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mcrdvcks · 1 day ago

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saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #alpine barnes #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mcrdvcks · 2 days ago

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Bob and Yelena + touch requested by // insp

#my favorite siblings <3 #thunderbolts #yelena belova #bob reynolds #abby talks ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mcrdvcks · 3 days ago

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sooooo... i started writing it and it's dark. idk maybe it's some sort of trauma dump or just me being unable to write fluff without including heavy angst beforehand because my characters have to earn it

it has to do with an abusive father (but like... to the extreme)

the urge to write a mafia!bucky fic where your father makes a deal to marry you off to the older mob boss is strong

#anyways yeah #abby talks ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mcrdvcks · 3 days ago

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Hugh Jackman in Logan 02/??

#old man logan save me #also i still love blood on men #bloodier the better #hugh jackman #logan howlett #old man logan #abby talks ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mcrdvcks · 3 days ago

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Bucky Barnes + Knives

#men with knives are so hot #what those hands do?#i said what i said #bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfaws #catws #thunderbolts #abby talks ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mcrdvcks · 4 days ago

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ahhhhh, thank you for reading ash!! this really made my night <3

bucky is the prime example of oblivious pining because what do you mean it took him so long to realize that you only give vitamin gummies to him? that only you make tea and food for him and him only? anyways, thank you again for reading!!

two sugars

chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea. word count: 4.0k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :) i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine

The quinjet’s rear ramp hissed open onto the compound’s flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routines—Thor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about “arrow residue” in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.

“You can limp faster than that, Barnes.”

You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. “Took a scratch, that’s all.”

“Scratch?” You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. “That’s shrapnel and at least two stitches.”

“Good thing I only need one.”

“Math is not your strong suit tonight. Med bay—now.”

He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.

---

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”

“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”

“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”

He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.

“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”

“Lucky me.”

You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”

“Thought you were off tomorrow.”

“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”

He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.

---

Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.

A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.

There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”

He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.

He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.

---

The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.

Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”

You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”

“Growing on me.”

A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”

“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”

You made a face. “Orders?”

“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”

You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”

He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”

Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.

When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.

He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.

Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.

Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.

And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.

He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.

---

When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”

You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”

“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”

Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”

You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.

He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”

“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”

Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”

“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.

The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”

“I’m not pale,” he muttered.

You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”

Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.

Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”

You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”

“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.

Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.

Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.

You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.

Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.

Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”

Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”

“Anything good?”

He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”

Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”

Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”

Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”

The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.

---

Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.

“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”

Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”

You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.

---

You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”

He stilled. “You remembered that?”

“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.

He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”

You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.

He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.

---

Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”

He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”

“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”

A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.

You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”

You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.

He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.

He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.

He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.

But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

---

The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.

You weren’t saying anything.

That was the part that made him nervous.

You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.

“I’ve had worse,” he offered.

Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.

He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”

“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.

---

Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”

“I feel like it,” he muttered.

You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.

“No peppers?” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “I learn.”

He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.

Just you, making an entire meal—for him.

“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”

That was all.

No smile, no brag. Just facts.

He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.

And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked. You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.

---

“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.

Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.

“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.

You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”

“Not really.”

You held out your hand. “Knife.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”

With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.

“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”

“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”

“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”

You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.

Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.

---

He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.

A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.

“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”

Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.

You were everywhere, quietly.

In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”

You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.

And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.

You weren’t just being kind.

You were being kind to him.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.

And suddenly, all he could think was: When did I start needing her?

Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.

But you.

All of it.

He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.

Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?

He didn’t mind at all.

---

You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.

The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.

“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”

You were already standing. “What happened?”

There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”

Not great.

Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”

“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”

You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.

A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.

He’s still with us.

But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.

You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.

You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.

---

The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.

And there he was.

Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.

You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”

Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.

“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”

“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”

The room cleared fast.

You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.

---

He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.

You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.

“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.

You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.

You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”

You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”

His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were crying.”

“No, I—”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.

You tried to resist, just a little.

“C’mere.”

You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.

He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.

“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”

“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”

His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”

You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.

---

The med bay was quieter than usual.

Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.

He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”

“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”

“Worth it.”

You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.

Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.

You shrugged. “Easier target.”

That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.

You blinked. “I did.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N.”

You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”

“You stayed with me. Again.”

“I always stay with patients.”

“No, you don’t.”

Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.

“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”

You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.

“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”

Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”

Your breath caught.

And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.

When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”

He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”

You arched a brow. “Liar.”

He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Stay a little longer?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

#comment reblog

2K notes · View notes

mcrdvcks · 4 days ago

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the urge to write a mafia!bucky fic where your father makes a deal to marry you off to the older mob boss is strong

#i've got like 2 or 3 bucky fics in the works #and i know for sure that it's going to end up the same way #i say it'll be a oneshot then somehow it's like 30k words #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #abby talks ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