drabblesandsnippets

[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

Main Masterlist

Banners by @cafekitsune

[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

Main Masterlist

Banners by @cafekitsune

[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

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[drabblesandsnippets]

This fic is so special to me - I'm so glad you enjoyed it! 😊🩶

Safe

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

Background: TW: (Past) SA. During times when old traumatic memories start to pop up again (for whatever random reason/trigger), I find myself seeking out art that I can connect with to help me process things. Over the years, I’ve spent endless hours searching for stories/books where the main character is dealing with sexual trauma while also trying to have/maintain a healthy sex life - this is my attempt to write that type of story (without delving into the details of the trauma).

Summary: (4k) TW: (Past) SA. Bucky’s girlfriend craves intimacy while struggling with triggers and flashbacks.

Warnings: 18+ Only. TW: Mention of past SA/trauma (very vague), flashbacks (including during sex), anxiety. Established relationship. Bucky doesn’t always sleep with his prosthetic on (who else has this headcanon?). Fluff. Praise. Enthusiastic consent. Soft and sweet Bucky. Pet names (doll, sweetheart, baby). (Unprotected) PiV. Aftercare.

---------------------------

Trauma has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it. 

One minute, you’re laughing and dancing in the kitchen with your boyfriend, his hands around your waist while he sings a song from the 40’s, and the next thing you know, you’re leaning over the sink, your knees nearly giving out as you try to remember how to breathe. 

All it took was one fleeting press of Bucky against your back and you were suddenly transported to a different time, your mind taking you back to those moments when your life irrevocably changed.

Other times, it’s less conspicuous. 

You’re on the back of his motorcycle, enjoying a peaceful ride outside the city, taking the scenic route to enjoy a bit more time together, when you’re hit with a wave of anxiety. Something in your brain made a connection to the past, and the only signal you can give Bucky is a tighter hold around his torso.

There’s not much that fazes him, given his own history and lingering struggles, but it doesn’t always make it easier. You oscillate between wanting to talk it all out and just wanting to pretend you’re fine - Bucky doing his best to meet you wherever you’re at, trying to ease your burden as best he can.

When you’re really lucky, it’s a momentary thing, your mind allowing the memory to fade so you can focus on the present. When that happens, you get to go weeks, sometimes months, without it happening again.

Of course, you’re not always that lucky. There are times when it invades the rest of your day, seeping into moments it has no business being a part of. Trying to control parts of your life that you swore it’d never touch. 

And then, there are times like now, when it sticks around. When it feels like the smallest thing sets you off, brief flashes of things you’d rather not have to think about playing out behind your eyes. Your body constantly on edge, giving you no reprieve, even when the memories finally fade out.

You’re not sure how many days it’s been, or what the initial trigger even was, your mind too preoccupied with trying not to take a trip down memory lane. The only lifeline you can cling to is knowing you have a partner who supports you as much as you support him, especially during dark times, refusing to give up on each other.

As painful as it all can be, it’s a familiar pattern, one you know you’ll eventually break free of, no matter how turbulent it gets. Until then, you ride the wave, doing everything you can to stay afloat, to allow yourself to continue to live your life, seek out the things that bring you joy and pleasure.

Yesterday was filled with laughter and adventures, Bucky taking you to some of his favorite places, whisking you off to the next destination when your anxiety started to get the better of you. As if he’s made it his mission to help you find your footing again.

Bucky’s love and patience is more than you could have ever hoped for, and as you wake up with him snuggled against your back, in the bed you’ve shared for years, the remnants of your dream trying to take hold, his name spills out of you, filling the dark silence.

In an instant, he’s awake enough to breathe your name in return, his voice husky with sleep as he asks, “You okay? S’wrong, doll?” Bucky’s aware it was probably another nightmare, or maybe a flashback, but he’s learned not to assume anything, giving you the space to decide if and how you want to be heard.

It’s not always that simple. Sometimes your voice can fail you, words getting trapped in your throat as you struggle to focus on the moment. You’re not even sure how to describe what’s happening, other than to admit that you feel on edge, like your skin is crawling, your body growing restless.

