heldbybarnes

[heldbybarnes]

Sexy, Stupid, Mine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings:mild suggestive content / implied sexual situations, domestic chaos (burnt food, broken appliances, curtain rod zip-ties 😬), strong language (light swearing), bucky being a disaster manchild, but make it adorable, alcohol mention (wine during game night), one discussion of the word "queef" because Bucky is Bucky, pure fluff, humor, and dumbassery, reader fully aware their man is stupid and still rides for him

Inspired by "manchild" - Sabrina Carpenter

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You knew exactly what kind of man you were signing up for.

A six-foot-something supersoldier with a metal arm, a brooding complex, and the emotional range of a particularly moody Roomba. Bucky Barnes was chaos in boots—broody, beautiful, and completely incapable of using a microwave without somehow blowing a fuse.

And you loved him for it. Unfortunately.

It all started on a Tuesday.

You walked into your apartment after work, heels off, tote bag slung across your arm, fully expecting to see your boyfriend passed out on the couch, probably mid-rewatch of The Great British Bake Off again (he claimed it “soothed his combat reflexes,” whatever that meant).

Instead, you walked in and were greeted by…smoke.

Actual smoke. Billowing out of the kitchen like some sort of haunted fog machine.

You dropped your bag.

“Oh my god—BUCKY?”

He poked his head out of the kitchen a second later, sheepish, with a dish towel tied around his neck like a cape and…was that your pink "Slut for Snacks" apron?

“Hey, doll,” he said, far too casually for someone who had nearly set your apartment on fire.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

“I was makin’ dinner.”

You blinked. “Making it where? In hell’s kitchen?”

He pouted, stepping out with an oven mitt still on one hand and holding what looked like a tray of...charcoal. “It was chicken nuggets.”

You squinted at the blackened blobs. “Were they cooked in lava?”

“I may have left the oven on broil.”

“For how long?”

“…two hours?”

You looked at him. He looked at you. Then the fire alarm went off.

Fifteen minutes, two windows, one fire extinguisher, and a good cry-laugh later, you sat on the floor of your kitchen with Bucky, eating cereal out of mismatched mugs because the dishwasher had also mysteriously broken.

(You still suspect he tried to put the entire crockpot in there.)

“You know,” you said between bites, “Whole outfit you're wearing, God, I hope it’s ironic.”

He looked down at himself—the apron, the towel-cape, the flour-stained tank top. “You don’t like my cooking ‘fit?”

“Oh, I love it. It really says ‘1950s housewife meets Marvel’s Most Wanted.’”

He smirked. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. The man was a menace. A menace with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass and the attention span of a golden retriever in a squirrel sanctuary.

And God help you—you loved him stupid.

Thursday.

You came home to find him on the couch, wearing your bathrobe, with one AirPod in, completely transfixed by Mamma Mia 2. Again.

“Hey, sweet cheeks,” he said without looking up, “did you know Pierce Brosnan has three solos in this one?”

“I did,” you said, hanging your coat. “You also cried during two of them last week.”

He sniffed. “It’s an emotional journey.”

“You cried when they sang ‘Waterloo,’ Bucky.”

“It was stirring.”

You flopped onto the couch beside him and stole a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap.

“Tell me something,” you said, chewing thoughtfully.

He glanced at you.

You raised a brow. “How did a highly trained assassin manage to install a curtain rod with zip ties today?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You pointed to the bent curtain rod currently swinging like a broken swing in a horror movie. “Define ‘worked.’”

“…Creative problem-solving?”

You groaned, leaning into his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

Friday night.

You hosted game night at your place—just a few friends, some drinks, snacks, and Bucky attempting to understand Cards Against Humanity like it was written in alien code.

“Wait,” he said, frowning at his hand, “what’s a ‘queef’?”

You choked on your wine.

Natasha nearly fell out of her chair laughing.

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “For the love of—don’t explain it.”

But of course, you explained it.

And Bucky’s reaction?

“Oh. Huh.” He paused, then proudly dropped his card. “Well that changes the whole strategy.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smirked. “Gotta go in filthy now.”

“You’ve literally been playing wholesome cards all night,” you said, waving your hand. “‘A gentle kiss on the forehead’? ‘Loyalty and affection’? You were playing like Captain America’s golden retriever.”

“Well, now I know the rules.”

Five minutes later, he slammed down a card combo that read: “My last shred of dignity” + “getting pegged in a Waffle House.”

Everyone screamed.

And somehow, Bucky Barnes won the whole damn game.

Saturday morning.

You were brushing your teeth when he shuffled into the bathroom with one eye open, bedhead in all directions, and wearing his sleep shirt that said “Don’t Talk to Me Unless You’re a Cat.”

He kissed your shoulder.

You side-eyed him through the mirror. “Did you actually eat the cookies I left in the fridge for brunch today?”

He froze.

Chewed his lip.

“…No?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He smiled. “Okay, maybe.”

You squinted. “How many?”

“Like…a reasonable amount.”

“How many?”

“…all of them.”

You turned, foaming toothbrush in hand. “You ate twelve triple-chocolate espresso cookies for breakfast?!”

“They were small!”

“They were the size of my face!”

He took your toothbrush from your hand, set it down gently, then wrapped his arms around you with a practiced smile that said he knew exactly how to distract you.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “what if I make it up to you in ways that require no clothes and significantly more moaning?”

You paused.

Sighed.

“Ugh. Why so sexy if so dumb.”

“Dumb?” he gasped dramatically. “Excuse me, I’m brilliant. I beat you at game night.”

“You thought a queef was a person, Bucky.”

“…Aren’t they?”

You meant it when you told your friends: “I like my men all incompetent.”

And you did. Because there was something glorious about watching a man who could tear a building in half with one arm get genuinely bewildered by the concept of dryer sheets.

Something tender about how he left his keys in the freezer again (“It just felt like a safe spot!”), how he once tried to fix a squeaky hinge with a capful of lube (it worked, okay), how he bought a plunger without realizing what it was for.

He was ridiculous.

But he was also yours.

Later that week.

You came home from a long, exhausting day, ready to collapse. But instead of smoke or chaos, you found Bucky in the living room—with candles lit, actual food on the table, and himself…in a suit.

Your mouth dropped. “Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?”

He grinned, stood, and walked over to you like some sort of smoldering god.

“Just thought I’d remind you I’m more than a walking disaster,” he said, sliding a hand around your waist. “Sometimes I’m a sexy walking disaster.”

You kissed him. Hard.

He tasted like red wine and smugness.

“I was gonna roast you,” you whispered, “but honestly? That suit’s doing things.”

He smirked. “Useless in the kitchen. Great in the bedroom.”

You nodded. “We all have our gifts.”

Later still, tangled in bed, limbs a mess of laughter and kisses, you sighed into his neck.

“I love you,” you murmured. “Even when you’re stupid.”

He chuckled. “Is it stupidity, or is it…creative genius misinterpreted by modern society?”

“Mm, it’s definitely stupid.”

“Then I guess there’s a better use for it,” he said, rolling on top of you with a wink. “Like making you scream my name.”

You smacked his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m yours.”

You wrapped your legs around him.

“Damn right you are.”

[heldbybarnes]

Can't Take It, Can You?

Pairing: Beefy Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Smut, established relationship, dom!Bucky, size kink, shower sex, mirror sex, choking (light/consensual), creampie, fingering, dirty talk, possessive Bucky, overstimulation mention, Bucky’s metal arm worship, praise & filth, manhandling, you’re his whole world and he ruins you <3

Refound this gif and one thing led to another😬🥵

----------

Bucky always said he’d be gentle.

Said it while crowding you against the kitchen counter, voice gravel-deep and knuckles white against the granite. Said it while easing you into bed that first night like you were something fragile, something breakable. But truth be told, you never wanted gentle. Not from him.

Not from a man like Bucky Barnes—broad and brawny, impossibly big in every direction. Arms like tree trunks. A chest you could cry into. Thighs that barely fit between yours. Hands that—

Well. Those hands had ruined you more than once.

Tonight, they were all over you. Again.

“Look at you,” he groaned, dragging the tip of his cock through your soaked folds. “You’re already dripping, and I haven’t even given you anything yet.”

You trembled beneath him, legs wide, back pressed against the fogged mirror in your shared bathroom. Water still dripped from your skin, your hair, your lips—lips that parted in a moan as Bucky cupped the back of your neck and tilted your chin up to meet his eyes.

He was huge. Both in body and between his legs. And you swore he got off on how often you squirmed trying to take him, on how many times he had to help—on how often he had to stretch you open with fingers or tongue or thick, languid circles of his thumb until you were wrecked and wet and begging.

You reached between your bodies now, fingertips brushing the head of his cock, but he growled and batted your hand away.

“Uh uh,” he muttered, wrapping his vibranium hand around the base instead. “Let me see it. Let me watch how small you look tryin’ to take it.”

God, the size kink on this man.

It started as something subtle. A low groan when he saw your fingers wrap around him and barely reach halfway. A sharp inhale when he bottomed out and saw the outline of himself against your belly. But it had evolved into something more primal—something needy, possessive.

It wasn’t just about being big.

It was about being big for you.

About filling you in ways no one else ever could.

About the way you gasped every time like it was the first. Like he hadn’t already ruined you a dozen different ways.

“Bucky, please—” you whimpered, wiggling your hips, your thighs already trembling. “Need it.”

He gave you a wicked grin, one hand cupping your ass to pull you closer.

“Need what, sweetheart?”

“You. Inside me.”

“‘Course you do.” He pressed the thick head of his cock against your entrance, circling it, teasing you, drawing a whimper from deep in your chest. “You always get so greedy for it.”

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed.

But Bucky didn’t like that.

He tightened his hand around your neck—not choking, not hard, just present. Just enough to remind you who was in charge.

“Eyes open,” he rasped. “I want you to see how pretty you look when I split you open.”

Your breath hitched.

Because God, you loved it when he talked like that.

Loved the way his softness vanished and something darker crept in. That steel-eyed Winter Soldier control, still present in the heat of his pupils when he pushed forward—slow, steady, claiming every inch until you were stretched wide and gasping.

“Jesus,” you whimpered, arms wrapping around his neck for balance. “You’re too big—”

Bucky smirked at that.

“I know,” he purred, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. “But you take it so fuckin’ well.”

He gave you a second to adjust. Maybe two. Not long. Not enough. But then his grip tightened and he started moving—slow at first, his massive body pressing you to the mirror with every thrust. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely keep your feet on the tile with how deep he was hitting.

It was filthy. Slick and loud, skin against skin, water dripping from your hair down your spine. His dog tags slapped against your collarbone with every thrust. Your hands scrambled for something to hold on to—his shoulders, his jaw, the slick curve of his bicep.

“Feel that?” he growled against your throat. “All the way up here.”

And he was right. You felt every inch. Your stomach stretched, your walls fluttering, your toes curling.

He had you folded against the mirror now, his hand on the back of your thigh to hike your leg higher. The new angle made you cry out, nails dragging down his back. He hissed and slammed into you harder.

“Fuck—s’too much,” you sobbed.

But he just chuckled darkly, loving it.

“Say that again,” he ordered. “Tell me how big I am while you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight.”

You whimpered something incoherent, and that only spurred him on. He reached down and pressed his thumb to your clit—slow, deliberate circles that had you gasping.

“You gonna come?” he asked, low and dangerous. “Gonna come on this cock like a good girl?”

You nodded frantically. “I—I can’t—Bucky, please, I’m—”

“Do it,” he growled, all teeth and heat. “Let go for me. Show me how sweet that little pussy is.”

And you did.

You shattered around him, vision white, thighs trembling. Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave—wave after wave of pulsing heat, clenching so tight around him he hissed through his teeth.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

He loved how hard you shook when you came. How you sobbed and scrambled and begged for a break while he chased his own release. He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you in place like a ragdoll, and fucked you through the aftershocks until you were slurring his name like a prayer.

“Look at you,” he muttered, glancing at the mirror behind you. “Look how fucked-out you are. Look what I do to you.”

You could barely lift your head—but when you did, the sight made you clench around him all over again.

You were flushed, damp, pupils blown wide.

And Bucky was a fucking beast behind you.

“Mine,” he growled, rutting into you now, faster, deeper. “You were made for me, you hear me?”

