, but you notice his breath catch on an inhale.

“Are you sure?” He asks. He feels every nerve in his body light up like they’re on fire. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. It’s… ya know, it’s been a while for me. It might not be good.”

You snort. “Are you kidding me, Bucky? It’s going to be great. But, just so I know, how long has it been?”

He swallows and looks down. “A long time.”

You narrow your eyes and pull his chin up to look at you. “What, like over a year?”

He shakes his head. “Like… decades.”

Oh. You feel your stomach twist at his apprehension. You don’t want to pressure him or make him feel uncomfortable. “Well, hey. It’s all good. We can finish our game.” You gesture to the card game you’d abandoned for a lazy makeout session a while ago.

“No. I want to. Trust me. I really want to. I just don’t want to disappoint you,” he admits.

You decide to take the reins, sensing his growing anxiety.

“You really want to?” You ask, climbing into his lap.

He nods, kissing you gently. “Really bad.” You smile at his admission and press your hips down onto his erection. This was familiar territory so far. You’d made out and dry humped, for lack of a better term, a few times, but it’d always left you wet and aching. Bucky was the same, but he knew he wanted the first time with you to be special and sexy- not awkward and over in the blink of an eye.

“Let me talk you through it, Buck,” you rasp into his ear. “You’re safe with me.” His hands grip your hips and travel up the curve of your waist. He bucks his hips up into you and you sigh.

“Okay,” he agrees, anticipation building in his chest. You stand up and offer him your hand before leading him to your bedroom. He’d been in your bed only once before, but under much different circumstances - a cold, of all things. You took care of him that night, making him soup and letting him sleep if off between your sheets. They smelled like him that night and you reveled in it.

“Buck?” You say softly.

“Yeah?”

“Just say stop if it gets to be too much, okay? I love you and I want this to be pleasurable and good for you, too.”

He visibly relaxes and kisses you deeply, his hands finding your face and holding you in place. “I love you so much.”

A few sweet minutes later, you’re on the bed, both panting and full of hunger for each other. You take your dress off in one fell swoop and toss it to the side. Bucky’s eyes travel down your body - braless, but wearing purple lace underwear. He swallows once. His jeans are doing their best to contain his raging hard-on. You take his right hand and bring it to your bare breast. He shudders and closes his eyes. His hand is warm, and he squeezes gently. His eyes search yours as he lifts his left hand and cups your other breast. The cold brush of metal peaks your nipple and a small whimper escapes him. You undress him slowly, taking in every perfect inch.

He’s lying on his back, black boxer briefs straining as you swing one leg over his waist and settle down onto his hips.

“Are you okay?” You breathe out, kissing his neck.

“Mhmm. It feels good already,” he sighs as he trails his fingertips over the hem of your underwear. You can’t help but move your hips and press into him. He moans at the contact. You lean forward, letting your breasts brush against his bare, muscular chest. He grabs your ass, pushing you further into him, rocking you in his lap. “God, I want you. Now.” He growls and licks his lips, his eyes full of lust.

You guide his hands back to your underwear and let him remove them. You take his boxers off, too, and finally see his full length spring free. Fuck. He watches your eyes widen at his size and sniffs out a laugh.

“How do you want me, Buck?” You ask as you take his length in your hand and start pumping him. His eyes close and he moans. He’s louder than you expected and you clench at his enthusiasm. Your thumb moves over the leaking slit at the tip of his dick and his eyes fly open - his expression is dark. He rolls so that you’re pinned under him.

“Like this. I want to see your face when it goes in,” he husks. Oh my God - where did this confidence come from? You’re not complaining though.

“Sounds like you’re going to talk me through it,” you tease, pressing your wet folds up to meet his erection.

“Maybe I am. Baby, let me feel you,” he whines, pressing the tip in ever so gently. You gasp at the pleasure that’s somehow already building. He braces himself around you, his strong arms holding up his weight, but you hate the distance between you. You pull him down so that he’s relaxed on your body and feel the glorious stretch as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck,” he whimpers, his voice raising an octave. “I knew you’d feel like Heaven, but this tight little pussy is better than I could have dreamed.”

“Who knew you had such a dirty mouth, Sarge?” You breathe out. He chuckles and finds his rhythm between your legs - one of his new favorite places.

“I’m close,” he grunts after just a couple minutes, but you don’t care because you’re on the edge too.

