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marvelavengersstuff · 3 days ago

Note

i love your blog and writing style so much! reading x reader fics is my only type of comfort (besides my cat) so you're making my days better and more bearable i'm really thankful for that! 😭🌷

soo i wanted to ask you to write a fic for me 🥺 i literally have NO ONE like no friends (i have 3 or 2 but not 'friends' friends you know?) and my family is messed up i feel like i have no one in my corner and i would love love love if you write something like reader is lonely and bucky goes in her life and etc etc i would be SO thankful if you choose to write this and if you don't, don't worry you're already making my days better while writing your fics 🤍🩶

Hello, dear! I’m glad you have enjoyed my work and that they’ve been of comfort to you! I appreciate the kind words. It was nice completing your request since I could relate to some of it and always enjoy writing some hurt/comfort. However, I do hope you find some good friends or people you can turn to someday! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Stayed Through it All

Summary: You’d spent most of your life convinced you were too quiet, too much, not enough for anyone to stay. But then Bucky Barnes started showing up in your life slowly and gradually became the first person who made you feel like you didn’t have to be anyone or anything else to be enough.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t mean to let it get this bad.

You didn’t even notice when the loneliness stopped feeling like something temporary and started becoming something permanent.

It was probably after your friend stopped texting back to hang out with their new friend. Maybe it was after your father stopped returning your calls, blaming you for being “too much” when all you’d done was cry quietly on the phone one night. Maybe it was the way your mother’s voice always sharpened when you dared to mention being tired. “You think you have it hard?”

Eventually, you stopped sharing at all. Even in the smallest ways. You nodded along to your coworkers' stories, laughed at the right times, learned to say “I’m good, you?” like a reflex.

But one day turned into a week, then a month of missed calls and unanswered messages. Not that there were many to begin with. Your friends, if you could still call them that, had slowly drifted, slipping into group chats you were no longer in. Family remained… complicated. Cold shoulders wrapped in guilt-trips and sharp words. You’d grown tired of pretending you didn’t notice when they began talking around you instead of to you, or when they only reached out to check boxes you didn’t fit in rather than check on you.

Work had been your only escape, but even that now felt fragile. Hours were cut, supervisors were vague or micro-managing, and you faced an endless stream of people who smiled right through you. It was like being invisible while still somehow feeling too much.

Too sensitive. Too strange. Too needy. You hated how easily you cried these days. How easily you cracked.

It got harder to go home after work with each passing day. The silence in your apartment was different now. It wasn’t peaceful anymore, it reminded you of every thought and thing wrong about yourself. How you must have done something wrong for people to not want you around. How you couldn’t host dinners or parties because there was no one to invite. How even living in this apartment was seen as another disappointment rather than an achievement by your family.

Maybe that’s why you started walking at night, even though you claimed it helped you sleep. Sometimes it did. Sometimes you wandered until your legs ached, until your phone’s battery blinked red. It wasn’t safe, but you didn’t care. You weren’t reckless, you just didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere long enough to be missed.

That night, you weren’t planning to go far. You’d just needed air. You hadn't even bothered with proper shoes, just slipped on your jacket and walked. The streetlamps buzzed overhead as a breeze tugged your hair across your face.

You focused on the ground as you rounded the corner of a quiet street, when you almost ran straight into him.

“Oh–sorry,” You said, stepping back instinctively, your hand pressed to your chest. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The man raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. His eyes were sharper than the streetlamp above you, but not unkind. “You okay?”

You blinked. He was wearing a hoodie and gloves, but you’d seen enough photos on newsfeeds and headlines to know exactly who he was. “You’re… Bucky Barnes.”

He looked surprised for a split second, like he hadn’t expected to be recognized. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny, but because your nerves were starting to catch up. “Didn’t expect to bump into an Avenger tonight.”

“Didn’t expect to get bumped into,” He replied, something vaguely teasing in his tone. “But it’s alright.”

There was a pause. You shifted awkwardly, hugging your arms around yourself. “Sorry if I messed up some kind of mission or something.”

His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Not exactly a mission, just walking the neighborhood. Making sure things are quiet.”

You nodded. “They usually are.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet way that made you feel like he was seeing too much. “You’re out here a lot.”

You hesitated. “That supposed to be a warning?”

His expression softened immediately. “No–no, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… noticed. That’s all.”

You gave a small shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “It’s quieter out here than it is at home.”

Something in his eyes changed, recognition. “Yeah,” He said quietly. “I get that.”

You looked at him then. His hood couldn’t hold the weight behind his eyes nor could he hide the way exhaustion lived in his posture. You didn’t know all the details, but the world had made sure you knew enough.

“I’m fine,” You added, mostly out of habit.

“Are you?” He asked gently.

You swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence before he took a slow step back, giving you space. “Do you want company? Just to walk. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

You hesitated. Your gut said no. You didn’t let people in, couldn’t. Not anymore. But your heart, the part that had been bruised and stretched thin and aching for something steady whispered yes.

“…Sure,” You said. “Walking with someone sounds… nice.”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. “And what should I call you?”

You glanced at him and smiled softly, giving him your name. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt like someone might care enough to remember it.

You never said it out loud, but you started looking for him.

Not in an obvious way. Not with expectation. But your heart would lift, just a little, whenever you turned the corner and saw him there. Hands in his pockets, hood pulled low, and watching the world like it might turn on him at any second until he saw you. Then he softened.

He never greeted you loudly. Just a simple, “Hey,” or a nod, like you’d both agreed long ago that this was normal.

And somehow, it became exactly that. Normal.

It wasn’t every night of course, but it was often enough that absence felt strange. A small ache in your chest when he wasn’t on the corner. You told yourself it was fine, that he had a life, a job, a past filled with shadows. You weren’t owed anything.

But you missed him anyway.

There were other nights where you spoke in fragments.

“What do you do when you can’t stop thinking?” You’d asked once, voice barely audible.

“Walk,” He’d said. “Or hit things.”

You’d laughed, and he’d smiled, just a little.

Other nights, it was quiet. Just walking. Just being near someone who didn’t expect anything from you. Someone who didn’t need you to perform happiness or push down your grief.

Bucky never asked about your family. He never pried. But you could tell he knew something wasn’t right. He noticed the tension in your shoulders. The way your voice got flat when you mentioned home. The way you avoided talking about weekends or holidays altogether.

But he didn’t force you to explain. He just stayed.

And on one Tuesday night, you realized something.

You’d left work exhausted, your brain buzzing from a manager’s sharp words and the hollow ache of pretending to be okay all day. You weren’t thinking about much when you turned the corner that night and there he was.

Same spot. Same faint, crooked smile when he saw you.

And it hit you: he was waiting.