You whimpered, nodding. “Yes—yours, I’m yours—”

His hand came up to grip your throat again—tighter this time, enough to make your eyes roll back. Enough to make your cunt flutter around him like you were about to come again.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he grunted, voice nearly feral now. “You want that? Want me to come so deep it leaks down your thighs?”

You cried out. “Yes, yes, please—”

“Good girl.”

That was all it took.

He came with a roar, cock buried to the hilt, fingers digging into your waist. You felt it—every thick, pulsing wave spilling inside you. You went boneless in his arms, head dropping to his chest as he panted and held you close.

For a long moment, the only sound was your heavy breathing and the rain hammering against the window.

Bucky’s voice was softer now. Warm and breathless.

“Fuck, baby… I didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You laughed weakly, still clinging to his shoulders. “Yes, you did.”

He chuckled too, pressing kisses to your damp temple.

“…Okay. Maybe I did.”

You pulled back slightly, legs still wobbling, and gave him a sleepy grin.

“You and that damn size kink,” you murmured.

Bucky gave you an unapologetic smile.

“What can I say?” he said, gently easing out of you and catching the mess with his hand. “You look so goddamn tiny wrapped around me, I lose my mind.”

You flushed—still breathless, still trembling—and leaned into his touch.

“You’re lucky I like it.”

“I’m lucky for a lotta reasons,” he said, catching your mouth in a soft kiss.

He carried you to bed a minute later—wrapped you in warm towels and massaged your legs while you recovered. But the moment he caught sight of your thighs still glistening with him, still swollen and slick…

Well.

You didn’t get much sleep.

And by morning?

You were begging all over again.

[heldbybarnes]

Things He Couldn't Say

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

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1. That your laugh was the only sound that didn’t scare him.

Bucky had a list in his head of things that made him flinch. Alarms. Helicopter blades. Glass breaking. Footsteps behind him on an empty street.

But then there was your laugh.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t particularly graceful either. It cracked out of you, caught on your tongue, sometimes ended in a snort. But it was warm. Real. Unfiltered joy. And it never, not once, made him flinch.

He heard it the first time in the kitchen, when you tried making pancakes and set off the smoke alarm. You laughed as you waved a towel at the ceiling, laughing so hard you doubled over. And Bucky—tense from the noise and the smoke—had felt his whole body loosen at the sound.

He wanted to tell you then. Wanted to say, That laugh could fix anything.

But instead, he just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and offered a crooked smile. And you never knew what it meant.

2. That he watched you sleep during missions.

It wasn’t about romance. Not at first.

It was survival.

In safehouses across continents, between missions too close to horror and death, you would always fall asleep first. Curled up in some spare cot or on the floor, one arm tucked under your head, breathing steady.

And Bucky, even with his training, even with the serum, could never rest. Not until he saw that you were safe. He counted your breaths instead of sheep. Tracked the rise and fall of your chest instead of threats.

He memorized how your foot twitched just before you dreamed. How you mumbled nonsense when you were nearly waking. How sometimes you frowned, and he wondered what the hell could make someone like you worry even in sleep.

He never said a word. Just let the silence hold his secret. It was safer that way.

3. That he hated when other people made you laugh.

He wasn’t proud of it.

Sam always had a joke. Steve could make you crack a grin with barely a word. Hell, even that new kid from Stark’s lab had you giggling over takeout containers and Star Wars references.

And Bucky would watch. Quiet. Half-smiling. Nodding when appropriate.

But inside, something twisted.

Because it wasn’t fair. He wanted to be the one who made you glow like that. He wanted to be the reason your voice bubbled up and out like music. Not Steve. Not Sam. Not the damn tech intern.

He never told you. He barely admitted it to himself.

You weren’t his. And he wouldn’t risk ruining what little you did have.

So he let the jealousy eat away at the edges of him. Slow. Silent. Like rust.

4. That he kept the note you wrote him.

It was nothing, really. Just a scribbled "Be safe out there" on a sticky note you slapped on his gear bag before Prague. A little smiley face at the end. The ink had smudged slightly where your thumb brushed it.

But to Bucky, it might as well have been scripture.

He didn’t say a word about it. Just peeled it off, folded it in half, and tucked it into the chest pocket of his vest. Right over his heart.

It stayed there through rain, gunfire, and days of silence. When things got bad, when he couldn’t think straight, he would press his gloved hand to his chest and remember that someone had wanted him to come back.

He could never tell you how much it meant. It would have sounded ridiculous. Or worse—desperate.

So he just kept the note. Quiet armor against the world.

5. That he loved you the night you stitched him up.

He’d taken a blade to the ribs, too close to an artery. You’d dragged him inside your apartment, covered in blood and fury, cursing under your breath.

He’d slumped against your bathtub while you knelt in front of him, threading a needle with trembling hands.

“You’re not dying on me, Barnes,” you had muttered. Fierce. Gentle. Your hands soaked with his blood but steady as you worked.

He watched you the whole time. Memorized the line of your jaw, the way your brow furrowed in concentration. And when you finally looked up at him, exhausted but soft, he fell.

Not the kind of fall you recover from.

You called him Bucky that night. Not Soldier. Not Sergeant. Just Bucky.

And he wanted to say it then. I love you. God, I love you.

But he bit it back. Let the silence swallow it.

+1. That he loved you every day since.

It didn’t come during a dramatic moment. Not after a near-death experience or a long stare across a battlefield.

It happened on a Tuesday.

Rain tapped against the windows. You wore his sweatshirt—the one you stole and refused to give back. You were barefoot, making coffee, humming something tuneless.

You turned and handed him a mug. Smiled at him like you always did. Like you weren’t waiting for anything. Like being near him was enough.

He held the mug. Looked down into it. Then back at you.

And it just...slipped out.

“I love you.”

Your smile faltered.

“What?”

He didn’t look away. Not this time.

“I love you,” he said again, voice low but steady. “Have for a long time. I just couldn’t say it until now.”

The silence stretched. His heart pounded. And then— you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Pressed your cheek to his chest.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered.

And Bucky finally let himself breathe.

[heldbybarnes]

✨ WRITING CHECK-IN ✨

Hey babes 💌

I’ve been digging through my drafts (and oh boy, there are a lot of them 😅), trying to clear out what’s been sitting and figure out what’s worth finishing or tossing. I’ve also got a smutty little event planned to end the month with a bang (pun 100% intended), but before I get too deep into my own brain…

I wanna hear from YOU.

What kind of writing do you wish you saw more of from me? What’s something you think is missing from my masterlist? Is there a trope, dynamic, or vibe you’ve been secretly hoping I’d post? Maybe a continuation of something? A certain flavor of filth? 🖤

Seriously — your thoughts help more than you know. So whether it’s soft and domestic, angsty and soul-shattering, or absolutely feral and unhinged… drop it in my inbox, replies, tags, carrier pigeons, whatever works.

Let’s build something filthy and beautiful together 💫

Love you always, — Kennedy 🖤

[heldbybarnes]

Eternity

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: mentions of grief, post-death loss, memories, PTSD, poetic mourning, painful devotion, love beyond death

"It’s an endless night It’s a starless sky It’s a hell that I call home…" “Why’d you have to chase the light somewhere I can’t go?” — inspired by “Eternity” by Alex Warren

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The apartment was too quiet now.

No hum from the heater. No off-key humming from the kitchen. No clumsy footfalls down the hallway. Just the air conditioner kicking on in intervals, and the ache that hollowed out Bucky’s chest until he felt like a breathing tomb.

He stood in the doorway like a ghost, his fingers curled against the frame, watching the morning light crawl over the kitchen tile. The same cracked tile you always said you’d fix together. The same one he stepped over now, like it might break the memory of you if he touched it wrong.

Your mug still sat on the counter. Your jacket was still on the chair.

And your laughter was still stitched into the air like a lullaby he couldn’t bear to play again.

You were everywhere.

But you were gone.

And he didn’t know how to be alive without you.

He didn’t cry when you died.

Not at first.

There had been too much blood. Too much shock. The alley had echoed with the sound of his own voice screaming your name, but the world had just… kept moving.

As if you weren’t crumpled in his arms, your pulse fading under his fingertips.

As if the moment your eyes fluttered closed wasn’t the precise second gravity shattered.

He tried to stop the bleeding. He begged you to stay. But you didn’t even speak.

You just looked at him—quiet and soft. And then the light left your eyes.

That was the moment everything inside him split down the center.

“It feels like an eternity since I had you here with me…”

He kept your toothbrush.

He didn’t know why. He just couldn’t throw it away.

He kept your hoodie too—oversized, soft, frayed at the sleeves. He’d watched you fall asleep in it a hundred times on the couch. Sometimes now, when the nights felt like they were swallowing him whole, he’d put it on and sit in your spot.

It didn’t bring you back.

But it helped him pretend for a few minutes.

Grief came in waves. And when it came, it didn’t knock.

It kicked the door down. Flooded the apartment. Drowned him in the silence you left behind.

Some days, he couldn’t get out of bed. Others, he walked for hours in the rain, as if soaking himself to the bone would bring him closer to the part of the world where you still existed.

He listened to your voicemails on loop until his phone died.

And when he changed his sheets for the first time, he clutched your pillow to his chest and sobbed into it so hard he thought his ribs might crack.

Steve came by sometimes. Left food on the counter. Knocked quietly. Never pushed.

“She’d want you to keep living,” he said once, voice gentle.

But what did that even mean?

What did living look like when your reason for doing it was buried in a coffin three blocks from the bakery you used to love?

The dreams were the worst.

Worse than the Winter Soldier flashbacks. Worse than the blood-soaked nightmares from war.

Because in these dreams, you were alive.

And god—he felt it. The weight of your head on his chest. The brush of your fingers in his hair. The way you whispered his name when you thought he was still asleep.

“I’m here,” you’d whisper.

And every time he woke up to an empty bed, he wished he hadn’t woken at all.

One morning, he collapsed.

He’d opened your closet. Found the scarf you wore on your last birthday. The one he bought you at the flea market. It still smelled like lavender. Like you.

He fell to the floor with it crushed to his chest, rocking back and forth on the hardwood, whispering your name like a prayer.

Like if he said it enough, maybe you’d walk through the door again.

Maybe you’d smile and tease him about being dramatic.

Maybe you’d laugh and kiss his cheek and say, “You didn’t think I was gone forever, did you?”

But you didn’t.

And you were.

You used to tease him about being the one scared of forever. Until he met you. Until he realized that forever was only terrifying if he had to do it without you.

You taught him how to hope again. How to sit still without shaking. How to touch with gentleness instead of fear.

He used to wake up from nightmares drenched in sweat, and you’d already be awake, hand on his chest, grounding him.

“You’re safe,” you’d whisper. “You’re home.”

But you weren’t here now.

And he wasn’t sure this place had been home since you left.

“It’s a hell that I call home.”

He tried. God, he tried to keep going.

He walked the same path you used to take to the café. Sat in your favorite park bench. Took one of those dumb pottery classes you kept insisting on.

The instructor asked if he was making the piece for someone special.

He stared at the half-shaped bowl in front of him and said quietly, “Yeah. I was.”

But nothing helped.

Because grief wasn’t a mountain to climb. It was a sea without a shore.

People told him time would heal.

That the pain would dull.

But what if he didn’t want it to dull?

What if forgetting the pain felt like forgetting you?

So he clung to it.

Wrapped himself in the ache like a second skin. Let it bleed into everything he touched. Let it be the only proof that what you had was real.

He went to your grave once.

Only once.

The stone was small. Understated. Just like you’d want.

Your name etched carefully into marble. Two dates that sat far too close together. And beneath it, a single line you once scribbled in a letter:

“To be with you in paradise… what I wouldn’t sacrifice.”

He knelt down into the wet grass, hands shaking.

“I’d give it all,” he whispered. “You hear me? I’d give everything.”

He closed his eyes, tears falling unchecked.

“My peace. My life. My whole goddamn soul.”

He pressed his forehead to the stone. “Why’d you have to chase the light somewhere I can’t go?”

That night, you came to him in a dream again.

You were sitting on the fire escape, legs swinging, eyes on the city.

“Hey, soldier,” you said, just like always.

He walked toward you. Knelt down. Reached for your hand.

“You left me.”

You smiled, something aching and soft behind your eyes.

“I didn’t want to.”