Bucky doesn’t need more explanation, his hand leaving its normal resting place on your thigh to slide along your back, his intention clear. His familiar touch draws the expected reaction out of you, a soft sigh of relief as a bit of tension leaves your body, his fingertips dancing across your shoulder blade.

Almost immediately you’re curling up, inviting him to keep going, his reverent touch spreading tingles across your skin. As intimate as it is, there’s nothing inherently sexual about it, Bucky wanting nothing more than to help you relax, to lull you back into a peaceful slumber.

Yet, your body seems to have other ideas, each tender caress of your back sending sparks of arousal to your core. It’s far from the first time, even over the past several days, but it’s yet another aspect of your relationship that gets thrown off balance during times like this.

Any other time, Bucky would read your subtle cues, happily accepting the silent invitation to touch more of you, to bring you unspeakable pleasure. Until you’re back on solid ground though, it’s not an option for him. He can’t risk pressuring you, the thought of adding more stress on top of everything you’re already struggling with too unbearable to him. 

You can’t exactly blame him. When the roles are reversed - when Bucky is dealing with his own trauma, ghosts of his past invading his mind - you follow his lead, offering him nothing more than a place to rest. A safe space, where he’s completely in control.

That’s what he’s been offering you since your brain decided to spend so much time in the past. Intimacy, in whatever form it takes, is on your terms, things never progressing unless you’re vocalizing your desires. 

Bucky’s patience is unyielding. No matter how much your soft, breathy noises of appreciation stir up his need for you, the path of his hand doesn’t alter. His fingertips continue to draw circles across your skin, exploring the contours of your back, as if he hasn’t already mapped every single inch of you. 

One of his favorite things is to touch you. To bring you comfort, to provide safety, and yes, when you allow him, to bring you pleasure. And right now, despite - or maybe because of - the turmoil broiling beneath the service, it’s what you need.

There’s a risk that things might overwhelm you. That you won’t be able to lose yourself in the moment. You try not to think about that, telling yourself that you at least deserve to try, knowing Bucky will help you through it, wherever it leads.

Your request for more remains subtle, a slight shift of your hips, pressing back into him, the evidence of his own arousal growing against your ass. Nothing changes for Bucky, his gentle touch following a trail up along your spine to the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a particular tense spot, refusing to take advantage of your trust in him.

There’s a part of you that wonders if you should just allow yourself to succumb to the sleep that’s threatening to overtake you again, but you miss him. And, as he drags the back of his fingers down to the dip of your waist, you moan softly, your thighs tensing with need, seeking out friction.

Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you, each pass of his hand along sensitive flesh making you tremble, goosebumps spreading across your skin. It’s not long before he’s able to smell you, the knowledge that his touch turns you on so much nearly enough to make him lose his resolve.

Somehow he remains steadfast, even as you shift again, arching your back and angling your hips to find more pressure, his erection trapped against the curve of your ass. There’s an ache building inside of him to grind against you, to give you what your body is so obviously asking for, your shuddering sighs encouraging him to keep touching you, waiting for permission that he knows might not come.

It’s more than okay if it doesn’t, Bucky content with easing your burdens in whatever way you’ll allow him. It’s a privilege he’ll never take for granted. 

As is the privilege of getting to bring you more pleasure. And the moment you whisper his name, followed by a barely audible utterance of “please,” he’s asking you what you need. Desperate to give you everything you desire.

It provides the catalyst to empower you to ask for more, telling him how good he feels as you shamelessly rub against him, Bucky’s own heavy breaths and words of love spurring you on. The gentle caress of his fingers never cease, tentatively dipping lower to tease along your hip, and you leave no room for doubt, quickly letting out a needy moan of “yes.”

His reaction comes as no surprise, your consent making him groan, his hard cock throbbing against you. You’re about to reach back, wanting to feel more of him, when you’re triggered without warning, your breath catching and your back stiffening, unwanted images flashing in your head. 

“Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice keeps you in place, choosing to ignore your body’s instinct to pull away, forcing yourself to breathe through it. As the silence tries to consume you, threatening to derail everything, Bucky’s hand on your hip helps you get the words out, the soft clearing of your throat letting him know a response is forthcoming.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper into the dark, grateful when he doesn’t move, his thighs flush against yours. “I don’t- I’m okay, I don’t wanna stop.” Before he can ask if you’re sure, your hand comes into contact with his arm, your fingers sliding down to gently take hold of his wrist, refusing to second guess yourself as you guide his hand higher up your body, showing him exactly what you want.