Not just showing up. Not just passing by. He was waiting for you.

You swallowed thickly, not trusting yourself to say much.

“Hey,” You managed.

“Hey,” He said, falling into step beside you.

Like always. Like routine. Like something steady that just kept growing.

Because the next night, he was there again. This time, with two paper cups.

“Tea,” He said simply, holding one out to you. “Figured I’d guess this time.”

You took it, your hands feeling the warmth from the cup.

“…You always this nice?” You asked softly, only half teasing.

He glanced at you. “No.”

You smiled faintly. “So why with me?”

He looked away, the way he always did when he was thinking too much. “Because you remind me of me,” He said finally. “Back when I thought no one saw me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…I see you,” You whispered.

He looked at you then, something softening in his expression. “I know.”

And that was the night you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything. The night you realized you weren’t just walking anymore. You were building something. And Bucky Barnes was becoming part of it.

One afternoon, you didn’t expect to see him in the daytime.

Your connection lived in the quiet hours. After sunset, under flickering streetlamps, where shadows were long and words were soft. That was your world. The only time you felt allowed to exist without needing to explain yourself.

But then came Saturday and there he was.

You spotted him from across the street. His hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked more like a guy running errands than a former assassin on patrol.

He saw you at the same time, gave a little lift of his chin and crossed the street with purpose. You froze halfway to the bus stop, unsure why your stomach flipped the way it did.

“Hey,” He said, a little breathless, like he’d hurried.

“Hi,” You replied, confused but smiling anyway. “Didn’t think I’d see you in daylight. Thought you were strictly nocturnal.”

Bucky actually chuckled, quiet and rare. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t sure if this would be weird.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna grab lunch. There’s this spot a few blocks away. It’s tiny, but kind of quiet. I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come.”

You blinked. It took you a full second too long to register what he meant.

“Oh,” You said. “Like… lunch. Together?”

“Yeah,” He said, then quickly added, “Just food. I mean, not like–unless you–hell, I’m bad at this.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re fine. I just… didn’t expect that.”

“I figured,” He said, eyes scanning your face. “If you say no, it’s okay. We can just stick with nightly walks.”

That made your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

Because part of you wanted to say no. Not because you didn’t want to go. But because some part of you was convinced you’d ruin it. That he’d realize you weren’t enough.

That someone like him who was kind, observant, and careful, wasn’t meant to stick around people like you. People who carried too much in their chest and didn’t know how to set it down.

But then you looked at him. Bucky Barnes who had every reason to close himself off and still offered you tea when you were shaking, and quiet when you needed space.

And he was asking to spend time with you. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just… asking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

The place was small and tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty, just calm. You sat across from each other at a little table by the window. And for the first time, you talked in full sentences. About music. Food. The ridiculous number of people who apparently still thought Bucky liked plums because of some file Steve mentioned once.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. He smiled more than you’d ever seen.

You caught him watching you a few times, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. And every time, your heart did that quiet, painful twist that came with realizing someone actually wanted you around.

You didn’t talk about family. Or trauma. Or loneliness. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.

Because for now, you let yourself sit across from a man who kept showing up. And for once, you didn’t feel like a burden for accepting it.

When it ended, you both had exchanged numbers and you smiled the whole way home. Not a big, giddy grin. Not the kind that buzzed with new love or rose-colored excitement. Just a small, warm curl at the corner of your mouth that wouldn’t go away.

Because the lunch had been… easy. Natural.

You didn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that with someone. Just sitting across from them and not having to work so hard to be interesting, or likable, or fun. You hadn’t needed to fill the silence, because Bucky never made silence feel like failure.

And he’d even paid, grumbled a little about modern pricing, but still held the door open when you walked out.

You should’ve felt safe. Happy. But of course, that voice came back. The one that always did when something good happened.

He was just being polite. He probably felt bad for you. You talked too much. Or not enough. Or said something weird. He’s probably second-guessing it now.

You told yourself to stop, that none of it was true. But you’d lived most of your life watching people lose interest in you like clockwork. So instead of walking with that same lightness you felt at the table, you found yourself shrinking again.

Head down. Hands in your jacket pockets. Smile fading, bit by bit

And to your surprise, texted later that evening.

Just a simple:

Made it home okay?

You stared at it for a full minute.

Then typed:

Yeah, thanks. And… thanks again for lunch. I really appreciated it.

You added a second message, hesitating.

You didn’t have to do all that.

You almost deleted it. But your finger slipped, and it sent.

A minute later, he responded:

Didn’t do it because I had to.

Another pause and he sent another message.

I wanted to.

You stared at those three words for a long time.

The next night, you almost didn’t go on your walk. You weren’t sure if he’d be there. If it would be weird now. If the quiet thing you’d built would somehow be different just because you’d shared a meal like two normal people.

But you went anyway. And when you rounded that corner, heart in your throat, he was there. Same spot. Same faint smile when he saw you.

“You came,” He said.

You swallowed. “So did you.”

“Of course I did.”

And just like that, without needing to explain the ache in your chest or the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind, he started walking beside you again. As if the doubt within you never stood a chance.

However, good things never last.

You hadn’t meant to cry.

You’d gotten good at holding things in. Good at keeping your voice even, your expression neutral, your heart locked up behind carefully stacked defenses. You knew how to keep walking. How to keep breathing through the ache.

But some days, some days it didn’t matter how strong you tried to be. And that night, everything hurt.

It wasn’t even about something new. Nothing fresh or sharp. It was the old stuff, the words that never really healed. The ones that resurfaced in this mornings phone call with your father, when he’d said it without hesitation. “You’re just too hard to love, you know that?”

It had gutted you then and it still did.

Because even if you didn’t show it, you’d started to believe it.

The way friends drifted away. The way family only called when they needed something or to criticize. The way people got tired of your quiet, your sadness, your needs. Even when you tried to shrink yourself, to not ask for anything… it was never enough.

You were always too much, and somehow not enough all at once.

So when you walked that night, when you saw Bucky waiting in his usual spot, you almost turned back.

But he saw you. And the moment he did, something in his expression shifted.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked right up to him, stopped short, and stood there with your arms crossed tight over your chest, like if you let them drop, everything would spill out.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “You alright?”

You shook your head once, too quickly as your voice cracked when you whispered, “Why do you keep showing up?”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him then, eyes confused. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep… being nice to me?”

He took a step closer, cautious. “Because I like being around you.”

“You shouldn’t.” The words burst out before you could stop them. “I’m not…– people don’t stay. They get tired of me. They always do.”

“Who said that to you?” He asked quietly, his voice low, steady.

You laughed bitterly. “Does it matter… Friends. Family. Pretty much everyone I ever let get too close.”

You looked away, blinking hard.