“Then why—” His throat caught. “Why didn’t you stay?”

You reached for him. Touched his chest.

“Some light,” you whispered, “isn’t meant to stay. Some is meant to guide.”

“You were my light.”

“And you still are,” you told him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He leaned into your touch, desperate to memorize it.

“Don’t go.”

You kissed his temple.

“I’ll never really be gone.”

When he woke, he was crying again.

But this time, it felt different.

Like grief cracking open to let something else in.

Months passed.

The hoodie lost your scent.

The fridge note faded.

The world kept spinning, and he kept standing still.

But slowly—barely noticeably—something changed.

He took a deep breath one day and didn’t feel like he was drowning.

He made coffee and didn’t cry when he reached for your mug.

He saw a dog that looked like yours and smiled instead of breaking down in the street.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was something close to breathing again.

Years later, someone asked if he’d ever been in love.

He was older now. The lines on his face deeper. The sadness quieter.

“Yeah,” he said, voice distant. “Once.”

“Was it real?”

He nodded.

“Oh God… it was everything.”

Sometimes, he still talked to you.

When the nights got too long.

When the stars were too quiet.

He’d sit on the roof, hoodie still draped over his shoulders, and whisper:

“It still feels like an eternity without you.”

And every now and then, when the wind blew just right, he could swear he felt you pass through him.

Warm. Familiar.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it was you.

[heldbybarnes]

Naked, Afraid, and Slightly Mosquito Bitten

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: mild swearing / sarcastic language, light teasing about survival situations, mentions of injuries (e.g., singed pants, damp socks), ridiculous levels of secondhand embarrassment, bucky possibly hallucinating a raccoon (unclear if real or not), reader sneakily stalks Bucky with a drone out of love

I watched 14 episodes of Naked & Afraid today....so enjoy?!?

----------

“You’re not serious.”

Bucky glanced up from where he was stuffing protein bars into his backpack, eyes glinting with far too much excitement for someone voluntarily walking into mosquito-infested isolation.

“I am,” he said proudly. “Seven days. No phone. No electricity. Just me and nature.”

You blinked. “Like Naked and Afraid?”

“Well, not naked,” he replied, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “There are limits.”

You walked around the table, grabbing a can of bug spray and tossing it to him. “And your limit is modesty, but not sanity?”

He caught the can with a smirk. “Mock all you want, doll, but I’ve survived worse.”

You crossed your arms, eyeing the mess of survival gear he’d laid out on your dining table. “When was the last time you camped, Bucky? Not military deployment. Not a safehouse in the Alps. I mean, willingly chose to sleep outside.”

He shrugged. “The 1930s?”

You burst out laughing.

DAY ONE.

You dropped him off at the edge of the woods at 9 a.m. sharp. He kissed your cheek, adjusted his unnecessarily intense camo jacket, and disappeared into the trees like he was about to fight a bear.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“I give it two days,” you muttered.

He had no idea you had your drone stashed in the backseat, ready to keep an eye from afar. It wasn’t spying. Not really. Just… preventative care. You weren’t going to interfere. You were just making sure your delusional super-soldier didn’t get eaten by raccoons.

DAY TWO.

You watched the drone feed with popcorn.

Bucky had successfully pitched his tent. It was… sideways. He was clearly trying to fish in the river but was just repeatedly yelling at the water like it personally offended him.

By noon, he had built a small fire. By 3 p.m., he had put it out with his foot after it singed his pants. By 6 p.m., he had duct-taped a leaf to his finger. You had no clue why.

You waited until dusk, then hiked halfway in with a hoodie pulled over your head, just far enough to leave a perfectly sealed Tupperware of lasagna next to the log he’d been sitting on. By the time he returned from his “evening patrol,” the food was there—still warm, neatly labeled:

“From the Forest Gods. You’re welcome.”

DAY THREE.

“Okay,” Bucky muttered, staring at the lasagna container. “That’s definitely your handwriting.”

He sniffed the air. “I know that basil ratio.”

You zoomed in with the drone, stifling a laugh as he circled the tree line suspiciously, lasagna in one hand, fork in the other. “I’m being hunted,” he whispered.

You were in fact sitting behind a tree in a camouflage blanket thirty yards away, sipping iced coffee from a travel tumbler.

“I’m not interfering,” you said aloud to no one. “I’m encouraging survival. There’s a difference.”

He eventually ate it. He didn’t stop glaring into the forest the entire time.

DAY FOUR.

It rained.

The drone showed a very wet, very grumpy Bucky attempting to wring out his socks over the fire pit, which had gone out six hours ago. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he looked moments away from attempting to murder the clouds.

You waited until late afternoon before leaving him a gift: a clean pair of socks tied to a tree branch, with a laminated note:

“The woodland spirits say wet socks cause regret.”

You didn’t even try to hide this time—just sat on a rock and watched him find it.

He stood there for a solid minute.

“Y/N!” he bellowed into the woods.

You clapped politely from your rock, like a proud stage mom at a school play.

DAY FIVE.

You woke up to six missed calls from Sam Wilson.

“Hey, uh—why is Bucky posting cryptic messages on Instagram from the woods?”

You sat up, blinked, opened the app.

Sure enough, his stories read:

Day 5. The trees speak in riddles. I have become one with the squirrels. My left boot is haunted. Pray for me.

You nearly dropped your phone from laughing.

DAY SIX.

He was feral.

Not dangerous, just… chaotic.

He had braided leaves into his hair. Was shirtless. Had painted a stripe of mud across his chest. You weren't sure if he was trying to blend in with the forest or fight it.

You watched via drone as he attempted to make a spear. It snapped immediately.

You packed a basket—actual picnic style—filled with bread, fruit, and a smoothie. You waltzed in mid-morning like some kind of cottagecore witch.

He looked up from sharpening a stick on a rock and squinted. “Are you real?”

You set the basket down. “Define real.”

“I’m either hallucinating you,” he said slowly, “or I’ve finally crossed into the afterlife and it comes with smoothies.”

You offered him the drink. “Forest spirits say hydration is sexy.”

He took it. Sipped. Paused. “This is strawberry banana.”

“And protein,” you added.

He stared at you like you’d performed a miracle.

You sat beside him. “Do you want to come home?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m close to a breakthrough. I’ve named the squirrels. They respect me now.”

“I see,” you said gently. “And have the trees forgiven you?”

He glanced at the broken spear. “Jury’s still out.”

DAY SEVEN.

The final day.

You arrived at the clearing just before dawn, hoodie up, drone buzzing overhead for one last peek.

Bucky was standing in the mist, silhouetted by the rising sun like some kind of unhinged ranger. Shirt back on. Hair in a man bun. Arms crossed.

“I knew you’d show up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Am I predictable?”

“No,” he said, walking toward you, “but you never trusted me not to starve, so…”

You grinned. “And were you wrong?”

He paused. “I might have tried to eat a mushroom on Day 3. It glowed. That felt like a bad sign.”

You laughed as he pulled you into his arms.

“Was it everything you dreamed?” you asked.

He smirked. “I may have hallucinated a raccoon telling me the meaning of life.”

“And what did it say?”

He leaned down to whisper. “Bring your girlfriend next time. She has snacks.”

Later that night, freshly showered and back in your cozy apartment, Bucky sprawled across the couch with a blanket and a bowl of real food.

“Y’know,” he said, mouth full of pasta, “I think I’m gonna do it again in a few months.”

You turned slowly, arching an eyebrow.

He blinked. “With you this time.”

You laughed. “Sure, Barnes. But only if we upgrade from ‘naked and afraid’ to ‘clothed and glamping.’”

He raised a brow. “Deal. But I’m still naming the squirrels.”

“Only if I get to bring the smoothies.”

He kissed your cheek. “You are the forest spirit, after all.”

You winked. “Just call me Mother Nature, baby.”

[heldbybarnes]

All Swagger, No Mercy

AN: We all collectively agree this walk is slutty right?🥵🔥

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, bucky barnes being slutty, mirror sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, possessive talk, praise kink, implied spanking

----------

Bucky’s got a walk that should be illegal—and you’ve had enough. One comment turns into a full-blown, mirror-shaking lesson in just how dangerous that swagger really is.

You’ve seen it a hundred times. The boots. The jeans. The fitted henley. The slight sway of his hips, measured and confident, like every step was premeditated sin. Bucky Barnes walks like he knows what he’s doing to people—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And maybe he does.

Because every time he saunters into the room, you forget whatever the hell you were doing. Book in hand? Forgotten. Mid-conversation? Zoned out. He moves like honey—slow, thick, and impossible not to crave.

“Something on your mind, doll?” he asks one day, catching you blatantly staring as he stretches beside the training mats. You watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing that tempting line of muscle and ink and trouble.

You blink, eyes dragging up his body until they meet his. “Yeah,” you answer, voice casual but loaded. “You’ve got a slutty walk, and it’s really messing with my ability to function.”

Bucky stills.

And then he smirks. Like the bastard knows.

“My walk, huh?” He takes a slow step toward you. Then another. And now your body’s on high alert, heat coiling low in your belly, because he’s doing that walk—purposefully—the same one that ruins your daydreams and stains your sheets at night.

He stops just short of touching you, voice dipping like warm whiskey. “What exactly makes it slutty?”

You inhale like it’ll help you stay upright. “The hips. The attitude. The ‘I could fuck you six ways before breakfast’ energy.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” He grins, dangerous and slow. “You think I couldn’t?”

Your body answers before your brain can catch up. You fist his shirt, tugging him flush against you. “Prove it.”

—

You don’t even make it to the bed.

Your back hits the mirror in your bedroom, cool glass against your shoulder blades, as Bucky’s mouth claims yours with bruising intensity. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, his hands dragging up your thighs to hook them around his hips. He pins you there like you weigh nothing, the thick line of his cock grinding against you through your clothes.

“You wanna call me slutty, baby?” he growls into your mouth, breath hot. “You better be ready for the consequences.”

You moan into him, already wet, already aching, already gone. “Been waiting.”

He chuckles darkly, biting your lip before trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin like he’s branding you. His hands dip beneath your shirt, palming your breasts, fingers rough and reverent all at once.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty pressed up against this mirror,” he mutters, lifting your shirt over your head and flinging it somewhere behind him. “You like watching yourself while I ruin you?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly. “Bucky, please—”

“Please what?” He tugs your panties down your thighs with his teeth, the metal of his left hand brushing the inside of your knee. “Use your words, doll.”

“I need you. Now.”

The words are hardly out before he’s got you back up against the glass, his mouth hot between your thighs. He groans against you, like the taste of you is everything he’s ever wanted.

“Fuck, you’re already soaked,” he murmurs, licking a stripe through your folds, watching your reflection the entire time. “All from a walk, huh?”

“Shut up,” you gasp, thighs trembling around his head.

But Bucky never shuts up. Not when he’s got you like this—desperate and wrecked, gasping his name like a prayer.

He stands, lifts you like nothing, and slides inside you in one slow, devastating thrust. Your cry echoes against the walls. His hands dig into your thighs, holding you open for him, letting you feel every inch.

“You feel that?” he rasps, thrusting deep. “That’s what slutty walks lead to, baby.”

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You nod, fingers tangling in his hair as he fucks into you with rough, precise thrusts. Every time he moves, the mirror rattles behind you. Every time he moves, your body screams for more.

And Bucky gives it.

He watches the both of you in the reflection—your flushed chest, your dazed expression, the way your nails rake down his shoulders. The way his cock disappears into you over and over again.

“Look how perfect you are,” he pants, fucking harder, faster, watching the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes roll back. “This pussy was made for me.”

Your orgasm crashes into you like lightning, blinding and full-bodied. You cry out his name, legs locking tight around him as you shudder through it, and Bucky doesn’t stop—not until he’s buried deep, coming with a low growl, forehead pressed to yours.

Silence falls.

Your breathing is shattered, your body trembling, your skin slick with sweat and want and aftermath. Bucky kisses you soft, slow, reverent.

“That walk still bothering you?” he murmurs, smug as hell.

You manage a weak laugh. “Only if you promise to never stop doing it.”

He grins, eyes wicked. “Baby, I walk like that for you.”

You blush—actually blush—and slap his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re insatiable.”

You hum, head falling back against the mirror. “Guess we’re a perfect match.”