The heat of his hand cupping your breast brings you fully back into the present with him, ripping a strangled moan out of you, your back arching to grind harder against him.

“Fuck,” he exhales heavily, Bucky wasting no time in following your lead, your erect nipple pinched between his long fingers, his palm squeezing your tit as he murmurs soft words of praise. His ears are trained on you, listening for every noise he elicits, from the loud moans to the barely audible gasps, ensuring his touch remains welcome.

It’s everything you could possibly want, his leg soon finding its way between yours, Bucky barely getting a chance to ask you if it’s okay before you’re begging him to keep going. Your whine of pleasure drowns out his own noises of appreciation, his thigh pressed to your slick heat, his rock hard cock starting to leak pre-cum.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, one hand gripping the edge of the bed, giving you leverage to grind on his thigh, the fingers of your other hand still gripping his wrist, keeping him pinned to you.

“So do you, baby,” he moans in your ear, nudging his leg higher to find a steady rhythm against your swollen pussy, intent on drawing this out as long as you’ll let him. “Love when you ride my thigh like this, when you let me feel how wet you are.”

Your body takes over, chasing the high, Bucky letting you set the pace, his large hand palming your heavy breasts, the occasional pinch and playful tug of your nipples building you higher. He never lets the silence settle for too long, filling the moments between heavy breaths and barely coherent words with a string of praises, reminding you how much he loves every inch of you.

The darkness seems to amplify your senses, allowing you to get lost in the sensations, your walls pulsing with every delicious grind against your clit. You’re on the verge of begging him to fuck you, the words on the tip of your tongue when a wave of tension takes over, ruining all your plans.

Your hips falter the same time Bucky’s do, his gentle assurance of, “it’s okay,” calming your racing heart before it can beat out of control. Keeping his hand pressed to your stomach, you breathe through the confusion, trying to pinpoint the trigger before deciding to focus on how to move forward instead.

A request for more comes in the form of asking him to turn on a light, the need to see him overpowering everything else, and Bucky’s climbing off the bed, a lingering kiss and touch to keep you company until he returns. You’re kicking the covers off just as he clicks the adjoining bathroom light on, your eyes adjusting quickly to the soft glow now illuminating the room.

The irresistible image of you waiting for him has him returning to the bed within record time, his feet only pausing when his gaze drifts to his prosthetic arm, safe in its resting place in the corner of the room. He doesn’t always wear it to bed, your sex life never suffering without it, but he knows how much you enjoy having both his arms wrapped around you, the slight furrow of his brow telling you exactly what he’s thinking.

You interrupt the unspoken question, your voice pulling Bucky’s attention back to you, your unprompted words taking him by surprise. “I wanna ride you.”

“Oh really?” he asks, the former subject easily forgotten, a grin spreading at the eager nod of your head. He doesn’t need to be told twice, jumping onto the bed with a flourish, landing on his back with a soft thud, a giddy look plastered across his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, getting to your knees beside him, not missing the way his eyes travel along your curves, the peak of his tongue wetting his lips giving you momentary pause, your thighs tensing with need.

Bucky’s obviously thinking the same thing, his laughter sending a thrill down your spine as he asks, “Whatcha thinking about ridin’, doll?”

You enjoy having his head between your thighs just as much as he does, the teasing flick of his tongue along his top teeth having you shaking your head at him. “Your cock, if that’s okay with you,” you tell him, the playful grin on your face masking your concern of being triggered again if you can’t see his eyes.

“Oh, no complaints from me,” he emphatically promises, offering out his hand to help you climb on top, your worry not lost on him. You’ve been through so much together, Bucky having learned to read your body, understanding your emotions even better than you sometimes. As obsessed as he is with you, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting you, he won’t push for it, especially not tonight.

Your bodies fit together perfectly, puzzle pieces interlocking like you were made for each other, his thick cock stretching you slowly with each roll of your hips, taking him inch by glorious inch. His firm grip on your thigh encourages you to keep going, his audible grunts and gasps filling your ears, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

“Jesus,” Bucky pants, his lashes fluttering every time you let him slide in just a bit deeper, his hips tense underneath you, determined to give you complete control. “Feel so good, baby. God, I love you.”