“They all said the same thing… that I’m just too hard to love.”

It was out now. Ugly, raw, and terrifying. You waited for him to flinch. To pull away. To prove them right. But he didn’t.

He stepped closer, slow and sure. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he reached out, one hand hovering at your shoulder until you gave the tiniest nod.

Then his palm pressed gently against your arm.

“They were wrong,” He said.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” He said firmly. “Because I know me. And I don’t waste time on people I don’t care about.”

Your throat tightened.

He wasn’t trying to fix it. He wasn’t telling you to be positive or that it would pass. He wasn’t saying it didn’t matter.

He was just there. With you.

“You’re not hard to love,” He spoke softer now. “You were just surrounded by people who didn’t know how.”

And that broke something loose.

The first tear slid down your cheek. Then another. You tried to speak, to apologize, but your voice disappeared behind a sob that ripped straight out of your chest.

You folded into yourself, ashamed, but Bucky caught you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms. Not tight. Not smothering. Just enough.

Enough to say I’m here. Enough to say You’re not too much for me. Enough to say I’m not going anywhere.

And in his arms, safe for once, you let yourself cry.

Really cry.

For the first time in a long, long time.

When the tears had finally stopped, you felt worn out like a storm fading to drizzle. You’d stood in the dark with Bucky for longer than you realized, his arms wrapped gently around you. He never rushed you. Never asked you to talk more or explain.

And when you finally stepped back, breath unsteady but lighter somehow, he didn’t say a word about the crying. Just looked at you like you were whole.

“…I’m okay now,” You’d whispered, not sure if you believed it yet.

His head tilted slightly. “You want to walk?”

You nodded.

And you walked until you were both sitting on a cracked bench outside a 24-hour café near a closed bookstore. He’d offered to buy you something, no pressure, just a question, and you said yes without thinking.

It felt… nice. Like last time. Letting someone do something for you without guilt clinging to it.

You had a small paper cup between your hands of warm chai, still steaming. He had black coffee, of course. Of course he drank it black.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t awkward. It was gentle. Companionable. Like your sadness didn’t scare him. He wasn’t expecting you to bounce back or smile to make him feel better.

He was just there.

You took a small sip, then glanced over at him. He was watching the empty street like he was half on patrol, half at peace.

“Thanks for the tea,” You murmured.

He looked at you then, eyes soft. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You looked down at your drink. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

“I know,” He said. “It’s okay.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “But why didn’t you walk away?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back on the bench, hands wrapped around his cup like it grounded him.

“Because I know what it’s like,” He said finally. “To think you’re too broken or too much. To think you’ve ruined the moment just by being yourself.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the honesty.

He kept his gaze forward. “I’ve been there. I still go there. But… I also know how much it means when someone stays anyway.”

Your heart ached in a different way now. Not from pain. From being understood.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“Anytime.”

You sat in silence again, drinking your tea slowly, letting the warmth from the cup seep into your fingers.

The city was so quiet this late. No shouting. Barely any cars. Just wind and dim streetlights.

Eventually, you looked over and gave him a small smile. “You think next time we could get donuts or something instead?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, his version of a grin. “You saying I’m not a good coffee date?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened. “You’re passable.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement. “Alright, donuts next time. But only if they have the jelly-filled ones.”

You nudged his arm lightly. “You got a deal.”

And just like that, something fragile began to stitch itself back together inside you.

It may not have been fixed or finished. But it was held together by his love and care.

And for now, that was more than enough.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic rec

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marvelavengersstuff · 5 days ago

Text

Tactical Comfort | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When your period hits early during a mission, you try to power through it. But, Bucky Barnes notices everything, and he refuses to let you suffer in silence.

MCU Timeline Placement: TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: endometriosis, period pain, nausea, vomiting, chronic illness depiction, mentions of shame/internalized stigma around periods, canon-typical violence, mild language, Bucky being a softie

Word Count: 5.2k

Author’s Note: as someone who used to get such debilitating periods i started skipping the placebo week of my birth control just to avoid the pain altogether—this one’s deeply personal. this was a wonderful request and i really wanted to write something that balances the gross reality of this kind of pain with the kind of quiet, steady care we all deserve. aka bucky barnes. that’s the dream!

You didn’t make a sound as the first cramp hit. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even exhale.

You just adjusted your grip on the rusted pipe beneath your gloves and finished lowering yourself into the corridor shaft below, boots making no more noise than a shadow. Four floors down. Concrete. Rust. Sweat and wire and the buzz of overhead halogen lighting, just enough of a hum to grind behind your eyes.

Bucky dropped down beside you a second later, easy and quiet as breath. He gave you a glance, eyes sharp, and you returned it with the barest nod. His jaw flexed. He kept moving.

You’d worked with him long enough to know what that look meant.

He didn’t like the layout. Didn’t like that intel had changed twice. Didn’t like that Sam was two clicks north on a separate ingress and the local feeds kept glitching out every fifteen minutes.

But what Bucky didn’t know, and what you sure as hell weren’t going to mention mid-op, was that the worst of the day hadn’t been the blackout or the tech delay or the two hostiles you’d already had to drop in near silence with a blade and a nerve pinch.

The worst of the day had hit your pelvis forty-five minutes ago.

And it was only getting worse.

You hadn’t expected it this early.

Not after years of scheduling your mission calendar around those three cursed days. At least the three worst days. You’d learned the cycle, tracked it down to a science. You’d learned how to survive it in a civilian setting, barely, but surviving it on an op was something you hadn’t had to do in years.

Not with this kind of pain.

Not with the dull, wrenching, ache-climb-shatter rhythm of it crawling spineward, wrapping around your stomach like barbed wire and dragging sharp behind your hip bones. Not with the nausea licking the back of your throat or the pressure building low in your gut like something clawing to escape.

You’d been shot in the thigh once on a Baltic raid and limped three miles out without a sound. Bucky had carried you the last half-mile once he found you, swearing the whole time that you were the most stubborn damn person he’d ever met. You’d gotten the bullet out yourself.

But this?

This was worse. This you couldn’t dig out.

You kept moving anyway.

You secured the hallway, cleared the lab, climbed the third flight of stairs despite the heat building behind your eyes. You blinked hard as the flare came again, low and sharp, like being stabbed from the inside. Something tightened in your chest and your hand slipped against the edge of the frame. Just a moment. Just an inch.

Bucky noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked over his shoulder, long and heavy and quiet. You straightened up before he could say anything. Blinked again. Adjusted your rifle strap.

“Clear,” you said, voice even.

“Mm,” he answered.

You kept going.

He caught you two rooms later.

You didn’t mean to give yourself away again. You thought you had it handled—had trained your face not to show it, had forced your spine straight, your breathing even, your jaw tight but not clenched.