“Come with me!” You cry out, wrapping your legs around him. “In me baby. Don’t you dare pull out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he cries out as you both come. “Fuck baby. You’re amazing.”

You start laughing. Maybe it’s endorphins. “I don’t know what you were so nervous about, Bucky!”

“It’s been DECADES!” He reminds you, clutching his chest as he starts to laugh with you.

“Could have fooled me,” you say, rolling over to kiss him.

“Round two?” He asks and you nod.

The First Fight

You watch Bucky pace up and down the hall of your apartment, running his hands through his hair. His cheeks are tearstained.

“Why? Why are you doing this?!” You rasp, your voice full of gravel from crying.

“Because I don’t deserve you. You’re too good. I’m - I’m a fuckup. My past… it’s not something you should have to deal with,” he mutters, hands on his hips in defiance.

“You’re trying to ruin this. Why? You deserve good things. I deserve good things!” You cry, trying to make him see your side. “This is self sabotage, James. That’s what it boils down to. We have something so good and you think you aren’t worthy of it.”

“It’s not self sabotage,” he says, spitting out your name. “I’m trying to protect you! To look out for you! Can’t you see that?!”

You swallow the lump in your throat that hasn’t gone away since Bucky uttered “I think this is all happening too fast” a half hour ago. The evening was going perfectly. He brought over takeout and you were watching some crappy reality TV. It had been six months of slow kisses, after-sex cuddles, breakfast dates, walks around the city, and card games. Bliss. And now this - whatever the fuck this was.

“Protect me? From what? All you’re doing right now is hurting me, Bucky,” you spew.

“From me! Protect you from me!” He shouts, pacing again.

“That sounds like an excuse. If you don’t want this… don’t want me anymore, just say that. Don’t hide behind other shit,” you say, your sadness turning into anger.

He eyes zip to yours immediately. “Of course I want you. I never said otherwise. It’s just that-”

“You said that this is all happening too fast. What does that mean then?” You ask, crossing your arms.

He groans, sitting down on the couch and looking at you. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of this. Whatever this is. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like everything is going so perfectly, something is bound to come along and ruin it. I’m terrified.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, taking his hands in yours. “You can’t live like that. This is good, yeah? It’s so good. Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I just sometimes think you deserve someone normal. Someone your own goddamned age. Someone with two warm hands-” You cut him off there.

“I want you, old man. Can’t you see that? All of you. Every part. Every freckle. Every dimple. Every scar. Every whir and click and pop and groan. Every gray hair. The good and the bad. I’m not leaving unless you want me to, and even then I’d be reluctant.” You pull him into a hug and don’t let him go as his tears stain your shirt. “Just let it out, baby,” you say into his hair.

“I know this is scary, but it’s scary because it’s real,” you whisper. You put your forehead to his and breathe. Bucky’s chest loosens and he takes deep breaths in and out with you.

“I’m scared because I’m all in,” he finally admits. “It’s you or no one for me.”

You pull back at that comment and look at him. “What are you saying right now, Bucky?”

“You know what I’m saying,” he answers, searching your eyes for confirmation.

“I feel the same way,” you assure him. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I don’t want to ever be with anyone else.”

“Me either. I love you. I love waking up next to you, falling asleep curled around you, reading in bed together, making breakfast on Sunday mornings, slow dancing in the kitchen with you - Hell, I love folding laundry with you. I want to do all of that for the rest of my life with you.”

“I love you, James, but I need you to tell me that you deserve this. And I need you to mean it,” you say, kissing his cheeks.

“I deserve this,” he whispers. “I deserve this. I’m sorry for arguing with you. And raising my voice.”

“It’s okay, Bucky. Sometimes arguing is productive and necessary. It’s how we end the argument that matters. And this seems like a perfect resolution, doesn’t it?”

“Almost perfect,” he mutters, smirking at you.

“What would make it truly perfect?” You ask with a smile.

“If you say yes when I ask you to be my wife,” he whispers across your skin. You flush, not expecting that, but you slowly relax because you know your answer. Without a doubt.

“You don’t even have to ask,” you say, but then smile and giggle. “Although it’d be nice if you did. I want an emerald cut diamond with a gold band.” Bucky laughs heartily at that.

“I’ll get you whatever you want. Just be mine. Forever.”

“Forever yours, Bucky Barnes,” you say, kissing him, and you can feel him smile into it.