You’re quick to nod your head, your hands finding their way to his chest, allowing you to find an easy rhythm, your eyes nearly rolling back when he bottoms out inside of you. “Oh fuck,” you whine, your hips moving on autopilot, grinding in slow circles, soon finding the perfect pressure against your clit that has you trembling on top of him.

There’s something incredibly intoxicating about being in charge of your own pleasure, especially when Bucky could easily overpower you, the occasional twitch of his hips signaling just how hard he’s working to control himself.

It leaves you breathless, your body finding a quicker pace, the head of his cock hitting that spot deep inside of you that has you seeing stars. When his name starts to fall past your lips like a prayer, his thighs tense, shifting underneath you, the new angle forcing out the words burning the back of your throat, “Bucky… baby, please. Please, fuck me.”

“Co’mere,” he growls, pulling you down on top of him, your palms finding purchase against the mattress on either side of his head, his eyes never leaving yours. With his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your lower back, he starts a slow pace, watching the pleasure play out across your face.

Bucky pulls out until your walls pulse, a prideful grin twitching at the corners of his mouth at how greedily you welcome him back in, his eyes darkening when he bottoms out, your thrusts soon meeting his.

“That’s it,” he pants, nodding his head, his hold on you grower firmer, doing his best to keep the right amount of friction against your clit. “Just like that, take whatever you need baby.” He’s aware your muscles are going to grow tired soon, your knees likely needing a break before long, but he refuses to stop until you tell him to, gritting his teeth with effort to hold his own orgasm back.

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come close to the edge yourself, only for the feeling to fade, your mind threatening to spiral into unwanted territory. Until this very moment, you’ve done a good job at holding the unwanted feelings at bay, your desire for intimacy and connection driving your actions.

Except, that’s suddenly no longer the case, a particularly sharp burst of pleasure has you closing your eyes and before you realize it, everything’s come to a standstill. The unwarranted apology dies on the tip of your tongue, a heavy sigh of frustration leaving you as you quickly shake your head, sitting up to try to regain some semblance of composure.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, taking hold of your hand to bring it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles to soothe your anxiety. “Tell me what you need.”

You breathe heavily, your bodies still connected, Bucky nestled deep inside of you, your walls spasming uncontrollably around him. There’s no reason to push through this, to ignore your body’s obvious discontent, no matter how much you want to pretend you can handle this.

It’d be unfair to subject either of you to that inevitable discomfort. The only thing you can do is face it, admit that you’re not as strong as you’d like to admit, your independent nature wanting to fight you the entire way. A gentle clearing of your throat, followed by a rough swallow and you’re bringing your awareness back to the present, your eyes finally opening to meet his once again.

One look at him and it’s easy to find your voice, his warm smile breaking down your walls like they’re paper-thin. “I need to feel you on top of me.” To feel the comfort of his weight, the safety of his embrace.

Bucky’s more than happy to oblige, trusting that you understand your own needs, knowing you’ll tell him if it becomes too much. Guiding you back down on top of him, his lips find yours, pouring all his love and devotion into the simple act as he secures an arm around you, cradling you against him in order to roll you both over.

It’s not as seamless as either of you anticipate, your tense muscles and abundant wetness causing him to slip out. Neither of you are able to hide your exhales of disappointment, Bucky’s grin meeting your own when he lines himself back up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

As grateful as you are, it’s not needed, and your hips shift, telling him everything he needs to know, the nod you give him alleviating any lingering doubt. With his weight settling on top of you, his body aligned with yours, he slides his arm underneath your shoulder to cradle the back of your neck in his palm and finally surges forward, sinking back into your tight heat. 

Your unbridled reaction spurs him on, your gasps and cries of exquisite pleasure causing heat to race up his spine, his hips setting a familiar pace. He can’t stop himself from praising you, watching you start to fall apart for him, your walls fluttering around him with every deep stroke, his body grinding hard against your clit.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, your orgasm just out of reach, sweat covering your body, the desperation written all over your face. You’re so close, Bucky’s loud groans and animalistic grunts usually enough to send you spiraling, his words causing more arousal to coat his cock, but there’s still something holding you back, your body on the verge of tensing again.