But Bucky was too damn observant.

“You’re limping.”

You kept scanning the data drives. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s fine.”

The silence that followed was thick. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just filled with the weight of him.

Then: “Sit down.”

You didn’t.

“I said—”

“I’m not injured,” you snapped, too sharp.

Another beat.

Then his voice, gentler: “That wasn’t the question.”

You swallowed. Looked up. The overhead light caught the silver edge of his arm, the way it flexed slightly at his side, tension humming beneath the vibranium.

You hated the concern in his eyes. Not because he shouldn’t care, but because you couldn’t take it.

“I’m not bleeding out, okay?” you said. “I’m just—”

You hesitated. Shame crawled under your skin, bitter and hot.

“I’m just in pain.”

He stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “What kind of pain.”

“Not the kind you need to worry about.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s menstrual.”

You said it like a shield. Like a challenge.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, Bucky just slowly nodded And something in his expression shifted—not horror, not awkwardness, just a quiet kind of understanding. The kind of look he gave Sam when the weight of a loss was too much for words. The kind of look he gave you once, two years ago, when you sat beside him at the compound and told him what it felt like the first time a doctor said the word endometriosis and didn’t act like you were being dramatic.

“How bad?” he asked.

You looked down. “Worse than usual.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You let out a low breath, nearly laughed. “That scale doesn’t work for this.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Then give me something to go on.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

At the soldier who had once been an assassin. At the man who was now someone’s teammate, someone’s brother-in-arms, someone’s quiet moral compass. At the man who’d learned how to listen without demanding. Who’d learned that silence wasn’t absence, it was presence in another language.

“Feels like getting gutted,” you said finally. “Repeatedly. With… pressure. Like someone’s wringing out everything inside you and dragging hooks through what’s left.”

His jaw twitched. He nodded. Just once.

And then he held out a hand.

“Give me your pack.”

“Bucky—”

“Give it.”

You hesitated, then handed it over. He dug through it without flinching, found the med tab you’d kept buried at the bottom, then took off his own jacket and folded it before lowering himself beside you on the floor.

“Take the meds.”

“They take too long to kick in.”

“We’re not in a rush. Take them anyway.”

You did.

He reached out. Not to touch—but to offer.

You didn’t move for a second. Then you gave in. Let yourself lean sideways. Let your shoulder find his. Let your spine curl slightly and your head tip to rest against his chest, slow and hesitant. His arm came around you a beat later, strong and gentle, and you could feel the metal coldness of it even through your layers.

“You could’ve said something sooner,” he murmured.

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”

“You’ve taken bullets for Sam.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re also human.”

You snorted. “So are you.”

He didn’t answer that. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted slightly, angled his body to block the hallway. You realized, distantly, that he was shielding you from the line of sight. Watching both exits. Keeping one arm around you, his hand resting against your bicep in a way that felt more like anchoring than comfort.

You closed your eyes for a second. Just one.

“You get days this bad?” he asked, voice low.

“Worse,” you whispered. “But not on mission. I usually time them right.”

“Body didn’t get the memo this time?”

You breathed a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.”

“We’ll finish sweep, but we’re not pushing north yet.”

“You’ll need backup—”

“I need you,” he said, “not passed out in a stairwell somewhere. We’ll head out when the meds kick in.”

You opened your eyes. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t joking.

Just looking at you with that same quiet, intense steadiness.

“Gonna be pissed if Sam hears you went soft on me,” you muttered.

“Too bad,” he said. “He already thinks I’m a sap.”

The motel wasn’t much. One story. Fluorescents that buzzed like they were angry to be alive. A front desk with a bell that stuck. The kind of place you chose not for comfort but because no one would think to look for you there.

The mission had wrapped an hour ago, successful and clean. You and Bucky had swept the last wing, taken out the last remaining security node, and rendezvoused with Sam just before the sun dipped behind the treeline.

Your body had been merciful enough to dull the pain down to something tolerable, just enough that you could walk without the stagger, talk without your voice shaking at the edges. But the nausea had stuck. It sat at the back of your throat like a second pulse.

You’d made it to your room with barely a nod goodnight.

Neither of them had argued. Sam had looked like he wanted to say something—one of those soft, sideways comments he saved for moments when concern might come off as pity—but he didn’t. He just watched you walk toward the room with that sharp-eyed steadiness that meant he clocked everything.

Bucky hadn’t said anything either. Just followed you with his gaze, silent and unreadable, before disappearing into his own room two doors down.

Your motel room smelled like old bleach and cheaper carpet. You hadn’t even bothered to take off your boots before curling sideways on the bed, your body folding in on itself the way it always did when the pain gave way to its more insidious cousin, nausea, so intense it made the room feel warped at the edges.

You laid still. Curled, shallow-breathing. One hand pressed to your stomach, the other gripping the edge of the cheap motel comforter like it could tether you.

You didn’t know how long had passed when you heard the knock.

Three soft raps.

You didn’t move.

Another knock. Then a pause.

“You still up?”

Bucky.

Your voice rasped in your throat. “M’fine. Go away.”

“Doesn’t sound fine.”

You swallowed against the rising bile. “Just need sleep.”

Silence.

Then a rustle. Plastic.

“I brought some stuff.”

You let out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Bucky, I’m good. You didn’t need to—seriously, I’ll feel better in the morning.”

More silence. Then the faint, unmistakable sound of annoyed exhale through his nose. You imagined him standing there in his all-black gear with his jaw working and his metal hand fidgeting against the bags like he was deciding whether to argue with you or kick the door in.

“Good luck getting in without a key,” you added, eyes still closed. “Not getting up.”

Another pause.

A click.

Then, suddenly, the door creaked open.

You turned your head, slowly, sharply. “What the hell—”

He shrugged, already halfway inside, plastic bags hanging from one wrist. “Guess the swiper’s old.”

“You picked a motel lock?”

Bucky gave you a slow blink, then grinned like a teenager caught with a lighter. “Whoops.”

“Jesus.”

“Hey, you said you weren’t getting up.”

You groaned and let your head fall back into the pillow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well, you’re curled up like a half-dead cat and trying to convince everyone you’re fine. So we’re even.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and stepped further in. The lamp buzzed overhead, casting a yellow tint over the small room.

You finally looked at him properly—hair still slightly damp from the mission, sleeves rolled to the elbows, that old worn jacket tied around his waist. Two plastic bags in one hand. A look on his face that you couldn’t quite pin. It wasn’t pity. It never was, with Bucky.

He set the bags on the rickety desk, then rummaged through the first one. You half-sat, just enough to speak without sounding winded.