The First Look

Bucky flexes his hands to make sure he’s still alive and that this moment is real. Sam claps him on the back as the music starts, signaling your walk down the aisle. “You got this man. You deserve this,” Sam says calmly, centering him. “Oh, wow. There's your girl."

Bucky’s eyes snap up to you at the entrance. Oh, wow indeed. His beautiful, perfect, incredible bride. His girl - walking toward him - a vision in an ivory slip dress that hugs your curves like water. Your hair is pulled back, showing off the neck and shoulders that Bucky has planted millions of kisses on, soft tendrils of hair framing your flushed face. Your dad walks down next to you, arm-in-arm, trying to hold back tears. Bucky feels a lump forming in his own throat as you approach the stairs. Your dad puts your hand in Bucky’s and his entire body feels at peace. You know just how to calm him - like you were born to be the center of his chaotic universe.

You stand across from him and he takes you in from head to toe. Your cheeks are still flushed from all the attention, your freckled shoulders on display, the curve of your waist with the smallest swell across your abdomen - the one that only the two of you knew about - and the beginning of the rest of your life right in front of your glassy eyes.

“You look exquisite,” he whispers, holding both of your hands in his own. “This is already the best day of my life.” You smile and look down, playing coy, before looking back up at him.

“You look so handsome, Bucky,” you reply, rubbing your thumbs across the back of his hands, grounding him in the moment. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”

“Are you ready to officially be Mrs. Barnes?” He asks, his thumb rubbing over your engagement ring - an emerald cut diamond with a gold band, of course. He was nothing if not romantic.

“I’ve been ready since I fell asleep on your shoulder on our first date,” you tease with a shy smile.

“I’ve been ready since you iced my ankle on the Quinjet,” he replies. The officiant begins the ceremony and you never take your eyes off Bucky. It goes by in a flash, and suddenly his lips are on yours and he’s dipping you during your first married kiss in front of all of your friends and family. You hear Alexei whistle from the audience and laugh into the kiss. You walk up the aisle hand in hand, smiles plastered over both of your faces.

The reception is in full swing - Yelena and Ava are showing all the kids at the wedding how to do the Macarena. Walker is dancing with Olivia, which makes you smile softly. You see Sam swaying your mom around, impressing her with his slick moves. You’re more happy than you think you’ve ever been, but then you feel Bucky wrap his arms around your waist, and realize that this is the happiest you’ve ever been.

“How’s the mocktail? Anyone on to us?” He whispers in your ear. He smells like vanilla cake and cologne and sweat, and you want to go upstairs right this second, but you pace yourself.

“It’s delicious,” you say as you take another sip. Bucky clinks his glass of whiskey against yours. “To my wife,” he says before leaning in again, “and my future baby mama.”

You giggle and set your drinks down before dragging him onto the dance floor. “Swing me around, James.”

Your first real dance as a couple is to an older song - something from Bucky’s youth. He twirls you with precision and care before planting another crowd-pleasing kiss on your lips. Photos are taken, the bouquet is tossed, and you dance with your dad. Before long you and Bucky are feeding each other cake, and at the end of the night in your honeymoon suite when you’re finally blissfully alone together, he’s feeding you in other, more lascivious ways.

“You look fucking gorgeous with my cock down your throat, Mrs. Barnes, but it’s my turn to taste you now.” Bucky relieves you and spreads your legs with rough, needy hands. Your dress has long since been discarded on the floor in a silky heap. Bucky is also naked save his bowtie. You made him keep it on - he just looks too cute. His tongue works its magic between your thighs and you lose count of how many times he makes you come undone - using his mouth, fingers, dick, even his thigh. He just wants to please you - his wife. His forever. And he does.

When you’re through with your first romp as man and wife, he trails his fingers across your abdomen slowly. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank you, James. I love you.”

“I love you baby.”

The First Steps

You sit in the armchair, both boys asleep on your chest. You feel your eyes flutter closed, exhaustion taking over. Bucky walks in at that moment after a long night training with Sam and just looks - his wife and their two boys sleeping on their perfect mama. He takes a mental picture before walking over to the three of you and picking up your eldest. His tiny head melts into Bucky’s shoulder as he carries him softly to his bedroom and tucks him in under his Spiderman (yes, Bucky cringed when he picked them out) sheets.