“Tell me I’m okay,” you gasp, your eyes locked on his, your hips meeting his thrusts, your body begging for release.

“You’re okay,” he promises, dropping his forehead to yours, his heavy breath fanning your face, using every ounce of energy to not succumb to the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. “You’re okay, my sweet girl. You’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.”

His steady stream of assurance has you crying out, tears pricking your eyes, the familiar tingle starting to build to unbearable heights, surely about to tease you again. Bucky refuses to give up, fucking you through it, maintaining the perfect, consistent speed, his cock bottoming out each time, the sounds of your bodies meeting in a heated rush adding to the sensations coursing through you.

“There we go,” he groans, his grip on the back of your neck tightening, holding you in place as you start to tighten around him, refusing to let you push him out. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart, just let go for me. You’re safe, you’re right where you belong.”

That’s all it takes, your mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body tenses, your limbs wrapped around him, his movements never faltering, letting you ride out the intense waves taking over your senses. You’re not even aware when your voice returns to you, a string of incoherent noises filling the air as you come hard, sobbing from the onslaught of pleasure, Bucky not missing a single second of the glorious vision unfolding underneath him.

He doesn’t allow himself to let go until he’s sure it’s what you want, your gasping pleas triggering his orgasm. With a groan of your name, he pulls you into a fiery kiss, his hips thrusting just a few more times as his pulsing cock fills you with his release.

You've been reduced to heavy pants and trembling limbs, Bucky's body shaking against yours, more sweet utterances of love and devotion being shared as you both return back to reality.

For the first time in too long, you’re able to stay relaxed in his embrace, refusing to let him move for several moments, the weight of him pressing down on you keeping you grounded. It’s not until your lungs start to ache from lack of deep breaths that you relent, letting Bucky roll you both over, your bodies continuing to draw comfort from each other.

There’s no rush to clean up, no dire need to leave the bed, the two of you remaining there for as long as you want, your mind at ease, Bucky’s steady breaths and gentle caress of your back almost lulling you back to sleep. 

This time, there’s no need to fight it. You let yourself drift off, peaceful rest once again overtaking you, Bucky content to hold you for the rest of the night, promising to keep you safe wherever your dreams take you.

---------------------------

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[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

Main Masterlist

Banners by @cafekitsune

[drabblesandsnippets]

Oh gosh, thank you! 😭🩶

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

Main Masterlist

Banners by @cafekitsune

[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom wasn't supposed to be posted until Monday 😭 imagine my surprise when I opened tumblr this afternoon to the notifications lol

I guess I'll just leave the fic as-is, but honestly I wasn't done editing it - apparently tumblr chose 'post now' instead of just saving my changes last night before I ended up in the ER for heart palpitations 🙃 - they didn't find anything wrong with me, so probably just stress/anxiety, but I'll find out for sure in a few weeks when they give me a holter monitor

It's been a hell of a few months, I swear 😂

[drabblesandsnippets]

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

Main Masterlist

Banners by @cafekitsune

[drabblesandsnippets]

Caplans Playlist Challenge

Rules:

tag me in the authors notes with the hashtag #CaplansPlaylistChallenge

Please tag the proper warnings before the fic

Please include a summary for your fic.

Can be ANY CHARACTER/FANDOM YOU'D LIKE!!

More than one person can write for the same prompts

If you’d like to write for more than one song, please make them separate fics

Can be however long you’d like the fic to be. But PLEASE use the readmore feature if over 400 words.

No deadlines, but please keep me updated!

also, please reblog this challenge for others to see!

Addicted to you - simple plan

Alone together fall out boy

Animals maroon 5

Ashes of Eden Breaking Benjamin 

Adore You Harry Styles

All of Me John Legend

Anti- Hero Taylor Swift

Attention Charlie Puth

--

Bad guy Billie Eilish 

Bad things Jace Everett

Bartender T-Pain

Bedchem Sabrina Carpenter

Before he cheats Carrie Underwood 

Before you go Lewis Capaldi 

Better than me hinder

--

Cardigan Taylor Swift

Car radio twenty one pilots 

Church fall out boy

Clumsy Fergie

Collide Howie Day

Come & get it Selena Gomez

Crazy Patsy Cline  

Criminal Fiona Apple 

--

Dancing on my Own Calum Scott

Dandelions Ruth B.