“I told you, you didn’t need to—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

From the first bag, he pulled out a cheap hot water bottle, the red rubber kind, still in its drugstore packaging. You blinked. He set it aside like it was nothing.

Next came a box of heating patches, the stick-on kind you’d once mentioned were the only things that worked when you were in the field and couldn’t curl up with a heating pad for eight hours.

Then: ginger chews. Peppermint gum. Two types of electrolyte packets. A can of ginger ale. A bag of frozen peas—presumably in case the water bottle took too long to warm up. And from the second bag: fuzzy socks. Plain black. No frills. But they looked warm. And new.

“You went to a pharmacy?” you asked, voice small.

He shrugged again. “Had Sam drop me off. Gave me ten minutes before the clerk got nosy.”

And then—at the bottom of the second bag—he paused for a second before pulling out a small zippered pouch. Nondescript. Travel-sized. You frowned.

“I didn’t know what brand,” he said, setting it down like it might detonate. “So I just grabbed the… uh. ‘Variety pack.’”

You stared. He cleared his throat.

“Which—by the way—should not be called that,” he added. “Made it sound like I was buying a damn candy sampler. Not… you know.”

Your lips twitched. “You bought tampons?”

“And pads,” he said, almost too quickly. “The overnight kind. And, uh. Some smaller ones. I think. Look, the whole aisle is a trap. I had three different women give me side-eye and one old guy tell me I was brave. Which I’m not. I was just—trying to read the boxes without looking like I was planning a heist.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to laugh.

“And Sam,” Bucky continued, now visibly annoyed with the memory, “just sat in the damn car like a coward while I tried to figure out the difference between, like, wings and ultra-wings and why the hell some of the boxes had colors like nail polish shades.”

You lost it then. A small, hoarse laugh that cracked in your throat and made your stomach ache, but you couldn’t help it. The image of Bucky Barnes—ex-assassin, actual super-soldier—standing in the period aisle looking deeply betrayed by pastel packaging was too much.

“I think I bought like… six different things. I panicked,” he said with a one-shouldered shrug. “Figured you’d pick what you needed and throw the rest at me later.”

You didn’t. You just looked at him.

The pouch sat on the bed beside you now, zipped neatly, placed carefully within reach but not shoved at you. Nothing in his posture pushed you. He’d done it—awkwardly, maybe—but he’d done it anyway.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at the other items lined up on the motel desk like they were offerings. Like they were armor.

“How did you know?”

“You told me,” he said simply, kneeling beside the bed. “Back at the compound. Last year. After that debrief. You said sometimes it hits so hard it knocks you sideways. That you keep things stocked just in case.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly too tight.

“I pay attention,” Bucky added, quieter now.

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not the mission partner. Not the soldier. Just the man kneeling beside a motel bed with two bags full of things he thought might make your body feel even a little less like a trap.

“I’m gonna heat the water,” he said, rising, nodding toward the ancient microwave.

You let him.

You laid still as the water bottle filled, as he returned and pressed it gently against your lower stomach, his vibranium hand careful not to let any of the heat slip out too fast. He didn’t hover. Didn’t sit until you nodded toward the end of the bed in permission.

He dropped into the motel chair backwards, arms resting over the top of it. Quiet.

You reached for the ginger ale after a few minutes. Didn’t have the energy to sit up properly, so you just cracked it open and let it rest on your chest while you sipped slowly. The nausea hadn’t gone away, but it had dulled. Just a little.

“Sam’s ordering takeout,” Bucky said eventually. “Won’t be mad if you skip dinner.”

“He’ll be mad if I don't eat.”

“He’ll live.”

You nodded.

Another pause.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

“Didn’t want you to feel alone in it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach twisted. Not from the pain this time, but from something slower, warmer. He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared at the wall, like the words had come out before he could second guess them.

You took another sip of the ginger ale, hand still curled loosely around the can. The carbonation felt weirdly aggressive against your tongue, but it helped. At least kept you from focusing on the bile still hanging out at the back of your throat.

“Sam get Chinese again?” you asked, your voice scratchy.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. He’s on a real lo mein kick.”

You let out a weak noise that could’ve been a laugh. “Third time this month.”

“Fourth.”

There was another beat of silence. You shifted slightly on the bed, trying to stretch out your legs without setting off another round of cramps. Your body still felt like a punching bag, but it was less urgent now. Less suffocating. That edge where you felt like you might throw up or pass out had finally started to fade.

You stared at the water bottle on your stomach and then at the socks, still sitting untouched in their packaging on the desk. “Where the hell did you even find those this late?”

“Gas station next to the pharmacy. They were hanging next to one of those rotating sunglasses racks.”

“Wow,” you said flatly. “That’s…very sweet of you.”

He shrugged. “They’re warm. You like warm.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just picked at the label on the ginger ale can. “I’m not trying to be dramatic, you know. This just sucks sometimes.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

You glanced over. He was still in that stupid backwards chair, arms folded over the top of it like he was waiting for someone to give him orders.

“Some people do.”

“Well, those people are idiots.”

You snorted and it hurt your stomach muscles, so you stopped halfway through. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into a whole thing.”

“It’s not a thing.”

“You’re in my motel room with frozen peas and gas station socks.”

“Still not a thing.”

“You picked a lock to get in here.”

“Still not a thing.”

You gave him a long look. “You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“Says the person who thought they could just white-knuckle it through a full op while actively dying inside.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You looked like you wanted to throw me down the stairs.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was for…something else.”

He cracked a smile. “Yeah, well, get in line.”

That made you laugh again, this time just soft enough that it didn’t hurt. And for a moment, things felt bearable. The bed was lumpy, the lights buzzed, your uterus still felt like it was being put through a blender, but the ginger ale wasn’t making things worse, and Bucky was… here. Being normal. Kind of annoying. Weirdly competent. Your head hurt but your brain didn’t feel so alone in it anymore.

Bucky stood, retrieved the peas—which he’d stuck in the mini freezer just long enough to be icy again—and returned to swap out the now-lukewarm water bottle.

You stared at him while he worked, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve definitely done this before.”

“Done what?”

“This. The whole…” You waved your hand. “Mission nursemaid routine.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “First of all—never call it that again. Second of all, no. Not really.”

“Then how the hell do you know all this?”

He shrugged. “I Google things.”

You blinked. “You googled ‘what to do when someone’s in period pain’?”

“Yeah.”

“In public?”

“Incognito tab.”

That actually made you laugh. A real one, this time. He looked slightly pleased with himself.

There was a knock on the door. Muffled.

“You two want lo mein or what?” came Sam’s voice, followed by a sharp “I’m not keeping it warm if you don’t answer.”

Bucky didn’t look away from you. “You up for eating?”

You hesitated. “Give me like twenty minutes.”