He pads quietly back out to the den and picks up the little guy - barely walking yet - and cradles his still bald head in the crook of his arm. The baby’s eyelashes flutter as he feels his dad’s arms surround him, but he falls back asleep quickly. Bucky lays him down in his crib and tiptoes back out to where you’re sound asleep. He pushes the tendrils of hair that have fallen into your face away and scoops you up with ease - his entire universe held safely in his arms - before taking you to the bedroom and tucking you in with a kiss to the forehead.

“I love you more,” Bucky whispers across your skin. “You’re my everything baby.”

You stir and flutter your eyes open. Bucky fills your field of vision and you smile sleepily. “Did you put the boys down? We must have fallen asleep reading books,” you rasp, voice filled with sleep.

“Yeah, they’re sound asleep,” he whispers, tracing patterns on your bare arm. “You should get some sleep too, mama.”

“Are you coming to bed?” You ask.

“I need to shower, then yes. I’ll cuddle you when I come in. Just sleep, baby.” You nod and give back into the pull of sleep easily. Bucky showers and brushes his teeth before crawling under the covers with you. He grabs his Kindle and clicks back to the book he’s in the middle of. You finally convinced him to give an e-reader a try since he loves to read in bed because you can’t sleep with the lamp on. He’ll never admit just how much he loves the thing now. Your sleeping body senses his presence and moves toward him. He opens his arm and you nuzzle into his bare chest. Eventually the rhythmic sound and feeling of your breathing pulls Bucky under and you fall asleep cradling each other.

You wake to the sound of giggles and clapping in the den. It’s bright outside already. You never sleep in this late. You throw on one of Bucky’s hoodies and pad out to the living area where your firstborn is cheering on his little brother who is taking big steps all by himself across the rug. Bucky is right there to catch him if he takes a tumble.

“Mommy’s awake!” Your son yells and rushes to you, enveloping your legs in the most precious hug.

“See? I told you she’d be up soon. Sometimes mommies need a little extra sleep because of all the hard work they do,” Bucky explains, throwing a wink your way. You bend over to kiss him, morning breath be damned.

“Who’s this big kid?” You coo at the little one. “Walking all by yourself!” He grins big at you, two tiny bottom teeth on show.

“So, we’ve been thinking,” Bucky starts, gesturing between himself and your son, “that today is the perfect day to stay home and build a pillow fort. We can watch a movie or two and just hang out together, all four of us. What do you think?”

You pretend to mull it over, but you know you’re so in. “Hmm… a pillow fort? I think we can do that!”

“YES! Can we watch the movie with the hobbits, Daddy?” He asks, looking up at Bucky with pleading eyes.

“You mean The Hobbit?” Bucky chuckles. “Sure, kiddo.”

After the fort is made and a password for entrance is established (plums) you settle in for a movie day with your boys. Does it get better than this? You’d like to see someone try.

“Did you know this movie is based on a book, buddy?” You ask your son.

“What?! No!” He exclaims, clearly enthralled.

“Yeah, it’s one of your dad’s favorites,” you inform him.

“Woah, Daddy, really?”

“Yeah, I read The Hobbit in 1937 when it first came out,” Bucky says proudly.

“You’re so cool, Daddy!”

“Yeah, you’re so cool, Daddy,” you whisper, winking at him. He takes your hand in his and kisses it softly.

The First Heartbreak

Just when you both thought your hands were full with your two boys, along came your third, and what a surprise she was. She’s been wrapped around Bucky’s finger since the moment she came into the world. Now, sixteen years later, he’s snapping pictures on his phone as she walks down the stairs in her Prom dress. Your oldest is off at college, and your middle child couldn’t be more uninterested in going to Prom. He’s downstairs playing drums, tuning out the world. Three kids - all so different, yet all yours.

You wrap an arm around Bucky’s waist and rest your head on his shoulder. “She looks beautiful.”

“She’s the spittin’ image of her mama,” Bucky whispers, kissing your head.

“But she has your eyes,” you add, looking up at him. Your daughter walks to you both and smiles.

“He should be here any minute! He texted me that his dad let him borrow the Mustang!” She squeals.

“Just make sure he comes in so I can talk to him,” Bucky says, hugging her, careful to avoid her perfectly done hair.

“Of course, Dad,” she agrees.

You snap a few more pictures before you hear a honk outside, and you see Bucky’s back tense.

“I know that young man didn’t just honk at my daughter,” he growls. You place a hand gently on his arm, trying to calm him.