Deja vu Olivia Rodrigo  

Diary Tino Coury 

Dirty laundry Carrie underwood 

Dirty thoughts Chloe Adams

Drivers license Olivia rodrigo 

--

Easy on Adele 

Eh, Eh, (Nothing Else I Can Say) Lady Gaga

Empty Walls Serj Takien

End of Beginnings Djo 

Espresso Sabrina Carpenter

Every breath you take the police . 

--

Faint Linkin Park

Fall for you secondhand serenade

Fallin Alicia keys 

Falling Trevor Daniel

Fast car Tracy Chapman 

Feather Sabrina Carpenter

Flowers Miley Cyrus 

--

Ghost Justin Beiber

Give Me One Reason Tracy Chapman

Glimpse of us Joji

Good For You Olivia Rodrigo

Gone, Gone, Gone Phillip Phillips

--

Had Enough Breaking Benjamin

happier Olvia Rodrigo

Harder to Breathe Maroon 5

Heartbreak anniversary giveon 

Heaven Kane brown   

--

I fall apart post Malone 

I miss you blink 182

I see red everybody loves an outlaw 

I’m not the only one Sam smith  

I’m yours alessia cara 

--

Jealous nick jonas 

Juno Sabrina Carpenter

Just one yesterday fall out boy 

Just the way you are Bruno mars 

--

Keep Holding On Avril Lavigne 

The Kill 30 Seconds to Mars

Kiss From a Rose Seal

Kissing In Cars Pierce the Viel

Killer queen Queen 

--

The last of the real ones 

Leave the door open Bruno mars 

Leavin’ Jesse McCartney 

Like I can Sam smith

Lips of an angel hinder

Little do you know Alex & sierra 

--

Mama's broken heart Miranda lambert

Man down Rihanna

Misery Maroon 5

My Boo usher & Alicia key

--

Needed Me Rihanna 

Never gonna be alone Nickelback

New Rules Dua Lipa 

Not Over You Gavin DeGraw

--

Obsessed Mariah Carey

One Call Away Charlie Puth

One More Night Maroon 5

Our Song Taylor Swift

--

Paparazzi Lady Gaga

Picture KidRock & Sherry Crow 

PillowTalk Zayn Malik 

Please Don’t Leave Me Pink

--

Red Taylor Swift 

Remember the time Michael Jackson

Rolling in the deep Adele 

--

Say My Name Destiny’s Child

Say So Doja Cat 

She’s Got You Patsy Cline

Stay With Me Sam Smith

Smokin out the Window Bruno Mars 

Someone You Loved Lewis Capaldi

--

Take a Bow Rihanna

Take Me to Church Hozier

There’s Nothing Holdin Me Back Shawn Mendes

Too Good at Goodbyes Sam Smith

Trip Ella Mae

--

Unfaithful RIhanna

Unholy Sam smith

Unsteady X Ambassadors

Uptown Girl Billy Joel

--

Wait For You Elliot Yamin

Walk Me Home P!NK

Walkin After Midnight Patsy Cline

Want U Back Cher Lloyd

What a Man Gotta Do Jonas Brothers

What Ifs Kane Brown

Wolves Selena Gomex

Would You Go With Me? Josh Turner

--

You and Me Lifehouse

You Found Me The Fray

You Had Me @ Hello A Day to Remember

You Sang to Me Marc Anthony

You're Still the One Shania Twain

[drabblesandsnippets]

Just some Bucky doodles for tonight 😍

[drabblesandsnippets]

Very important question: What are some of y'alls favorite scenes from tfatws?? 😁

It's been so long since I've written anything, I'm gonna rewatch to try to find some motivation/inspiration🤞🩶

[drabblesandsnippets]

Good lord y'all, I saw him again on my way to the elevator from our monthly staff meeting - he was on his phone but he waved and smiled at me 🫠

Y'all. I don't have anyone else to tell this to that'll understand 😅 There's a new guy at work that looks a lot like this - I had to do a double take when I saw him lol

Now I'm wondering if anyone has ever told him he'd make a great Bucky Barnes 🤔😂

[drabblesandsnippets]

I know I've been MIA (dealing with horrible life stuff) but guess who I saw this morning?!