Bucky nodded, standing. “I’ll tell him you’re still cursing me out for breaking and entering. But I’ll bring you back some if you want.”

“Please do.”

He turned toward the door, then paused. “You need anything else?”

You shook your head. “I’m good. Really.”

He nodded once more. “Don’t worry about locking the door. I’ll be back.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had bribed the front desk lady for a copy of your room key. He left without another word, and for the first time in hours, the room felt… steady. Manageable. Not good. Not perfect. But livable.

You shifted again, pulled the bag of peas closer, and reached for the socks. They were cheap. Soft. Exactly your size.

Asshole knew what he was doing.

Bucky was back in just under fifteen minutes. You knew because the digital clock beside the bed had ticked forward exactly twelve by the time you’d stood up and crossed to the sink in search of cold water to sip before attempting to eat.

You’d felt a little steadier, even dared to pull on the fuzzy socks he’d brought and shuffle across the creaky linoleum floor. The first half of the ginger ale had settled alright. The alternating cold and hot on your stomach had helped.

But your body had other plans.

The wave of nausea had started in your spine. Then a sharp ache in your ribs. The water bottle slipped from your hand and thudded to the floor as you doubled over the sink.

Your legs barely carried you the five feet to the toilet before you hit your knees. A cold sweat broke across the back of your neck. It didn’t matter that your stomach was mostly empty. Your body didn’t care. It was going to purge something, even if it had to pull it from nothing.

You barely heard the motel room door open. Didn’t hear the takeout bags hit the desk. Just the shift in air pressure. The sound of boots on the worn carpet. Then—

“Hey—”

His voice was too close, too fast. You lifted a trembling hand toward the open bathroom doorway.

“Wait—hang on—I’m—” You couldn’t even get the sentence out. Your chest heaved.

But he didn’t wait. Didn’t even blink.

He was in the doorway and kneeling beside you in a heartbeat.

You tried to protest, voice thin and shaky. “Bucky, seriously—”

“Stop,” he said. Not harsh. Just final. Quiet. Focused.

You felt his hand sweep your hair out of your face. He gathered it gently, like it wasn’t damp with sweat, like you weren’t shaking so hard your spine rattled. He knelt close enough to steady you without hovering.

His left arm braced lightly against your side, then wrapped around your lower waist—not intrusive, just firm. The vibranium cold in contrast to your body heat, pressing against the cramping mess of your abdomen.

You exhaled without meaning to. Not relief, not yet, but your muscles responded to the weight. The pressure helped.

“I’ve got you,” he said, low and steady beside your ear. “Just breathe through it.”

You tried. You really did.

Your hands gripped the porcelain like it might keep you from falling apart entirely. Another dry heave wracked your body. Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He shifted with you instinctively, adjusting his grip at your waist, not letting you collapse against the floor.

The tremors didn’t stop immediately. You leaned forward again, gagging hard against nothing, the effort leaving you lightheaded. Your vision blurred for a second. Your arms nearly gave out.

Bucky’s hand slid from your back up to your shoulder and squeezed.

“Easy,” he said, voice like low gravel. “You’re okay.”

You let your weight tip sideways slightly, just enough that your temple brushed against the edge of his chest. His arm tightened around your waist again, firmer now, the curve of his metal forearm pressing down right where the worst of the nausea sat coiled.

It was like flipping a switch. The pressure hit the right spot, interrupted something that had spiraled out of control in your gut, and for the first time in what felt like hours, your body…paused. The urge to retch faded. Not entirely, but just enough to breathe.

You took in a shaking breath, and Bucky moved with you.

Still kneeling. Still holding you.

“Should’ve figured it’d hit this hard after the meds wore off,” he muttered. Not blaming. Just thinking out loud.

You didn’t answer. Just leaned your forehead against his sternum, breathing slow, still curled in slightly from the ache.

“I brought crab rangoon,” he added a second later.

You let out something that might have been a groan. “You’re the worst.”

“Sam tried to talk me into dumplings. Said you’d want those.”

“I do want those. But if you say dumplings right now, I will throw up again.”

He huffed a laugh, breath rustling the top of your head.

You stayed like that for another minute, maybe more. The pain was still there, still humming in your hips and low belly, but the nausea had broken like a wave. The pressure from his arm helped, even as your muscles trembled from the effort. You hadn’t realized how unsteady you’d gotten until he’d braced you.

You pulled back slightly, eyes half-closed. “You can let go now.”

“Nope,” he said. “You’re a flight risk.”

“I’m literally on the floor.”

“And yet,” he said, brushing your hair away from your temple again, “I’ve seen you gut through worse with zero warning. So you’re not moving until you can stand up without looking like you’re gonna faceplant.”

You sighed, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to be in here for this.”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “I do.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue.

Eventually, you let him help you up—slowly, carefully, his hands steadying you the entire time. He guided you toward the sink with a gentleness that never felt fragile. The kind of care you’d only seen from him in moments like this. After missions. In quiet, exhausted corners. Where the armor cracked just enough for softness to slip through.

He handed you a wet washcloth and you pressed it to your face, then leaned against the counter.

“You feeling any better?”

“No,” you rasped. “But less awful.”

“That’s the goal.”

You turned your head toward him. “You still have those dumplings?”

He smirked. “Thought you said you’d puke.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He moved to the door. “Come sit down when you’re ready. I’ll plate it.”

You blinked. “This motel room doesn’t even have plates.”

He didn’t answer right away, just gave you a look as if to say Really? and then gestured vaguely toward the paper bag on the desk.

“Sure it doesn’t,” he said. “But you know what I meant.”

Which, apparently, meant he was about to pile lo mein, dumplings, crab rangoon, and something fried Sam had insisted on into one large takeout container, like some chaotic buffet. You could hear him rustling foil and crinkly paper in the other room while you rinsed out your mouth and splashed cold water on your face. Your legs were still a little shaky, but you could walk. Mostly.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the lighting had been dimmed. One of the lamps had been switched off, and the curtain pulled a little tighter. You hadn’t asked him to do any of it. But of course he had.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, plastic fork in one hand, the Frankenstein’d container of food balanced on the blanket between you. He handed you a water bottle without a word.

You raised an eyebrow. “No stolen plates?”

He gave a mock look of offense. “This is a very intentional food presentation.”

You settled beside him, legs curled under you, fuzzy socks brushing his thigh. “It looks like a war zone.”

“Fitting,” he muttered, nudging a crab rangoon your way.

You started slow. Nibbled at the corner of a dumpling like it might betray you. Your stomach was still unhappy but seemed to have decided to keep its grievances quiet for now. After a few bites, the worst of the nausea faded to a tolerable hum.