Bucky chuckles low in his throat, kissing you again. “Damn right we are.”

And when he walks away—hips swaying, sweatpants hanging low—you groan.

Because it’s happening all over again.

Slutty. Damn. Walk. And this time, you swear it’s even slower.

[heldbybarnes]

Where the Light Used to Be

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Death, grief, war themes, memory loss (dementia/Alzheimer’s implications), references to past violence, implied injury, hospitals

----------

You always joked that Bucky would outlive you.

"You’re a damn super soldier," you’d say, flicking his shoulder, "You’ll be climbing mountains when I'm stuck yelling at the neighbor’s cat for pooping in the garden."

He’d laugh, tuck you under his chin, and promise, “Not going anywhere without you, doll. That’s the deal.”

But promises don’t mean much when the brain forgets how to hold them.

The diagnosis comes in a white room that smells like antiseptic and defeat. You don’t cry, not then. Not when the doctor says “neurodegenerative” or “possible early onset Alzheimer’s due to prolonged trauma.” Not when Bucky grips your hand and says it’ll be okay.

You wait until you're in the car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Then you shatter.

It starts slowly. A missed appointment. A forgotten pot on the stove. You catch him staring at a wall once, blinking like he’s in a different time, a different body.

You call Sam that night, voice breaking like glass.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.

Sam comes over the next morning. Brings groceries and doesn’t mention how Bucky couldn’t remember his name for the first ten minutes. He just puts on a movie and sits next to him, the way brothers do.

You will always love Sam for that.

Some days are good. Bucky remembers the garden you planted. He helps water the tomatoes, kisses your cheek, and tells you he loves you like he always has.

Other days… You find him curled in the hallway, whispering Hydra activation codes through his teeth. You sit with him, heart torn open, whispering You’re not him anymore. You’re Bucky. You’re mine.

Eventually, he stops reciting them.

That’s when you start losing him.

The last time he calls you by name is on a Tuesday.

It’s raining. You’re trying to fix the leaky window in the living room, swearing under your breath. You look up and there he is, standing barefoot in his worn flannel shirt, hair a mess, eyes a little clearer than they’ve been in weeks.

He smiles.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

You drop the wrench. It hits your foot. You don’t feel it.

You just run into his arms.

And for five minutes—five perfect, stolen minutes—he remembers.

He remembers everything.

The wedding. The night you met. The way your voice sounds when you're laughing at your own bad jokes.

He kisses you like it’s the first time again. Cries into your neck. Holds your hand like he never wants to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For when I forget.”

You just nod, because you can’t speak past the lump in your throat.

He doesn’t call you anything but “miss” after that.

One night, you wake to screaming.

Bucky’s not in bed.

You find him in the backyard, naked from the waist up, knees in the mud, blood on his knuckles from punching the earth. You wrap a blanket around him and try to guide him back inside, but he jerks away.

“Where is she?” he growls. “What did you do to her?!”

“Bucky—”

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

You don’t argue. You fall to your knees and hold his face in your hands.

“I’m right here,” you whisper. “It’s me. I’m safe.”

His breathing slows. He blinks at you, pupils wide with terror.

Then he starts crying. And you just hold him until the sunrise.

Eventually, the house becomes unsafe. He leaves the stove on. Walks into traffic. Hurts himself during night terrors.

You take him to a facility where they have quiet rooms and gentle voices. It tears something inside you to sign the papers. You sit in the parking lot for an hour, clutching his wedding ring in your hand.

You don’t go home for a while. Because home is where he isn’t.

You visit every day.

Sometimes, he smiles at you. Sometimes he flinches away like you’re a stranger.

Once, he mistakes you for his sister.

Another time, he tells you about a girl he loved once. “She had paint under her fingernails all the time. Smelled like oranges. I think I loved her,” he says wistfully.

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

Because he’s talking about you. And he doesn’t know it.

There’s a nurse named June. She calls you every evening. “He had a good day,” she’ll say. Or “He didn’t eat much, but he was calm.” You start to live for those calls.

Until one day, she doesn’t say anything at all.

Just breathes, once. Then:

“You should come. Now.”

You sit beside him, clutching his frail hand, metal fingers long replaced with a smooth prosthetic. There are deep lines on his face now. Not age—just wear. The weight of too many wars, too many lives, too many memories that have gone to dust.

His eyes open, slowly. Cloudy. Unfocused.

You lean close. “Hi, Buck. I’m here.”

There’s a long pause. Then, miraculously, a flicker.

“…Doll?”

You choke out a sound between a sob and a laugh.

“I’m here. I’m always here.”

He squeezes your hand. Barely.

“You—you stayed?”

“Of course I did.”

A single tear slips down his cheek.

“…Love you,” he whispers, so faint you almost miss it.

“I love you too.”

You stay until his hand falls limp in yours.

Until the room goes quiet.

Until there’s only the sound of your heart breaking.

He’s buried beside Steve.

There’s a plaque with both their names. It doesn’t say "hero." It doesn’t need to.

You bring sunflowers every week. He used to say they reminded him of you—bright, stubborn, always turning toward the light.

You sit in the grass and read aloud from his favorite books.

You keep talking.

Even if he can’t hear you anymore.

Even if the wind is the only thing answering back.

Because that was the promise.

Not to live forever.

Just to love until the very last second.

And God, you did.

You still do.

You always will.

[heldbybarnes]

remember that 4 hours from now babes🤣💛😬

National Thirstory

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Crack treated seriously, historical thirsting (yes, for JFK), mild angst, ridiculous levels of jealous!Bucky, implied smut (MDNI), suggestive language, offscreen sexual content, Bucky attempting a Boston accent (reader discretion advised), references to Cold War brainwashing and the Winter Soldier program, chaotic reader energy, weaponized patriotism, one (1) completely unhinged TikTok, and a thirst shrine that may or may not violate federal law.

This is a satirical, spicy oneshot for entertainment only. Please don’t take assassination history as canon here. We are in ✨delulu land✨.

AN: I figured you guys needed something fun before the gut punch you're going to endure tonight 💋

----------

You didn’t mean for it to go viral.

Truly. You just woke up, saw your hair doing something miraculous in the morning light, and thought, You know what this moment needs? A JFK thirst trap.

So naturally, you recorded a TikTok. The "vibes I bring to the function" trend, only you stitched it with a shot of yourself looking like a Kennedy mistress reincarnated. Then came the slide show: black and white clips of President John F. Kennedy. Shirtless on the boat. Laughing at the podium. That damn photo where his sleeves are rolled up and he’s leaning over his desk like he's personally about to ruin your life.

And you paired it with that Lana Del Rey song that makes everything feel like a cigarette and a sin.

You captioned it: “my roman empire.”

And oh, did the internet have thoughts.

You’re sprawled on the couch the next night, doom-scrolling through the chaos you’ve wrought, when it happens.

A comment. Right under the video. Innocent enough. But soul-shattering.

“you know your husband was his assassin right 😂😂😂”

Your thumb stops cold.

Your stomach drops.

And you whisper, to no one in particular: “No… he wouldn’t.”

“BUCKY.”

There’s the sound of something crashing in the kitchen.

“I didn’t eat the last cookie—” he starts, barreling into the living room with guilt already painted across his face.

You’re holding your phone out, trembling like you’ve just been betrayed by both love and country. “Explain this.”

He stares. “What am I explaining?”

“This!” You shove the phone closer. “Did you kill him?”

Bucky squints. “Is that… JFK?”

You nod. Slowly. Dramatically. Betrayal written into every contour of your frown. “Did you murder the man I thirst after nightly?”

There’s a pause.

A very, very long pause.

He blinks. “Are you asking me if I assassinated John F. Kennedy because someone on TikTok said so?”

You blink back. “So you admit it?”

“What? No!” he shouts, running both hands through his hair. “Jesus, doll, you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

“But the timeline matches!” you protest, standing now, your voice an octave higher. “It’s literally canon Winter Soldier lore! Cold War era! Mind-controlled Bucky running covert missions—why wouldn’t HYDRA send you to do it?”

“I don’t even remember half the shit they had me do!”

“Oh my God, exactly!” You press a hand to your chest. “You killed the man who could’ve been my vintage-era side piece!”

Bucky looks like he wants to crawl into a fridge and shut the door. “Baby, come on. I was brainwashed. I didn’t even know who I was. And also, respectfully… he was a little bit of a whore.”

“I like my presidents problematic!”

“That’s insane.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of a dead president?!”

You huff. “You don’t even have a Boston accent.”

“I can get one!”

“Too late. The internet already knows.”

It takes two days.

Two long, mournful days of you sighing dramatically while watching JFK documentaries, lighting candles beside a Polaroid printout of him, and whispering he wouldn’t have done this to me under your breath.

Bucky brings you flowers. You sniff and ask if they’re laced with Cold War guilt.

He makes you dinner. You ask if the recipe’s from a declassified Soviet playbook.

Finally, finally, he breaks.

You come home from work on Thursday to the sound of Frank Sinatra blasting from the apartment speakers.

You drop your keys.

“Bucky?”

“Bedroom, sweetheart,” he calls—and oh, that’s not his normal voice.

That’s… East Coast?

Tentative, you push the door open.

He’s standing in the center of the room in a gray suit. Hair slicked. Tie loose. A whiskey glass in hand. His dog tags tucked away. One arm glinting in the light. And a terrible Boston accent pouring from his mouth.

“Hey there, dollface.”

Your jaw drops.

He lifts his glass. “You like American boys, huh?”

“…What is happening right now.”

“I figured I’d try somethin’ new,” he says, taking a step closer. “You want a Kennedy? I’ll be your Kennedy. Hell, I’ll even say some patriotic shit while I go down on you. ‘Ask not what your pussy can do for you—’”

“BUCKY.”

He grins. “Too far?”

You stare. “Way too far. But also… keep going.”

It ends with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his tie wrapped around your hand, and Bucky breathlessly mumbling something about protecting your Oval Office.

He whispers, “Still think about him?”

You bite your lip. “…Maybe just a little.”

He groans.

But he kisses your neck anyway. “Gotta ruin it then. Gotta fuck you so good you forget all about the man I maybe—probably didn’t—kill.”

The TikTok comment section explodes again the next morning when you upload a blurry video of Bucky shirtless, hair a mess, giving the camera a lazy salute with the caption:

“my roman empire now.”

And just for dramatic flair, you leave in the part where he mutters offscreen:

“Tell them I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”

“Tell them I’m better than him.”

“Tell them my dick is more patriotic.”

[heldbybarnes]

National Thirstory

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Crack treated seriously, historical thirsting (yes, for JFK), mild angst, ridiculous levels of jealous!Bucky, implied smut (MDNI), suggestive language, offscreen sexual content, Bucky attempting a Boston accent (reader discretion advised), references to Cold War brainwashing and the Winter Soldier program, chaotic reader energy, weaponized patriotism, one (1) completely unhinged TikTok, and a thirst shrine that may or may not violate federal law.

This is a satirical, spicy oneshot for entertainment only. Please don’t take assassination history as canon here. We are in ✨delulu land✨.

AN: I figured you guys needed something fun before the gut punch you're going to endure tonight 💋

----------

You didn’t mean for it to go viral.

Truly. You just woke up, saw your hair doing something miraculous in the morning light, and thought, You know what this moment needs? A JFK thirst trap.

So naturally, you recorded a TikTok. The "vibes I bring to the function" trend, only you stitched it with a shot of yourself looking like a Kennedy mistress reincarnated. Then came the slide show: black and white clips of President John F. Kennedy. Shirtless on the boat. Laughing at the podium. That damn photo where his sleeves are rolled up and he’s leaning over his desk like he's personally about to ruin your life.

And you paired it with that Lana Del Rey song that makes everything feel like a cigarette and a sin.

You captioned it: “my roman empire.”

And oh, did the internet have thoughts.

You’re sprawled on the couch the next night, doom-scrolling through the chaos you’ve wrought, when it happens.

A comment. Right under the video. Innocent enough. But soul-shattering.

“you know your husband was his assassin right 😂😂😂”

Your thumb stops cold.

Your stomach drops.

And you whisper, to no one in particular: “No… he wouldn’t.”

“BUCKY.”

There’s the sound of something crashing in the kitchen.

“I didn’t eat the last cookie—” he starts, barreling into the living room with guilt already painted across his face.