Apparently, he works for the building as part of IT (it pays to know the secuirty guards 😂) and he said hi to me 🙃

Y'all. I don't have anyone else to tell this to that'll understand 😅 There's a new guy at work that looks a lot like this - I had to do a double take when I saw him lol

Now I'm wondering if anyone has ever told him he'd make a great Bucky Barnes 🤔😂

[drabblesandsnippets]

Imagine... ('working on christmas eve')

Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

December Daze Challenge - Day 15 - @the-slumberparty

Warnings: (410w) Fluff. A tiny bit of angst. Established relationship (marriage).

Imagine Bucky missing your first Christmas Eve as husband and wife, an unexpected mission pulling him away several days prior. As determined as he was to make it home before the day was over, it was out of his control, the guilt eating away at him as you went to bed alone. He does manage to arrive early Christmas morning, the sky still dark, the beautifully decorated tree illuminating his path through the house as he silently makes his way towards you. With each step, he removes another suffocating article of clothing, desperate to join you in bed, craving the peace only you can bring him.  It wasn’t a particularly grueling mission, but being away from you during such an important time made it unbearable, even with your endless assurances that he had nothing to apologize for. As disappointed as you were in the circumstances, the last thing you’d ever do is lay the blame on him, eternally proud of the man you get to call your husband.  Seeking the warmth and softness of your body, Bucky carefully slips under the covers with your sleeping form, doing his best not to startle you. He may have missed yesterday, but he’ll be damned if you don't wake up on Christmas morning in his embrace. You begin to stir the moment his arm wraps around your midsection, Bucky’s familiar touch registering in your mind before you fully comprehend that he’s home. You went to sleep believing you wouldn’t see him until well into the afternoon and as soon as you hear his soft caress of, “Hi, my beautiful wife. Merry Christmas,” you eagerly turn to properly greet him. Few words are needed as you settle into a comfortable rhythm, Bucky’s head finding it’s place against your chest, listening to the soothing beat of your heart, each pulsing thrum washing away the remnants of the last few days. You tenderly run your fingers through his hair, occasionally massaging his scalp, smiling at his soft noises of appreciation, grateful to ease whatever guilt still lingers. Bucky’s own innocent touch never strays from your waist, fingers splayed across your curves, holding onto you as if you might slip away. As if he’s just dreamed you up, ghosts of his past trying to resurface, to convince him that you’re not real, that he'll never deserve you.  But, you ease that ache too, as you always do, welcoming more of his weight on top of you, reminding him that you’re not going anywhere. He’s stuck with you forever. In this life and the next.

Day 14 | Imagine... Masterlist | Day 16

Banners by @cafekitsune - Divider by @saradika-graphics

[drabblesandsnippets]

Imagine... ('the way the frost forms on the window')

Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

December Daze Challenge - Day 14 - @the-slumberparty

Warnings: (450w) possessive Bucky (willing reader), spanking (as punishment), rough oral, implied PiV