Bucky didn’t say much while you ate. He never rushed you. Never tried to fill silence with useless words. Just sat there, occasionally nudging food toward your side of the container, nudging the blanket closer to your lap, twisting the cap off your water without being asked.

You caught him watching you a few times—always subtly, like he was assessing something. Not in a worried way, but in that quiet, calculated way he always did when he didn’t trust a situation. You knew that look. It was the one he wore on rooftops and recon. Like he was looking for the next point of impact and deciding how to stand between you and it.

“Thank you,” you said finally, around the last bite of lo mein.

He glanced over. “For which part?”

“All of it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You’d do the same.”

“Yeah, but I’d complain more.”

That pulled a smile from him—soft, tired, but real. You both leaned back against the headboard, the now empty container tucked aside on the nightstand.

For a minute, it was quiet. Not tense. Just quiet. The motel AC groaned in the wall. Somewhere outside, a truck passed. You tucked the blanket tighter around your waist, instinctively curling forward, then winced when your stomach gave a familiar twinge. Bucky caught it.

“You hurting again?”

You nodded. “Comes in waves.”

He didn’t ask this time. Just shifted closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. You didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

His hand found your knee through the blanket, a grounding weight. “You need the heating pad again?”

“No. It’s not that bad. Just…”

You trailed off.

You didn’t want to say it.

Didn’t want to admit that the thing that had helped the most all night wasn’t the meds or the food or even the fuzzy socks.

It was him. That moment in the bathroom. His metal arm around your waist. The pressure. The cold. The steadiness of it.

You hesitated, chewing your lip.

Bucky waited.

“…Earlier,” you said finally, eyes flicking to his face. “The thing you did with your arm. That helped. A lot.”

His brow lifted slightly. “The pressure?”

You nodded, sheepish. “It was the only thing that kept me from throwing up again. I know that’s—um. Kind of weird.”

“It’s not.”

“I just—” You exhaled, tucked your hands under the blanket. “Would you mind… staying? Just for a bit. If that’s weird, forget I said anything. Seriously. I just—if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t answer right away. But you felt the shift. Felt him lean forward just enough to look at you head-on.

“Not weird,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Not even a little.”

You nodded, throat a little tight. “It’s just, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shut you up.

He stood long enough to toe off his boots and tug the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, then slid in behind you. You stayed curled, trying to get comfortable again, but it was clear your body wasn’t done being difficult. Every few minutes a new cramp coiled behind your hips, and your hand instinctively curled over your lower belly.

Bucky didn’t speak. Just moved his arm around your waist again. Not hard. Just firm. Solid.

You exhaled slowly.

The tension in your gut dulled by half.

Your spine eased against the pressure. Your head tipped toward his shoulder.

“That good?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

You felt him shift just enough to tighten his hold, adjusting the placement like he’d done it a hundred times.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he said after a while, voice low.

You shifted your head back towards him.

His eyes were on the arm he had wrapped around your lower abdomen. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re hurt. Even when you’re trying to be.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I was broadcasting so much.”

“You weren’t. But you… fold in on yourself. Go all quiet and small. And you never go small unless it’s bad.”

Your throat felt tight. You blinked. “It’s not like I can stop it.”

“I know. But if I could take it from you, I would. All of it.”

The words hit a little harder than expected.

You wanted to turn around fully but he had you in a hold that would make it far too difficult. “Bucky…”

“It’s not fair,” he said plainly. “You get stuck with this pain, and people treat it like it’s nothing. Or worse—like you’re weak for having it.”

You blinked a few times. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still.

“I’ve had injuries that didn’t knock me on my ass the way that did earlier,” you muttered. “And half the time I still feel like I’m supposed to act like it’s no big deal.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. You could feel his breath tickling your ear. Then, finally: “It’s a big deal to me.”

He shifted, breath steady, body heat radiating warm and constant at your back. The silence between you this time wasn’t tense or practical. It just was.

After a while, your breathing slowed. The cramps didn’t disappear, but they quieted. Your body, wrecked and worn, finally started giving in to sleep.

Bucky didn’t move.

Not when your head shifted closer on his chest. Not when your fingers curled loosely into the blanket. Not when your body stilled and your breath evened out.

He just stayed there.

Still. Warm. Unshakable.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky fic rec

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marvelavengersstuff · 5 days ago

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It’s been 7 years since Civil War and I still mourn for the Bucky Barnes story we should’ve gotten.

I mourn for how quickly they showed him integrated back into society after CATWS. One moment he’s almost killing his best friend… and the next moment he’s living on his own and seems just fine. Sure, he’s a little quiet and awkward and sad, but he’s mostly pretty normal. Outside of the first half of Civil War, there’s very little evidence at all that would lead anyone to believe Bucky used to be the world’s most feared assassin, who was trained and molded into the perfect weapon through unimaginable pain and psychological manipulation. This man spent the better part of his life as a ruthless, mindless killing machine programmed to do nothing more than follow orders. You don’t just walk away from that without being fundamentally and irreversibly psychologically altered. Even the removal of the trigger words wouldn’t change that.

Keep reading

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marvelavengersstuff · 8 days ago

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✨ HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no ✨vibes✨, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)

hello writer friends 💌 so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then… you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

here’s your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. here’s how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.

—

🌶️ STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ “WHAT’S CHANGING?”

start with this question:

what changes in the protagonist’s life in the first 5–10 pages?

doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldn’t end that way.

🏁 opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isn’t starting, you’re just doing a prequel.

—

⚙️ STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT

there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if you’re intentional:

The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.

pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding

The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the character’s “normal” life, then break it. useful if the change won’t make sense without context.

pro: space to introduce your character’s routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup

The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.

pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion

📝 pick one. commit. don’t blend them or you’ll write three intros at once and cry.

—

🧠 STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS

readers don’t care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless they’re anchored in someone.

in the first scene, we need to know:

what this person wants

what’s bothering them (externally or internally)

one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)

that’s it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no “they weren’t like other girls” essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.

—

⛓️ STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION

first scenes should create questions, not answer them.

there should be tension between:

what the character wants vs. what they’re getting

what’s happening vs. what they expected

what’s being said vs. what’s being felt

you don’t need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.

—

✏️ STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT

okay. now you write it.

no pressure. you’re not tattooing it on your soul. this isn’t the final line on the final page. you just need something.

tricks that work:

start in the middle of an action

start with a contradiction

start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp

start with a small lie or a weird detail

💬 examples:

“The body was exactly where she’d left it - rude.” “He was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.” “There was blood on the welcome mat. Again.” “They said don’t open the door. She opened it anyway.”

once you’ve got it? keep going. don’t revise yet. don’t edit. just build momentum.

you can come back and make it ✨iconic✨ later.