You’re holding your phone out, trembling like you’ve just been betrayed by both love and country. “Explain this.”

He stares. “What am I explaining?”

“This!” You shove the phone closer. “Did you kill him?”

Bucky squints. “Is that… JFK?”

You nod. Slowly. Dramatically. Betrayal written into every contour of your frown. “Did you murder the man I thirst after nightly?”

There’s a pause.

A very, very long pause.

He blinks. “Are you asking me if I assassinated John F. Kennedy because someone on TikTok said so?”

You blink back. “So you admit it?”

“What? No!” he shouts, running both hands through his hair. “Jesus, doll, you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

“But the timeline matches!” you protest, standing now, your voice an octave higher. “It’s literally canon Winter Soldier lore! Cold War era! Mind-controlled Bucky running covert missions—why wouldn’t HYDRA send you to do it?”

“I don’t even remember half the shit they had me do!”

“Oh my God, exactly!” You press a hand to your chest. “You killed the man who could’ve been my vintage-era side piece!”

Bucky looks like he wants to crawl into a fridge and shut the door. “Baby, come on. I was brainwashed. I didn’t even know who I was. And also, respectfully… he was a little bit of a whore.”

“I like my presidents problematic!”

“That’s insane.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of a dead president?!”

You huff. “You don’t even have a Boston accent.”

“I can get one!”

“Too late. The internet already knows.”

It takes two days.

Two long, mournful days of you sighing dramatically while watching JFK documentaries, lighting candles beside a Polaroid printout of him, and whispering he wouldn’t have done this to me under your breath.

Bucky brings you flowers. You sniff and ask if they’re laced with Cold War guilt.

He makes you dinner. You ask if the recipe’s from a declassified Soviet playbook.

Finally, finally, he breaks.

You come home from work on Thursday to the sound of Frank Sinatra blasting from the apartment speakers.

You drop your keys.

“Bucky?”

“Bedroom, sweetheart,” he calls—and oh, that’s not his normal voice.

That’s… East Coast?

Tentative, you push the door open.

He’s standing in the center of the room in a gray suit. Hair slicked. Tie loose. A whiskey glass in hand. His dog tags tucked away. One arm glinting in the light. And a terrible Boston accent pouring from his mouth.

“Hey there, dollface.”

Your jaw drops.

He lifts his glass. “You like American boys, huh?”

“…What is happening right now.”

“I figured I’d try somethin’ new,” he says, taking a step closer. “You want a Kennedy? I’ll be your Kennedy. Hell, I’ll even say some patriotic shit while I go down on you. ‘Ask not what your pussy can do for you—’”

“BUCKY.”

He grins. “Too far?”

You stare. “Way too far. But also… keep going.”

It ends with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his tie wrapped around your hand, and Bucky breathlessly mumbling something about protecting your Oval Office.

He whispers, “Still think about him?”

You bite your lip. “…Maybe just a little.”

He groans.

But he kisses your neck anyway. “Gotta ruin it then. Gotta fuck you so good you forget all about the man I maybe—probably didn’t—kill.”

The TikTok comment section explodes again the next morning when you upload a blurry video of Bucky shirtless, hair a mess, giving the camera a lazy salute with the caption:

“my roman empire now.”

And just for dramatic flair, you leave in the part where he mutters offscreen:

“Tell them I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”

“Tell them I’m better than him.”

“Tell them my dick is more patriotic.”

[heldbybarnes]

Mine, Even When You're Mad

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: explicit sexual content, jealousy kink, fingering, rough sex (consensual), possessive dirty talk, alleyway semi-public sex, spanking, light choking, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home), soft!Bucky aftercare, established relationship

----------

The fight started over nothing.

A botched mission debrief. A moment of hesitation you didn’t even know you had. Bucky bringing it up in front of the team.

“You froze,” he’d said. Calm. Cool. Razor-edged.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You bit back every angry word until you got back to the compound, then let him have it. Loud. Heated. Explosive. He didn’t yell back. He never yelled back. He just stood there, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets like he was holding himself together with two threadbare hands.

When you stormed out, you didn’t even look back.

It was Natasha’s idea to drag you to the bar that night.

“Blow off steam,” she’d said. “Look hot. Drink something stupid. Make him sweat.”

You didn’t plan on the last part. Not really. But you also didn’t stop the stranger who asked you to dance.

He was handsome. A little too polished. But his hand rested low on your back and he smelled like mint and mischief, and for a few brief seconds, it felt good to be noticed.

To be wanted.

To be something other than furious.

Until you saw him.

Bucky. Leaning against the back wall, black shirt tight across his chest, arms crossed, eyes like thunderclouds.

Watching you.

No. Staring.

You didn’t stop dancing.

Let the stranger’s hand drift. Let your hips move just a little more.

And Bucky?

He pushed off the wall and stalked toward you like a predator.

He didn’t say a word.

Just grabbed your wrist mid-spin and pulled you away from the dance floor.

You stumbled after him, heart racing, the stranger shouting something useless behind you. But you didn’t care. Not when Bucky’s grip was iron. Not when he shoved open the back door of the bar and yanked you into the alley like he owned the sidewalk, the night, your body.

The door slammed behind you.

Cool air hit your skin.

And Bucky turned to face you, eyes dark, jaw tight.

“You think that’s funny?” he rasped.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Flirting with that asshole like I’m not standing right there.”

“You lost the right to comment when you embarrassed me in front of the whole team, James.”

His nostrils flared. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say my name like that. Like you don’t love me.”

You shoved his chest, not that it moved him an inch. “Maybe I don’t tonight.”

And that?

That was the breaking point.

He backed you up against the brick wall, not rough, but firm. Solid. Caging you in with the heat of his body and the fury in his eyes.

“You do,” he said low. “You love me when you’re mad, when you’re tired, when I’m being a dick. You love me even when I don’t deserve it. So don’t lie to me.”

You didn’t reply.

You couldn’t.

Not when his thigh slid between yours. Not when his hand gripped your jaw and tilted your face up, mouth inches from yours.

“Say it,” he whispered.

You exhaled hard. “No.”

He smirked.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was war.

Tongues clashing, teeth scraping, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, your throat. When he pulled back, you were panting, lips swollen, thighs clenching around nothing.

“You wanna make me jealous?” he growled. “Fine. You win. I’m fucking feral.”

His hand slid down your chest, under your shirt, beneath your bra. Pinched your nipple until you gasped.

“I don’t share,” he said. “Not your time. Not your body. Not your fuckin’ attention.”

“You were the one—” you started, breathless.

“Don’t care,” he snapped. “You’re mine. Even when you’re mad.”

Then his fingers were between your thighs, shoving past your panties like he had every right—and God, he did.

“You’re soaked,” he hissed. “Fucking dripping. All because I looked angry across the room?”

You moaned. Couldn’t help it.

He dragged two fingers through your slick folds, circled your clit once, then pushed them deep inside you.

You bucked against the wall. “Bucky—”

“That’s better,” he growled, fingers fucking up into you in a brutal, steady rhythm. “Say my name like you mean it.”

“Bucky—fuck—”

He curled his fingers just right and your knees nearly gave out.

He caught you, of course. Held you pinned to the wall with his body while his hand worked you like a song he knew by heart.

“You gonna come for me out here?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “In this alley, where anyone could walk by?”

Your head thudded against the brick. “Yes. God. Don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He added a third finger, pumped them deeper, rougher.

Your climax hit like a grenade.

Your thighs trembled. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt. You moaned his name into the night, loud and unfiltered.

And when your body stilled, when your breath evened out, he pulled his hand from between your legs and stared at it—shiny and wet in the low light.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look what you did to me.”

You couldn’t answer. Too hazy. Too high.

But then he unzipped his jeans.

And suddenly you had words again.

“Here?” you choked. “Someone might—”

“Let them,” he said darkly. “Let them see who you belong to.”

He spun you, bent you over a stack of crates like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Pulled your panties aside.

Lined himself up.

And pushed inside.

You both groaned.

It was rough. Messy. Filthy.

He fucked you like he had something to prove.

Because he did.

His hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back onto every thrust like he needed you closer than skin.

“You think anyone else can make you feel like this?” he panted. “No one else gets to touch you. No one.”

“Just you,” you moaned, forehead pressed to the crate. “Just you, Bucky, fuck—”

He snapped his hips harder. “That’s right.”

You were close again. So close.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

You obeyed without thinking, fingers finding your clit as he pounded into you from behind.

It didn’t take long.

You came hard—again—this time crying out his name so loud the birds scattered from the fire escape above.

He followed seconds later, teeth sunk into your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

Silence fell.

For a beat.

Then Bucky kissed your spine.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You turned your head. “For what?”

“For the fight. For the jealousy. For not saying what I meant in that room.”

You turned to face him fully.

“You were an asshole,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I shouldn’t have danced with someone else.”

“I deserved that.”

You stared at each other.

Then he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and kissed you. Gentle this time. Slow. Apologetic.

“Take me home?” you murmured.

He nodded.

“Always.”

That night, he ran you a bath.

Let you rest against his chest in the water while he massaged your thighs and murmured praise against your ear.

You fell asleep in his hoodie.

He curled around you like you were the only safe thing left in the world.

And in the morning?

You found a note on the pillow.

I don’t share you. But I’ll always choose you. —B.

[heldbybarnes]

Sebastian Stan

On the phone since 1985. Wonder what conversation lasted this long???

[heldbybarnes]

Hmmm Congressman Bucky falling (or horny) for a political opponent’s assistant??

"Or horny"....I love that

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Rating: M (suggestive tension, language, pin-you-to-a-desk levels of want)

----------

The first time Bucky Barnes noticed you, it wasn’t during some dramatic floor debate or at a Capitol Hill cocktail function. It was in the hallway outside the Oversight Committee chamber, where you were casually chewing out a junior staffer in a voice so sweet it made his spine straighten.

“Next time you hand the senator a briefing packet with outdated numbers, I’ll make sure the White House press pool gets a copy. Understood?” you said with a sugar-slick smile.

The intern looked like he might throw up.

Bucky, on the other hand, felt something else entirely.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching with amusement as you stalked away in heels that clicked like a metronome of doom. Your hair bounced. Your pencil skirt didn’t stand a chance. And when you passed him without even a glance, his lips quirked.

“You always threaten staffers with federal exposure or is today special?”

You halted. Turned. Eyed him slowly.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said coolly. “Still pretending your charm is a valid legislative tactic?”

He chuckled. “Well, it gets people to vote with me. Sometimes even your boss.”

You stepped closer, arching a brow. “Only when your policy isn’t trash.”

“You wound me,” he said, clutching his heart dramatically. “You know, I was starting to like you.”

“Oh,” you replied, stepping even closer, “you’re going to love me. Right around the time I run circles around your amendment proposal and have it shredded in committee.”

That should’ve been it. A witty exchange between opposing sides. But something about the tilt of your mouth, the dangerous glint in your eye — it did something to him. Something inconvenient. Something undeniable.

It only got worse after that.

Every hearing, you were there. Organized. Fiery. Brilliant.

Every rebuttal memo his office sent, you had a counterpoint faster than his chief of staff could say “fuck.”

But it wasn’t just politics.

It was the way your fingers tapped over your tablet during tense meetings. The way you looked bored and sexy all at once during press briefings. The way your voice dropped when you said things like, “You really think you’re going to win this one, Barnes?”

He thought about that voice at night.

More than once.

One particularly long evening — the Capitol building mostly empty save for late-session stragglers and the ghosts of better deals — Bucky found you in the hallway, hunched over your phone.

Alone.

“Working late, sweetheart?”

You didn’t look up. “If you’re here to beg me not to rip your rider apart tomorrow, you’re about twelve hours too late.”

He smirked and stepped closer, noting the tired smudge of mascara under your eye. “I’m not here to beg.”

“Oh?” Your gaze flicked to his. “Then what are you here for?”

“To admit defeat.” His voice lowered. “I’ve finally realized I’ll never win against you.”

That earned a faint smile. “Now that’s smart policy.”

A pause.

“Tell me something,” he murmured, hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks. “Are you always this ruthless? Or am I just lucky?”

You tilted your head, considering. “Depends. Are you flirting with me or trying to bait me into losing my job?”

“Who says those two are mutually exclusive?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“I try.”

Another pause. A dangerous one.