Imagine possessive Bucky having to punish you for misbehaving. It’s the last thing he wants of course, but it’s the only way you’ll learn not to break his rules. None of your apologies or promises to do better would sway him, the consequences of your regrettable actions coming swiftly. He puts you in one of his favorite positions, your tear-stained face pressed against the mattress, your luscious ass raised high, growing redder with every resounding slap. Bucky rubs your heated skin in between the stinging smacks, soothing you with soft praises about how well you’re taking your punishment. The spankings don’t stop until your trembling body can’t handle any more, his hand stilling the second you reach your limit, his fingers tenderly brushing away your fallen tears. He’s far from done with you though, momentarily allowing you to gather your bearings, the enticing evidence of your arousal filling his senses. The pain of having to deny you pleasure only adds fuel to the fire you’ve ignited, Bucky taking his time to guide you over to the window, the noticeable frost giving him a wicked idea. Once he’s settled in an armchair in front of you, he makes you bend over and press your sore ass against the cold glass, his smile growing at your shuddering sigh. After ensuring that you know how much he loves you, that his rules are only meant to protect you and enhance your life, he forces his leaking cock past your parted lips, driving straight into your throat without warning. Your only option is to hold onto the arms of his chair, your grip tightening as he quickly picks up the pace, chasing his own pleasure, praising you the entire time. He's soon slick with your saliva, your pooling spit mixing with the fresh tears spilling over your lashes as he gags you with his thick cock. And when Bucky asks if you’re ever going to disobey him again, there’s no reprieve from his relentless thrusts, your muffled answer forcing an appreciative groan out of him.  At the very last moment, he decides not to spill himself down your throat, choosing to take pity on you instead, deciding you’re beginning to learn your lesson. That doesn’t mean he goes easy on you, taking the opportunity to remind you how good he is to you, fucking orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re limp and in need of a much deserved break. Bucky's only priority in life is to keep you safe and happy, and as he finally cleans you up to put you to bed, he knows your promises to behave are sincere, tonight sure to keep you in line. At least for the foreseeable future.

Day 13 | Imagine... Masterlist | Day 15

Banners by @cafekitsune - Divider by @bernardsbendystraws

[drabblesandsnippets]

Imagine... (‘fake dating becomes too real’)

Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

December Daze Challenge - Day 19 - @the-slumberparty

Warnings: (500w) Best friends. Repressed feelings.

Imagine Bucky insisting on being your wingman. You’ve been friends for years, and he’s had to watch you repeatedly get your heart broken, the guys you chose inevitably turning out to be assholes. He doesn’t blame you, but it’s been unbearable standing by, trying to be supportive, all the while living in denial about being in love with you. After your latest horror story of a date, he reaches his limit and formulates a foolproof plan of helping you find someone. With his skills of easily reading people, it’s not hard to convince you, your agreement coming before either of you can really think it through.  You don’t even question it when Bucky seemingly finds red flags with all the guys you’re interested in, the dating apps known for letting you down. Going to public places is just as fruitless, most of the men frequenting bars not up to either of your standards.  When he can sense your growing frustration, about ready to swear men off completely, he finally stops grasping at straws. Instead of coming up with excuses as to why someone’s the wrong choice for you, he lowers his impossible standards and puts more effort into finding you a good potential partner. Still deep in denial about his feelings for you, Bucky convinces himself he’s just looking out for a friend, wanting nothing more than for you to be happy. He’s only pacing his apartment because he’s concerned about your wellbeing, your date now entering hour two. The nearly crushing grip he has on his phone isn’t because he’s jealous, he’s just praying for an update. Your eventual text does little to ease the rollercoaster of emotions the night has taken him on, the date turning out to be a flop, the blame falling on you. You’re so used to dealing with the wrong men that when a possibly good one comes along, your own awkwardness ruins it. Because Bucky’s a glutton for punishment, he offers to take you on a pretend date, intent on helping you over this additional hump, wanting you to have a good experience. It’s definitely not because you’re all he dreams about and this is the only way he’ll ever get to flirt with you. Whatever limitations you thought were hindering you, Bucky doesn’t see them, finding all your little quirks endearing. The obvious blush on your cheeks and soft stuttering when you’re caught off guard with a compliment. The occasional fidgeting with the silverware when the silence starts to build. The way you cover your mouth when you erupt with laughter. The realization of how fucking in love with you he actually is hits him like a force, his bite of food having to be choked down, your bright smile leaving him breathless. He never wanted this to happen, but as Bucky gazes upon your innocent questioning look, he knows there’s no coming back from this. The only thing he can do is hope that maybe he’s the one you’ve been searching for all along.

Day 18 | Imagine... Masterlist | Day 20

Banners by @cafekitsune - Divider by @saradika-graphics

[drabblesandsnippets]

One of the coolest parts about being a fan of fanfic is you can actually contact the author. And they will respond. And then you can message them nonstop until they allow you into their lives and then you’re becoming their beta reader and suddenly you know multiple authors of all types of fiction books and fanfic authors who will drag out their deleted fics for you to read at a moments notice.

Anyway. Comment on fics and message authors. It’s absolutely worth it.