—

📦 BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING

don’t start with a dream

don’t info-dump lore in paragraph one

don’t give me three pages of your OC making toast

don’t try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless it’s on purpose

don’t introduce 7 named characters in one scene

don’t start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps

be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.

—

🏁 TL;DR (but make it ✨useful✨)

something in your MC’s life should change immediately

pick a structural entry point and stick to it

give us a person, not a setting

friction = good

first lines are disposable, just make them interesting

and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.

💌 love, -rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

#starting works #writing advice #how to start a novel #writing resources

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marvelavengersstuff · 14 days ago

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Hello! I just read your fic with the shy/insecure reader with Logan and I loved it sm!!

Could I request a similar thing with Bucky? Reader is just insecure of her looks instead, never truly finding herself attractive.

Again tysm love ur fics 💗💗

this feeling sucks, i've felt this way all my life. "funny" story: i started going to therapy like 4 months ago for my depression, but i'm also working on my self-esteem with my therapist. one reason i feel the way i do is because my dad always said the opposite of "you're pretty." it was always, "you need to lose weight," or "that shirt makes you look fat." i had enough courage to tell my dad that (after a few months of therapy), and he said he read an article when i was little (like 2 or 3) that said that complementing your daughter will make her overconfident and egotistical.

anyways, my point is, if anyone else feels super insecure with how they look, you're not alone <3 and we all need a bucky in our lives!

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: insecure!reader, thoughts of not looking good/feeling good enough, soft!bucky, protective!bucky

Bucky doesn’t notice your insecurity at first—not because he’s oblivious, but because he genuinely sees you as beautiful and assumes you already know it.

It’s the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way your hands move when you talk. The crinkle in your eyes when you smile. He’s quietly obsessed.

He starts to pick up on it when you always change behind a closed door—even when it’s just the two of you.

You brush off compliments. Laugh awkwardly when he calls you gorgeous. Won’t meet his eyes when he says you look good.

One night, after a mission debrief, he finds you looking at yourself in the mirror—expression unreadable, fingers pinching at your waist like you’re trying to hide something that isn’t there.

He pauses in the doorway, just watching for a beat too long. Bucky wraps his arms around you from behind, gently pulling your hands away from your body. “Don’t do that. You’re not allowed to treat my girl like that.”

He’s not great with big speeches—but he means it every time he says, “You’re beautiful.” He notices every change in your face when he says it—how you never believe him, how it bounces off you like armor.

He starts small: Swapping your shampoo for one he loves the smell of. Letting his hands linger on parts of you that you try to cover up. Whispering, “you look good in my shirt,” like it’s just a passing thought—but meaning every word.

Sometimes he gets a little gruff when you put yourself down.

“You don’t get to talk about my favorite person like that.”

“You know I’ve been alive over a hundred years, right? I’ve seen a lot of pretty. You still knock the wind outta me.” He says it so simply, like it’s a fact—not a compliment he’s handing out, but a truth he lives in.

After missions, when you both are bruised and exhausted, he makes sure he’s the one helping you clean up. Not because you need the help—but because he wants you to see the way he looks at you when your hair’s a mess and your face is bare and you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He starts leaving quiet reminders: Post-it notes on the mirror (“You looked cute brushing your teeth.”) His hoodie folded next to your pillow (“Smelled like you. Missed it.”) A photo of you, unposed, laughing at something dumb he said—set as the background on his phone.

You catch him staring sometimes—when you’re not wearing makeup, when you’re in ratty pajamas, when you’re doing absolutely nothing special. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He shrugs. “Because you’re here. And you’re mine.”

He makes you model every new outfit you buy, even if it’s just a new pair of socks. “C’mon, twirl for me.” And if you don’t, he spins you around himself.

At first you’d let out an exasperated laugh, saying that they’re “just socks” or “just a shirt.” But Bucky would just ask you again to “show it to him.” If you were still a little shy about it, he’d walk over to you and twirl you slowly himself, giving you detailed complements. “I like those socks; they’re your favorite color.”

He always makes it about you, not the clothes. “Looks good. But not as good as your smile.” When you roll your eyes, he grins. “I’m serious. I’d frame you if you let me.”

Sometimes he’d pull you into his lap without warning. Wrap his arms around your middle, bury his nose in your neck, and hum like you were the coziest thing he’d ever held. You’d try to squirm away, saying your hair was a mess or you hadn’t changed out of your worn sleep clothes. He’d just say: “Good. You smell like home.”

He compliments things no one else notices. The curve of your handwriting. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How you fidget with your necklace when you’re nervous. How your voice goes soft when you talk to animals.

He has a quiet obsession with the parts you dislike. The curve of your stomach when you sit down? He rests his hand there. The soft underside of your arms? He kisses it like it’s sacred. The “plainness” you see in the mirror? He traces it with his eyes like it’s art.

He adores seeing you in his clothes. You think it's because they're oversized and hide everything you hate. But he loves it because you're comfortable. Because you wear them without overthinking. Because “that’s the most yourself I ever see you.”

You once caught him muttering under his breath, “She’s so fuckin’ pretty,” while you were brushing your teeth in his old t-shirt. He didn’t even realize he said it out loud.

He’s not afraid to complement you in front of others. He knows you get shy when he does it, so he just sticks to nicknames like “pretty girl,” “sweetheart,” “doll,” and “angel.”

Even during missions, it slips out sometimes—gruff but affectionate. “You good, sweetheart?” over comms. “Don’t need you getting hurt, pretty girl.” When you deflect the nickname with a joke or a shy shrug, he doesn’t push. He just looks at you with those blue eyes like he’s memorizing you all over again.

He starts making you part of his morning routine: brushing his teeth while you do yours, kissing your shoulder before you put your hair up. “Mornin’, beautiful,” even if you’re still blinking awake.

He learns the exact places you’re insecure about and starts doting on them without making it obvious. He’ll rest his hand on your thigh when you’re curled up beside him. Press a kiss to your shoulder when your tank top slips just right. Nuzzle into your stomach when you’re in bed, saying, “Best pillow I’ve ever had.”

Bucky started complementing you so often that even Alexei and Bob joined in without really knowing why.

Alexei once said, completely serious, “You are a strong 8.5. Maybe 9. In Soviet Russia, you’d be married already.”

Bob just nodded solemnly, then handed you a flower he found in the parking lot. “He talks about your eyes a lot. Just saying.”

Yelena picked up on it first. Saw the way you dodged cameras and avoided your reflection in shiny windows. She didn't say much, just started calling you "hot stuff" every time you walked into the room.

Bucky would grumble every time they chimed in—“That’s my job”—but secretly, he was grateful. Because maybe if enough people said it, you'd finally believe it.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic rec

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