“He’s just a kid,” you say. “He probably didn’t mean it to be rude, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his shoulders and opens the front door. “Dad! Don’t scare him!” Your daughter begs, but Bucky keeps walking to the obnoxiously orange Mustang parked out front. Loud music blasts from the car speakers. His irritation grows as the boy doesn’t even exit the vehicle as Bucky approaches him. He huffs and taps on the window with his knuckles. The window rolls down.

“Hey, man!” Your daughter’s Prom date (God help you) spouts to Bucky. “How’s it hanging?”

“Be hanging a lot better if you got out of the car, son,” he groans. “Come on.”

The boy shrugs and turns off the car, exiting and following Bucky inside. Your daughter is waiting patiently, holding the boutonniere she picked out for him. Lavender.

“Hi!” She says excitedly as her date enters your home.

“Hey girl,” he replies, shoving his hands in his tux pockets. “Oh shit,” he says, looking at the boutonniere. “I forgot your corsage at home!” You watch as Bucky’s eyes roll and he crosses his arms across his chest.

“Really?” He directs this question to your daughter, looking between her and her date. “This guy?”

“Daddy, be nice. He just forgot,” she explains, walking to him. “Now take your pictures so we can get going!”

Bucky reluctantly lets her go with him after a few photos and a private chat on the front porch about boundaries, safety, and how his left arm is a weapon saved just for him if he touches her the wrong way. Her date gulps and promises to be on his best behavior.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Bucky lets out a huge sigh.

“You have to let her make her own choices babe,” you say, shrugging. “Even if you don’t agree with those choices. She’s a smart girl. She won’t do anything too wild.”

“I’m not a fan,” he says with a grimace. “Let’s order pizza and watch a movie or something. I have to get my mind off of it. And I’m not going to bed until she’s home safely.”

You chuckle and agree.

Later that night…

You and Bucky are still up, two glasses of wine in. Your son had gone to bed an hour ago, so it’s just the two of you in the den. His hand is under your shirt and your breath is heavy on his neck. You start to unbuckle his belt, but you both hear a key unlocking the front door and sit up to cool off. Your daughter busts in with tears streaming down her face. Bucky immediately stands up and walks to her.

“Where is he?” He asks calmly, but his voice is full of rage.

“He was backing out before I came in,” she says through choked sobs. Bucky rubs her arms before heading outside. You comfort your daughter on the couch.

Bucky rushes to the orange car and knocks on the window, hard. The boy rolls it down.

“I didn’t touch her. I swear!” He yelps.

“Get out of the car,” Bucky growls. “Tell me what happened. And you’d better not lie to me, kid. I may be retired, but my arm isn’t.”

The boy explains that his ex girlfriend that he’s still into showed up at the Prom with another date. Drama and chaos ensued from there, and he ended up dancing with his ex all night instead of Bucky’s daughter.

“That’s disappointing,” Bucky says softly. “She was really looking forward to tonight. Listen, get home safely. And promise to leave my girl alone. She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken like that.” The boy nods and gets back into his car before speeding off.

Bucky walks back into the house to see her resting her head on your shoulder. Some of her hair has come out of her updo and she’s kicked her heels off.

“Honey, why don’t you go to bed?” He tells you. “I’ll be in there in a bit.” You nod and kiss your daughter goodnight. Bucky sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to him.

“Hey rockstar. Rough night, huh?” He says as she settles in next to him.

“The worst,” she huffs.

“He didn’t deserve your heart, sweet pea,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “I know you’re upset and don’t want to hear your old dad give you relationship advice, but I know a thing or two about love.” He glances up at the family photos on the mantle and smiles. “It takes a lot more than a cool car and smooth talk.”

“I know, Dad,” she says.

“Listen. There’s going to come a day when you’re going to meet someone and you’ll just know. Your world would stop spinning without them. They’d do anything for you. I mean anything. And you’d do the same in return. He forgot your corsage, sweet pea. You’re going to find someone that knows exactly how you take your coffee and how you want the towels folded. You’ll recognize their laugh from the first note in a crowd of people. You’d recognize their touch with your eyes closed. It’s about much more than the surface.”

“How are you so certain about all that, Dad?”

Bucky huffs out a small laugh. “That’s easy. Your mother is mine.”

“You guys are so in love. It grosses me out sometimes,” she says, cheering up slightly at the small talk with Bucky.