Because now you were close enough that he could smell your perfume — something sharp and floral and deeply unfair. Now he could see the edge of your black bra peeking beneath your slightly askew blouse. Now he was wondering if you’d push him away if he said what he really wanted.

“You gonna let me take you to dinner after this bill dies tomorrow?” he asked finally, low and rough.

Your eyes flicked to his lips, just for a second.

“Is that what this is?” you whispered. “A slow political seduction?”

“Depends,” he said, stepping in. “Is it working?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

You grabbed his tie, tugged him forward, and kissed him like you’d been waiting months for it. His hand flew to your waist, pulling you against the wall, mouths crashing together in a perfect storm of suppressed desire and ill-advised professional tension.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your jaw. “Been thinking about this every goddamn time you talk back in committee.”

“Should’ve known you liked being humiliated,” you panted.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, “you haven’t begun to humiliate me yet.”

His hand slid down your hip, squeezing, while yours were already unbuttoning his shirt like it owed you money. The kiss turned frantic. Messy. A year’s worth of mutual irritation channeled into grinding hips and bitten lips.

And then—

Your phone buzzed.

You both froze.

You swore under your breath and pulled back, breathless. “If that’s my boss, and he’s around the corner, I swear to God I’ll draft an ethics complaint myself.”

Bucky smirked, cheeks flushed, voice husky. “Guess that dinner’s off the table then?”

You looked him over — tie crooked, hair mussed, pupils blown wide — and licked your bottom lip.

“No,” you said, adjusting your blouse. “Dinner’s still on the table.”

You leaned in one more time, voice honey-slick.

“But next time, Barnes? It’s my table. And I’m pinning you to it.”

[heldbybarnes]

guys this is the funniest thing I've ever read!!

“FRIDAY TURNED AGAINST ME. I DON’T TRUST THE LIGHTBULBS.”

Im dying😂😂😂

Think fast I'm a random girl

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis Bucky Barnes gets kissed by his own girlfriend...

Who immediately claims to be a stranger. It was supposed to be a TikTok trend.

Now it's an Avengers-level crisis.

Word Count 3.5k

Themes + Warnings Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss (but make it affectionate) , TikTok trends gone too far , Confusion-based humor , #bucky deserves better , #bucky also kissed a stranger and that’s on him , poor Bucky

— Think fast I'm a random girl WHY ARE YOU KISSING A STRANGER

It was a quiet afternoon. Dangerous, really — the kind of quiet that made Bucky lower his guard. That rare kind of domestic peace where the dishes were done, the laundry was drying, and the only sounds in the apartment were the soft hum of the A/C and the occasional “mmhm” from Bucky, who was deep into scrolling cat videos on your couch.

He was blissfully unaware of the absolute feral energy vibrating off you from the other end of the cushions.

You’d seen the TikTok trend. You’d watched it at least twelve times. Memorized it. Practiced the tone. And now… the mission was go.

You sat up suddenly, eyes locked on him like a predator spotting prey.

“Okay. Think fast. I’m a random girl.”

Bucky looked up slowly, one brow raised. “You’re a what?”

You launched yourself across the couch and kissed him. Hard and dramatic — not a peck, not sweet, but movie-scene level commitment. You even did the little sigh at the end, for authenticity.

He kissed you back without thinking, hand coming up to your waist—

And then you pulled away just as fast, blinking innocently. “Hey. You kissed me.”

Bucky’s lips were still parted, pupils dilated. “Yeah? So?”

“I’m a random girl.”

His brain short-circuited so violently you could see it in real-time. He blinked once. Then again. “Wait. No. No, you’re not.”

You gasped, scandalized. “Oh my God. You just kissed a stranger.”

“What—what are you talking about?” he asked, half-laughing but visibly spiraling. “You live here!”

“Broke in,” you said solemnly, backing away. “Picked the lock. I’m a criminal.”

“You were literally in my bed this morning.”

“Oh no,” you whispered, horror-stricken. “I drugged you.”

“WHAT?!”

He stood up so fast the couch groaned. His whole face was a mix of betrayal and fear. “Did you hit your head? Are you pranking me? Is this one of those hidden camera things? IS SAM HERE?”

You were doubled over laughing.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, pacing now. “Steve warned me. He said women in the future were different. He said they were smart and powerful and terrifying. I thought he meant, like, in an empowering way—not a goblin chaos agent way.”

You lunged again, lips puckered. “C’mere, stranger—”

He sidestepped you like you were a flying brick.

“DON’T TOUCH ME,” he shouted, actually looking panicked now.

You full-on collapsed to the floor, howling with laughter, wiping away tears.

“WHO EVEN ARE YOU,” he demanded, flailing his vibranium arm like it might detect lies.

“Help!” you called dramatically from the floor. “This man is harassing me! I don’t know him! He has a metal arm!”

“YOU BOUGHT IT FOR ME! It was a birthday present, it had a bow on it!”

You crawled backwards like you were being cornered. “He’s in my house! Someone call the Avengers!”

“I am the Avengers!”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “…Is that what you tell people?”

Bucky ran both hands down his face. “What do you want from me? What’s the goal here? Is this revenge for eating the last waffle?”

You made a break for him again, and he reacted purely on instinct — scooping you up bridal style mid-lunge.

“WHY ARE YOU PICKING ME UP?” you screamed. “I DON’T KNOW YOU.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” he yelled back. “MY MA SAID DON’T HIT WOMEN BUT THIS FEELS LIKE A TRAP!”

He started spinning in a slow circle like he was trying to find the nearest exit. “Do I… do I put you outside? Do I just… release you into the wild?”

“I’M CALLING THE COPS.”

“YOU CAN’T. YOU DON’T HAVE A PHONE. YOU’RE A STRANGER.”

You were sobbing with laughter now, kicking weakly in his arms. “PUT ME DOWN. I’M NOT HOUSEBROKEN.”

He groaned loudly and dropped you onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. “I cannot believe I thought you were the love of my life.”

“You kissed a random girl,” you wheezed.

“You tackled me with your mouth!”

“I feel violated,” you said, flopping dramatically onto a pillow. “I don’t even know your name.”

Bucky squinted. “Don’t. You live here. You know my full name, my trauma history, and the weird little noise I make when I eat too fast.”

You perked up, smirking. “Okay, so what is your name?”

He blinked. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Sounds fake.”

Bucky looked straight at the ceiling. “I’m calling Sam. He’s gonna talk me through this.”

“Tell him a strange woman broke into your apartment and started making out with you.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, sitting back down, burying his face in his hands.

You leaned in, beaming. “But do you love me?”

He grumbled something that sounded like “unfortunately,” but it was muffled by his palms.

You kissed his cheek. “Kissing a random girl again. Bucky, your morals are slipping.”

He peeked through his fingers. “You are the worst.”

You snuggled up beside him. “You kissed me first.”

“You—you literally ambushed me!”

“And you fell for it.” You smirked. “Must be love.”

The next day, Bucky still hadn’t recovered.

You’d gone about your morning like nothing had happened. You made waffles. Stole his hoodie again. Kissed his cheek when he tried to protest. He looked at you like you were a mirage that might vanish if he blinked too hard.

He didn’t trust anything anymore. Not waffles. Not kisses. Definitely not you.

So, naturally, you invited Sam and Steve over.

“I need witnesses,” you said cheerfully, setting out coffee mugs.

“I need therapy,” Bucky muttered from the corner, arms crossed like a storm cloud.

Soon, Steve and Sam arrived. Sam immediately looked suspicious. Steve looked… well. Steve looked like a golden retriever who’d just been promised a picnic.

“What’s the emergency?” Sam asked, eyeing Bucky. “Why do you look like someone just told you jazz is outlawed again?”

Bucky pointed at you dramatically. “Her. She’s a menace.”

You blinked innocently. “I’m a random girl.”

Sam’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh my God. You did the trend, didn’t you?”

Steve: “What trend?”

Sam: “THIS trend. Where you fake being a stranger and mess with someone until they lose their grip on reality.”

Bucky turned to Steve like he was his last lifeline. “She kissed me and then told me she was a stranger, Steve.”

Steve’s brow creased. “Wait, but you’re dating.”

“That’s what I thought!” Bucky cried, waving his hands. “And then she said she broke in and I drugged her! I almost called the cops on myself!”

Sam had fully sat down with popcorn. “Oh this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Steve looked deeply concerned. “Did… did you really say he drugged you?”

You nodded, sipping coffee. “I was committed to the bit.”

Steve’s face twisted into pure 1940s disappointment. “You kids call this fun?”

Sam grinned. “Yes. Yes we do.”

“I’m traumatized,” Bucky muttered.

“You kissed a random girl,” you said, poking him in the ribs.

He pointed at you. “You climbed me like a tree.”

“You dodged me like a dodgeball!”

Sam choked on his drink. “Wait—he dodged you? Bucky Barnes? Mr. ‘Yes ma’am’ Bucky Barnes dipped on a kiss?”

“Full side-step,” you confirmed. “Tactical. Military-grade evasion.”

Steve looked at Bucky like he’d broken the Geneva Convention. “Buck. You don’t just leave a lady hanging.”

“She said she didn’t know me, Steve!”

You turned to Steve with big, tearful eyes. “He touched me. I don’t know this man.”

Steve immediately straightened up, all business. “Sir, please step away from the lady.”

Bucky actually staggered back like he’d been hit.

“STEVE.”

Sam was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

“Sam, back me up here—”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Nope. I’m with her. You kissed a stranger. Your morals are gone.”

“I hate all of you,” Bucky growled, running a hand down his face.

You got up slowly, dramatic, like a villain in a soap opera. “I’m leaving. I can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

Bucky turned. “Where are you gonna go?”

You gasped. “So you admit I live here?!”

“AH-HAH!” Sam shouted, pointing.

Bucky groaned so loud it might’ve cracked the window. “Steve, make her stop.”

Steve blinked. “I—honestly I’m not sure I can. I think she’s in charge now.”

You crossed your arms proudly. “I am.”

Sam stood. “As you should be.”

Bucky buried his face in his hands.

You leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “You love me.”

He mumbled something indecipherable.

Sam translated. “He said ‘I regret everything.’”

“I heard him,” you said sweetly, ruffling Bucky’s hair.

Steve clapped Bucky on the back. “You picked a feisty one.”

“She picked me,” Bucky groaned. “With a prank.”

“Sounds like love,” Steve said, entirely serious.

“I’m a random girl,” you whispered.

“I’m calling Nat,” Bucky threatened. “I need a spy extraction team.”

It had been three days since The Incident™.

Three days since you had completely dismantled Bucky’s understanding of reality with nothing but a TikTok trend and a kiss.

He’d been on edge ever since. Not like “threat-detected” Winter Soldier mode — no, this was worse. This was “paranoid boyfriend who thinks his girlfriend might be a shapeshifter or prank demon sent by Loki” energy.

He slept with one eye open.

And you?

You were planning Phase Two.

The Setup:

It started with a group text.

You:

Hey :) wanna emotionally destabilize Bucky Barnes for fun?

Nat:

Always. What’s the mission?

Wanda:

Are we doing costumes? I vote yes.

You:

No costumes… yet. Just follow my lead. Be natural. Gaslight him gently.

Nat:

“Gently” is not in my vocabulary but okay.

Location: Avengers Compound, Tuesday afternoon

Bucky arrived thinking it was a training day. He wore joggers and a scowl, hair tied back. Tired. Wary. A man who had been kissed by a “stranger” and hadn’t emotionally recovered.

Nat and Wanda were already in the lounge, drinking tea and chatting like they hadn’t both agreed to enter psychological warfare ten minutes ago.

You greeted him sweetly. “Hi, Buck.”

He flinched. “Is it you?”

“…Yes?”

“Okay. Just checking.”

You sat beside him and placed a soft hand on his knee. He looked suspicious but let it happen. So far, normal.

Then Nat leaned forward.

“So, Bucky,” she said casually, “who’s your friend?”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Nat gestured to you. “The girl. You two… dating?”

His soul left his body.

“I—Nat. That’s my girlfriend. You’ve met her a hundred times.”

Nat tilted her head. “Hmm. I don’t know… she looks different. Are you sure?”

Bucky turned to Wanda. “Please. Help me.”

Wanda smiled sweetly. “I thought she was a new recruit.”