“Good. We’re supposed to gross you out. We’re your parents,” he says with a chuckle. “I love that woman more than anything.”

“Okay, enough!” She says, pretending to gag. “I don’t need a little sibling!”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. “You gonna be okay, rockstar?”

She nods and hugs her dad. “I’m going to be just fine. Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The End.

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 21 days ago

Text

Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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dickgrayson-is-a-dad · 21 days ago

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Silence the Doubt

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky comes home to find you crying and wants to silence any doubts you have about yourself.

Word Count: Over 1.8k

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, crying, insecurities, hormones, smut referenced, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: This is the second thing I've written this week with one of our men comforting a crying reader. What is up?! Part of the Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky had a soft smile on his face when he walked through the front door. You were craving ice cream earlier, and he could’ve stopped at the grocery store to get you whatever you wanted, but that didn’t seem like enough. Instead, he went outside of the city to the creamery you both loved. He was thankful that they weren’t out of your favorite flavor and even managed to get an extra pint. He also made sure to bring a cooler with him to keep it nice and cold. What kind of husband would he be if he brought you melted ice cream?

I can’t wait to see the look on your face.

His smile slipped when he heard your sniffling from the living room. His heart stopped for a moment and he practically felt the tremor in your body that happened when you tried to keep your tears at bay. Your pregnancy hormones weren’t always kind to you, which upset him. He knew it was logically something that many went through, but he didn’t like it happening to you. It made him respect you more than he thought possible because, while his situation was different, he knew firsthand what it was like not to feel in control of his emotions.

“Sweetheart? I got your ice cream,” he called out, quietly toeing his boots off. He had an iron grip on the cooler when he went into the living room, his heart aching when he spotted you, your tears shining under the light.

You were in a robe resting back against the couch cushion, but it wasn’t your usual posture. It was like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Oh, no. Was there another clothing incident? You were upset the other day when you realized you couldn’t wear an old pair of pants because you were growing. He soothed you, all while thinking and telling you how beautiful you were to him. You were so fucking beautiful he wasn’t sure how he looked at you without crying himself.

“Thanks,” you said, your smile not reaching your eyes and your tears staining your cheeks.

Bucky waited for your silent invitation to join you, like you had done with him in the past after a bad dream or episode. As much as he wanted to be in your space, he refused to invade it. He slowly made his way to the couch after you nodded, no sudden movements because he didn’t want to upset you more, and set the cooler on the table. Once again silently asking for permission once he sat down, he gazed at you and lifted a hand to your cheek. It hovered, not touching just yet, practically shaking with the need to wipe your tears away.

You answered by leaning into his touch, trusting him to comfort you, the way he had trusted you so many times before.

With one hand on your cheek and the other on your belly, he wordlessly comforted you and your growing child. He hadn’t known what it was like to be gentle for long after HYDRA, but you taught him how to not feel like he’d break everything he touched. Sprout was proof of that… that he could build something beautiful from the ashes of his former life. You were proof, too, that he deserved a life full of love and happiness.

“Talk to me, please,” he whispered. He had to know what it was that drove you to tears so he could prevent them. And if he couldn’t prevent them, he’d be beside you until they stopped.

You let out a shuddering breath when his thumb wiped another tear away. “Do you think I’ll be a good mom?” you asked brokenly.

He froze and stared at you. He had been punched, shot, stabbed, electrocuted, and worse, but your question cut him to the core. It reached into the ugliest part of him and left him shaken and cold. He didn’t understand who or what put something in your mind or heart to make you ask a question like that.

You looked back at him hopefully, but there were cracks he hadn’t seen before. It was a look he recognized because he felt it before. It happened when the poison of doubt spread, relentless and unforgiving. You were trying to hold yourself with threads and once they began to unravel they couldn’t stop. He had to help weave you back together.

“Sweetheart, Sprout is going to be so loved by you. You’re going to guide and support them, foster trust and understanding. You’re not just going to be a good mom, you’re going to be the best mom. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re you,” he promised. It wasn’t to bullshit or placate you. There was so much love in your heart and he had seen that love grow since the two of you found out you were having a baby.

Tears filled your eyes all over again, but there was no sadness this time, his support the antidote to your doubt. “Thank you,” you whimpered, wrapping your arms around him.