Bucky stood up like the chair had caught fire. “NO. No. Do not start this again. You know her. You live with her. She made cupcakes at Clint’s birthday. She’s been here since—WANDA, YOU GOT DRUNK AND TOLD HER YOUR CHILDHOOD TRAUMA.”

Wanda gasped. “I would never do that with a stranger.”

Bucky spun to Nat. “We did karaoke night. You made her sing Britney Spears.”

Nat raised a brow. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She cried during ‘Everytime.’”

You buried your face in your hands, trying not to laugh.

“Okay,” Bucky said, pacing now. “This is a conspiracy. You’re gaslighting me.”

Wanda: “What does that mean?”

Nat: “Is that a stove thing?”

“OH MY GOD,” Bucky yelled.

Steve walked by with a protein shake, paused, and pointed at you. “Hey, isn’t that the girl who broke into your apartment?”

Bucky froze.

“STEVE, NO. NOT YOU TOO.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m just saying, you did tell me she said she was a stranger.”

“THAT WAS A BIT. SHE’S A MENACE.”

You waved. “Hi.”

Bucky whirled on you. “ARE YOU EVEN REAL?!”

Nat stood. “Bucky. Breathe. Let’s just ask Friday. She keeps visitor logs.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Thank you! Sanity!”

Nat turned toward the ceiling. “Friday? Has this woman ever been here before?”

Friday’s voice chimed cheerfully: “No registered data. Identity unknown.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘UNKNOWN’?!” Bucky screamed.

You fell over on the couch, howling. Wanda wiped fake tears. Nat high-fived you.

“Friday, I introduced her to you! I programmed your empathy matrix with her voice profile!”

“Sorry, Sergeant Barnes,” Friday said calmly. “Would you like me to report this intruder?”

“I—YOU—NO!!”

Steve leaned over to Sam, who had wandered in with snacks. “So, uh… how long do you think it’ll take for him to realize Friday was in on it too?”

Sam smirked. “I give him another 45 seconds before he starts interrogating the toaster.”

Forty seconds later:

“FRIDAY TURNED AGAINST ME. I DON’T TRUST THE LIGHTBULBS.”

Eventually, you approached Bucky — gently, like someone approaching a feral cat. He was sitting in the corner, hoodie over his head, muttering something about betrayal and toasters.

“Hey,” you whispered, sitting beside him. “It’s me. Really me. It was a prank.”

He looked up at you, betrayed and wounded. “…You made Friday lie to me.”

You held his hand. “I make everyone lie to you. I’m amazing.”

“…I don’t know if I love you or fear you.”

You kissed his cheek. “That means it’s working.”

Bucky was so close to stability.

After the Nat-Wanda-Friday Incident™, he’d sworn off trusting anyone under 5’9” with “girlboss tendencies.” He’d even started sleeping with a knife under his pillow again—not for danger. For pranks.

You’d promised to stop.

He did not believe you.

But the real downfall came three days later, when Clint and Peter accidentally got involved.

The Scene of the Crime

It was supposed to be a normal movie night.

Just you, Bucky, Clint, Peter, and popcorn.

Bucky almost felt safe again. He sat with his arm around you, cautiously relaxed, sipping root beer like a man who had survived a war and thought it might be over.

That’s when Clint whispered something to Peter.

Peter nodded.

And then they stood up.

“Hey, Buck?” Clint said.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “…What?”

Clint pointed at you. “Who’s this?”

You gasped. Peter gasped. Everyone gasped.

Bucky blinked. “We are not doing this again.”

Peter tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Wait, you brought a stranger into Avengers Tower?”

“She’s not—”

“She’s sitting on your lap,” Clint added.

“I know,” Bucky said, slowly losing his mind. “She lives here.”

Peter leaned over, whispering just loud enough. “Should we call security?”

Bucky stood up so fast you nearly fell off the couch. “I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You looked up, doe-eyed. “Security? That feels extreme. I just met him on Craigslist.”

Clint choked on his drink. Peter covered his face. You winked.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Bucky muttered, pacing like a war general. “My nervous system is fried. I wake up every night in a cold sweat to make sure you still have a toothbrush in the bathroom.”

“I don’t,” you said softly. “I’m a stranger.”

Clint fake-screamed. “OH MY GOD. SHE’S OFF THE GRID.”

Peter stood on the coffee table. “This is a level seven security breach!”

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” Bucky yelled.

You opened your phone and typed something. A second later, Friday’s voice returned:

“Alert: Unknown woman detected. Engaging lockdown protocol.”

Bucky physically collapsed to his knees. “Not again.”

Peter ran to the door and slammed it. “Nobody in or out! We contain the threat!”

Clint: “We neutralize!”

Bucky: “WE DON’T NEUTRALIZE MY GIRLFRIEND!”

You leaned toward Peter. “He kissed me.”

Peter gasped. “You kissed a stranger?”

Clint crossed himself. “Not very 1940s of you, man.”

And then—because the universe has perfect comedic timing—Tony Stark walked in mid-chaos, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, already disappointed.

“What the hell is going on in here? Why is Peter on a table? Why is Bucky having a nervous breakdown? Why does Friday sound like she’s preparing to tase someone?”

“Bucky brought a stranger into the Tower,” Clint said solemnly.

Tony turned to Bucky, smirking. “A stranger, huh? What, she knock on the door and you fell in love with her eye color?”

“She’s my girlfriend!”

Tony sipped his coffee. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

“OH MY GOD.”

You looked at Tony, deadpan. “He keeps touching me. I feel unsafe.”

Tony snapped. “That’s it. FRIDAY, deploy the safety nets.”

Metal doors started to close over the windows.

“I’m moving into the woods,” Bucky muttered, slowly walking toward the hallway like a ghost. “I’m gonna grow a beard. Befriend a deer. Never speak to another human again.”

Tony called after him. “Make sure the deer’s real, Barnes. You’ve got a thing for imaginary people.”

“TONY.”

The Aftermath

Two hours later, the Tower had returned to normal.

Peter apologized. Clint said he’d do it again.

Tony sent Bucky a fruit basket labeled “For Your Breakdown <3”.

You found Bucky sitting on the roof, hoodie up, staring into the New York skyline like it had personally betrayed him.

You sat next to him.

He didn’t look over. “If you say you don’t know me, I’m jumping off this roof.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“…Do you?”

You kissed his cheek. “I do. Even though you kissed a stranger.”

He groaned so hard his soul left his body.

“Hey,” you added softly. “When you go to the woods, can I come?”

He looked over at you — tired, mildly traumatized, but hopelessly in love.

“…Only if you promise not to tell the deer you’re a stranger.”

“No promises.”

Bucky sat hunched over a cereal bowl like a man who had seen too much. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. The spoon in his hand trembled like a horror movie protagonist.

You walked in, kissed his head.

He flinched.

“I’m your girlfriend,” you said softly.

“Are you?” he whispered. “Or are you a paid actor hired by S.H.I.E.L.D. to destroy me from within?”

You kissed his cheek. “Do I seem like I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“…That’s exactly what someone who works for S.H.I.E.L.D. would say.”

Before you could respond—BOOM.

The door slammed open.

Thor marched in dramatically, wind in his hair despite no wind existing inside.

“I HAVE HEARD A STRANGER LIVES AMONGST US,” he bellowed.

Bucky stood up like a man about to be executed. “Thor. Don’t do this.”

Thor pointed directly at you. “STATE YOUR NAME, MYSTERIOUS MAIDEN!”

“…I’m your friend’s girlfriend?”

“WHO IS YOUR FATHER?! WHAT IS HIS LINEAGE?!”

“Sir this is a Wendy’s.”

Thor gasped. “She mocks the old ways. This is dark magic!”

“You’ve MET HER!” Bucky screamed.

Thor blinked. “Have I?”

Bucky launched his spoon across the room.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

Scott Lang appeared from nowhere. Literally. From under the table.

“Hey guys, what’s up?”

Everyone froze.

Bucky: “Where the hell did you come from?!”

Scott shrugged. “I’ve been small for, like, three hours. There were donuts.”

He looked at you. Then Bucky.

“…Wait. Who’s this?”

Bucky screamed. It was wordless. Primal. Ancient.

“I AM BEING HAUNTED. I’M IN A SIMULATION. I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M REAL ANYMORE!”

You doubled over laughing. Thor looked impressed. Scott pulled out a cookie.

And then—because the gods hate Bucky Barnes—Nick Fury walked in.

Of course he did.

Fury didn’t even say hello. He looked at Bucky like he was a problematic file on his desk.

“We’re launching an internal investigation.”

Bucky blinked. “Into what?”

Fury crossed his arms. “Into your emotional stability.”

Thor nodded. “I fear he has been bewitched.”

“I’VE BEEN GASLIT,” Bucky yelled.

Nat, from the hallway: “More like girlbossed.”

Wanda, sipping tea: “And gatekept.”

Peter: “And publicly humiliated.”

Tony, on speakerphone from Malibu: “Also you fell for it. That’s on you, buddy.”

Bruce Banner slowly walked in with a tablet. “We’ve reviewed the footage. There are over 17 instances of psychological stress. He starts talking to a toaster around timestamp 00:42:17.”

Fury sighed. “We’ll need to wipe his memory. Again.”

“WHAT?!”

Bruce: “Kidding. Probably.”

You wrapped your arms around Bucky from behind as he just… stood there. Processing. Emotionally wrecked. Physically betrayed.

“Hey,” you whispered. “Want to move into that cabin in the woods now?”

He didn’t respond for a long time. Then:

“…Only if there’s no internet. No AI. No Avengers.”

You smiled. “Just me?”

He hesitated.

“…Are you sure you’re real?”

You took his face in your hands.

“I’m real,” you said, kissing his nose. “But if it makes you feel better, I can come with a birth certificate and three forms of I.D.”

“I’d prefer a blood test and a lie detector.”

“I’ll have Wanda conjure one.”

Bucky groaned into your shoulder.

One Week Later, Bucky disappeared. Moved into the woods. Built a cabin.

You went with him.

He installed three security cameras, a landline, and demanded Friday “never speak again unless it’s an emergency or a pizza delivery.”

He still flinches every time you say “Hey, think fast—”

But he smiles through it.

And the deer?

They love you.

(It was only temporarily. And when I say temporarily i mean like a week or two.)

(You’ve got mail!) bro I’m lwk going through a writing crisis cause I feel like nothing is gonna be as good BUT IMMPUSHING THROUGH ITT I have so many ideas down in my notes I’m really just waiting til I get that one. AND THEN I COULDNT FIND THE RIGHT PHOTOS FOR THIS SO FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER FOR A BUCKY FANFIC IM GOING AESTHETIC-LESS. I KNOW. I’ll still post but yesss I hope you enjoyed cause this was a little funny to make. And I also really want to do the college sports Bucky agenda LIKE SO BADLYYYY.

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

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[heldbybarnes]

Lemon Trees and Laundry Days

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

----------

The first time Bucky Barnes showed up on your doorstep with a lemon tree, you blinked at him like he had grown a second metal arm.

“You said you liked lemon bars,” he offered, shrugging, his free hand shoved in the pocket of his gray hoodie. “So I figured, why not just grow the damn lemons?”

You stared at the tiny potted sapling in his hand. “Bucky. I meant I like eating them. Not, like…becoming a citrus farmer.”

He grinned, boyish and shameless. “Too late. We’re cultivating now.”

That was how it started. The tree went on the windowsill beside the washing machine, where it could catch the sun during the late morning. Bucky talked to it sometimes—soft, private things when he thought you weren’t listening. You caught him humming once. Said nothing. Just smiled.

You’d only meant to live with him for a couple weeks. A temporary arrangement while your apartment got de-molded and detoxed after a water pipe burst. But weeks turned into months, and suddenly your shampoo was living beside his. Your hoodies in the hallway. Your books slowly migrating to the living room shelf.

And it was fine.

Fine.

Totally fine.

Until it wasn’t.

“You left your socks in the sink again,” you called one morning, balancing a laundry basket on your hip. “You okay? You never forget your socks.”

Bucky padded into the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, toothbrush in mouth. He blinked like he wasn’t quite awake yet.

“I wasn’t done with ‘em,” he mumbled around the toothbrush.

“Done with them?” you echoed, laughing. “Are they in a side quest?”

He grinned, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth. “Battle socks. Needed a time-out.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did that little hiccup thing it did lately. Like it couldn’t keep up with how casually he made you want to stay. Stay longer than planned. Stay forever, maybe.

You pushed that thought down. Buried it deep beneath dryer lint and denial.

Laundry days became your thing.

Every Thursday, like clockwork, you’d take the baskets out together. The backyard clothesline stretched between two crooked fence posts, one of which Bucky had insisted on reinforcing with metal brackets “for structural integrity.”

“Also because it looked sad,” he added. “Couldn’t have it keeling over like a fainting goat every time you hang a towel.”

You laughed, warm and unguarded. “You’re a fixer. I get it.”

“Just don’t like seeing things give up,” he said. Quietly. Like he wasn’t talking about fence posts at all.

You wore your favorite sundress that Thursday.

The lemon-yellow one with little white flowers near the hem. It cinched at your waist in a way Bucky always noticed, even if he never said anything. You caught him looking when he thought you were busy clipping sheets to the line.

“You okay?” you asked, tossing him a clothespin.

He caught it effortlessly. “Yeah.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe I’m just admiring your battle dress.”

You snorted. “This is not combat-approved.”

“Depends on the kind of battle,” he murmured, then looked away like he hadn’t just set your insides on fire with six syllables.

You turned back to the laundry and tried not to read too much into it.

You fell asleep on the couch that night.

Bucky came home late from a mission debrief and found you curled under the throw blanket, drooling into a cushion. He didn’t wake you. Just gently adjusted your legs so he could sit down beside you, careful not to disturb the cat curled on your stomach.

He watched the quiet rise and fall of your chest for a long time.

His metal fingers brushed a stray hair from your cheek.

He whispered, “God, I’m screwed,” to no one at all.

The shift came quietly.

In the way he poured your coffee before you got up. The way you left sticky notes on his computer screen that said things like “Don’t forget to eat, Barnes.” The way his hoodie ended up in your laundry pile, and you didn’t give it back. The way your voice sounded like home when you called out “Buck?” down the hallway.

And then there was the neighbor.

Her name was Trish. Kind, older, nosy in that gentle way that made you want to bake her muffins just to distract her.

She waved over the fence one Saturday morning while you and Bucky hung pillowcases.

“You two are adorable,” she called. “How long have you been dating?”

Your hands froze mid-clip. Bucky blinked.

You both spoke at the same time.

“Oh, we’re not—”

“She’s just—”

You laughed nervously. “We’re roommates.”

Trish winked. “Sure you are, sweetheart.”

She disappeared back into her garden.

You turned to Bucky. “That was awkward.”

He looked at you for a long second, lips parted like he was about to say something important. Then he closed them.

“Yeah,” he said instead, “real awkward.”

But he smiled as he said it.

That night, you made lemon bars.

Because you were thinking too much. Because he had smiled at you like that. Because you needed something sweet to offset the fact that his hand had brushed yours earlier while reaching for the laundry detergent and you still felt it.

He walked in just as you were zesting the lemons.

“Smells like trouble,” he said.

You turned, holding up the bowl of batter. “Smells like citrus.”

“Same thing.”

You bumped hips with him as you passed.

He caught your wrist. Just for a second. Just long enough to make you forget what you were doing.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about…?” He trailed off.

You looked up at him, heart hammering. “About what?”

He smiled tightly. “Never mind. Smells great.”

It rained the next laundry day.

So you hung the sheets inside. Draped them across doorframes and banisters like a pair of overly enthusiastic fort-builders.

You stood together in the narrow hallway, a pillowcase hanging between you, the air warm and lemon-sweet from the cookies you’d baked that afternoon.

“I think we’re nesting,” you said.

Bucky laughed. “Is that what this is?”

“You know. Pillows. Food. Mutual laundry dependency.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, quietly, “I don’t mind nesting. Not with you.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

It felt like the house was holding its breath.

The kiss happened two days later.

You were folding towels on the porch, barefoot in the golden afternoon. The lemon tree had its first tiny bloom. Bucky came up behind you, slow and careful, like you were a deer he didn’t want to startle.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

You turned. “That’s dangerous.”

He laughed, but his smile was nervous.

“About what Trish said.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“About us being a couple.”

You nodded. Waited.

“I didn’t correct her because I didn’t want it to be false. I mean—I didn’t want it to be false.” He was rambling now, hands twitching. “Shit, I’m saying this wrong.”

You stepped toward him.

He fell silent.

You reached for his hand, flesh meeting metal. His breath caught.

“Bucky,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just kiss me.”

He did.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was soft.

Sure.

Like he’d been waiting forever.

You kissed him back, slow and steady, until the sun dipped below the fence line and the sheets on the line danced in the breeze around you.

You never moved back to your old apartment.

Never wanted to.

The lemon tree bloomed again that spring.

He named it Clementine.

You didn’t correct him.

[heldbybarnes]

Eyes on the Horizon Part II: Jet Trails & Daydreams

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Top Gun AU

Warnings: Emotional intimacy. Domestic fluff. Love confession. Soft vulnerability. Rain-soaked reconciliation. Kissing that feels like lifelines. Heavy emotional content. Gentle hurt/comfort. No explicit smut, but there’s skin-on-skin closeness, shared beds, whispered promises, and all the tension of someone you’re absolutely about to ruin.

Part 1

----------

It’s been three weeks since you met Bucky Barnes.

Three weeks of late-night texts and early-morning coffee drop-offs. Of laughing outside your apartment building while he leans against his motorcycle, boots scuffed and grin lopsided. Three weeks of him stealing tiny pieces of your time like they’re classified intel.

You’re not dating him. Not really. He hasn’t said the word. You haven’t asked.

But you know what kind of music he listens to when he runs. You know his pre-flight rituals. He drinks black coffee, double-checks his helmet straps three times, and mutters under his breath like it’s a prayer or a spell.

He knows how you like your ramen. He noticed when you switched your shampoo. He always walks on the street side, always opens your door, always texts when he lands—even if it’s two in the morning.

You don’t call it love. Not yet. But it feels like the horizon is getting closer.

The first time he brings you to the hangar, it’s just after sunset.

“You sure I’m allowed back here?” you ask, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his hoodie.

“I’m sure,” Bucky says, unlocking the side door with practiced ease. “Just don’t touch anything that looks like it might explode.”

The lights hum above you, casting soft gold across sleek steel and polished wings. You pause beside one of the jets—his jet—and glance back at him.

“This yours?”

He nods. “Tail number’s mine.”

You reach out slowly, fingers grazing the cool metal. “Looks like something out of a movie.”

“Feels like one, sometimes.”

You glance at him. “Do you ever get scared?”

He pauses. Then, “Not when I’m flying. Just when I’m not.”

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t elaborate.

Instead, he walks around the nose of the jet and pats the fuselage like it’s a friend. “It’s not just flying,” he says, quieter now. “It’s the only time I feel like I’m doing exactly what I was meant to do. Like everything’s quiet.”

You nod, understanding in a way that surprises you. The way his voice drops. The way he looks at the plane like it’s part of him.

He steps closer. His fingers brush your hand.

“And lately,” he murmurs, “it’s not the only place I feel that.”

The crash happens two days later.

It’s not him. It’s someone from another squad. But the alert goes out. You hear sirens all the way across town.

And suddenly, you’re sprinting to your phone, hands shaking, trying not to let your brain spiral.

You text: You okay?

You wait four minutes. Longest of your life.

Frostbite: I’m okay. Not me. I’m grounded for weather checks. Don’t worry.

Your knees give out. You sit on your kitchen floor and cry.

He’s at your door that night. Still in his flight suit. Still smells like jet fuel and nerves. You open the door and throw your arms around him before he can say anything.

He holds you there.

You whisper into his chest, “I thought—”

“I know,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your face into his shoulder. “I don’t want to be scared like that.”

He pulls back, searching your eyes. “Then don’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” you whisper.

“I mean this,” he says, hand on your cheek. “I mean you. I don’t know what we are yet, but I know I want this. You. As much as it terrifies me.”

You nod, tears warm. “Okay.”

He kisses you like you’re the last solid thing on Earth.

After that, something shifts. It’s not casual anymore.

He sleeps at your place more than his own. He learns your shower setting. You start reading flight manuals just to understand what the hell he’s talking about. You argue about nothing and make up over pancakes. You meet his team. Redline loves you. Sam asks if you have a sister.

You start to fall.

You fall the night he lets you wear his dog tags.

You fall harder when he flies his first solo mission in weeks and calls you the second he’s grounded, whispering, “I missed you more than I thought I would.”

And then it happens. The storm.

It starts as a joke.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you say, one lazy morning, curled up on the couch. “Knowing every time you go up could be the last time.”

“Because I know I’ll come back.”

“You can’t promise that.”

He stiffens.

You look up. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Bucky—”

“I don’t need a lecture from someone who’s never flown. You don’t get it.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He stands. “Maybe we moved too fast.”

The silence is instant and thick.

You whisper, “Maybe we did.”

He leaves.

Two days. No calls. No texts.

You dream of planes disappearing into clouds.

On the third day, there’s a knock. You don’t answer. But the door opens anyway. He’s standing there. Rain-drenched. Exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I panicked. I push people away when I’m scared.”

You don’t say anything.

He kneels. “I love you.”

Your breath hitches.

“I don’t know when it happened. But it did. And I can’t lose you over something stupid and scared and selfish.”

You grab his collar. Pull him in. “Then don’t. Come here.”

He holds you like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

Outside, the rain breaks.

And inside, two hearts fly closer than ever before.

[heldbybarnes]

"please stop flirting while I hold your intestines in"

omg yes. this is such a bucky thing. that sassy shit!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings:

----------

Your hands are slick with blood—his blood—and you’re seconds away from either saving Bucky Barnes’s life or screaming into the void.

“Don’t die,” you grit, pressing gauze into the open wound in his side while trying to keep his intestines from spilling onto the dirt-covered floor of what used to be a market square. “Don’t even think about dying, Barnes.”

“I’m not dying,” Bucky slurs with a weak grin. “I’m just… enjoying the view.”

You don’t even look up. “If you flirt with me while I’m literally holding your intestines, I swear to God—”

“You say that like it’s not the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m serious. You’re hot when you’re bossy.” He winces but doesn’t stop. “And you’ve got very gentle hands. Real nurturing. Could see you raising chickens. Or small angry children.”

You finally look up at him, eyes blazing. “You’re bleeding out, and you’re thinking about chickens?”

“Trying to picture our future, doll.”

Your jaw drops in disbelief, but he takes the opportunity to lift one unsteady hand and brush your cheek with the back of his fingers, smearing blood across your skin. “You’ve got blood on your face. Makes you look… kinda feral.”

You slap his hand away. “Touch me again and I will let your intestines hit the floor.”

“That’s fair,” he wheezes, then lets out a groan. “Okay, maybe less flirting, more focus. What’s the sitrep, Doc?”

You press harder into the wound, ignoring the way his back arches in pain. “You’ve got a deep abdominal laceration, likely nicked your small intestine, maybe worse. I’m trying to hold things in until evac gets here.”

He groans. “So what you’re saying is…I’m full of shit.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, biting back a smile despite yourself.

“I’m serious. You’re in love with me, admit it.”

“I’m in love with not watching you die.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

You hear the distant whir of a quinjet overhead and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Evac’s here. You just have to stay alive for three more minutes.”

“Piece of cake,” he murmurs. “Except… instead of cake���my intestines are… in your hands.”

“Please stop saying intestines like it’s a love language.”

“I love the way you say 'mesentery' when you’re mad.”

The quinjet touches down in a roar of dust and wind. Medics rush over with a stretcher, and you help ease him onto it, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, guiding the IV into his arm with the other.

“I’m not done with you,” Bucky mumbles as they start loading him in. “We still haven’t picked chicken names.”

You sigh. “One more word out of you, and I’m naming them all after your worst mission reports.”

He grins through the oxygen mask. “You do care.”

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you die on me, I’m going to bring you back just to kill you myself.”

The last thing you hear before the quinjet doors close is his muffled voice: “Mrs. Barnes has a nice ring to it.”

You shake your head, stained with blood, heart pounding in your chest—half from panic, half from the impossible man who just won’t shut up.

God help you.

You might actually be in love with him too.