“Did someone say something?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. Had you spoken to someone who triggered this thought? Because he’d sort it out. Words or fists, whatever it took.

You snorted, likely sensing that he wanted to make someone hurt because you were hurt. “Just my own inner voice. I just… I started thinking, what if I mess up? What if I don’t get it right? And then I just started crying,” you continued, sniffling as he held you closer, careful not to crush you.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked curiously. He woud’ve tried to comfort you the second he heard your voice. “Please don’t say you didn’t want to bother me,” he begged.

“I know it’s never a bother. I just thought it would stop after a minute,” you assured him, making him let out a breath. “I swear, Sprout knew something was up because I felt all sorts of movements.”

Bucky smiled proudly. “Probably trying to make Mama feel better,” he said. If your baby had your kind of heart, the world would be very lucky.

“Probably,” you said, smiling down at your stomach before you sighed. “I know I’m going to make mistakes because that’s just a part of life, but you and our child are the two things I don’t want to mess up in my life.”

Bucky kissed your forehead and shut his eyes. He understood uncertainty and insecurities. Some days they were quiet, and others they screamed at you until they drowned out everything else. Ignoring them was easier said than done. Speaking of them was the same. It left you raw, vulnerable, and exposed once they were out. To share that with him meant something.

There were so many nights he stayed up with you, pouring out his heart and letting himself bleed while you held him and assured him how wonderful he was and that he had proven time and again that he was a hero. Your faith in him never wavered, never faltered. It made him stronger.

You were strong, too. It didn’t mean you didn’t break because everyone broke in one way or another. But you’d never remain shattered, not while he was around. Not when he was there to help you build again.

“First, don’t apologize for feeling anything,” he gently said. Just like his feelings were valid in your eyes, so were yours, whether they came from hormone changes or bad voices in your head that he wanted to silence. “And two, I’m telling that voice in your head here and now that you won’t mess us up because you’re amazing. Hey! Mean voice in my wife’s head, you wanna shut up and listen to me? I’m already messed up enough, so it’s not like-”

Bucky chuckled when you poked him. “You’re not messed up. You’re my husband, the best husband, and you’re going to be the best dad,” you said fiercely, pulling back so you could smile at him. The threads within him tightened around his heart, keeping him in tact as he smiled back. You meant every word. “Did you really tell the voice in my head to shut up?”

“Yep. Had to be done,” he said, reaching for the cooler. “And as the best husband, guess where I got your ice cream from?”

You straightened up with a gasp. “You didn’t,” you whispered, your whole face lighting up when he opened it and pulled out a pint. That was the look he loved, one that made him fall in love with you all over again. “You did!”

“I did,” he confirmed, handing you a spoon. He was prepared so you could dig right in. “So, I did good?” he teased.

“You did so good,” you replied, moaning when you took the first bite. “Oh, my god. I’m so sucking your dick before we go to bed tonight.”

Bucky stirred in his pants. He couldn’t help himself because your mouth was both heaven and sinful. He also couldn’t help chuckling. If anyone walked in right now, they wouldn’t have known you were in tears before that. “I’m looking forward to that,” he said. He’d also return the favor and go down on you. “But how about I read you and Sprout a book while you enjoy your treat?”

You tapped your mouth with the spoon. “Right after you have a small treat.”

Bucky cupped your cheek, the tears long gone, and kissed you with everything he had. Each move of his lips and tongue told that you were beautiful, that he loved you, and that you’d be the best mom as you were already the best wife. He wanted you to feel safe, cherished, and whole because that was how he felt when he was with you.

“I love you,” you whispered when he pulled away. If he didn’t stop, he’d be between your legs and he wanted you to enjoy your ice cream first.

“I love you, too,” he said, resting his hand on your stomach again. “I love you both more than anything.”

A soft kick told him that your baby loved you both, too.

“And by the way.” Bucky kissed your lips again. “You look beautiful.”

Your face lit up again. “Thank you.”

Moments later with a blanket around your shoulders, Bucky had a book in one hand and fed you ice cream with the other while he read. There was a shine in your eyes as you gazed at him and ran your fingers through his hair, almost like you couldn’t believe he was real. He felt the same way when he was in your orbit, but it was real. Your love, your baby, it was his life. It was his everything.

And he would always be there to silence any doubt in yourself, the way you would always do with him.

We all deserve to have someone who gets us, sees us, and will do whatever they can to push the doubt away. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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