nandanandada

Latest Posts by nandanandada

'cause he's just so cool

Loving how they used the comic design for the new red star ⭐

My mann

༻ ♡ ༺

He’s never considered himself to be a religious man. Not in the 40’s and certainly not now. Though….he does feel the slight guilt when he’s with you. Like there really is a big man above wagging his finger because he’s dating a twenty something year old. Dating as a centurion just feels icky. Like touching something sticky, or stepping on a wad of gum. Even the word “boyfriend” makes him cringe. He’s far past the stage of “boy” and he’s sure it makes people expect some college aged brat, and not well…him. He’s a congressman now, dating at his age is…embarrassing to say the least. He feels less embarrassed when you’re giving him kisses in and attention, irrelevant. You got carded when he took you out, carded, he didn’t get checked—well he did just in a judgy sort of way.

He would’ve courted you if he had gotten the chance. Would’ve asked for permission and pick you up to go out to the theatre or to a carnival. Though things never seem to work out the way he wants. He’s rubbing your back as you lie on his chest scrolling on your phone, taking the time to show him something silly that made you laugh. The little tank top you’re wearing isn’t jarring, he’s gotten used to 21st century fashion. Still, he knows, had this been his early twenties it would really make his head spin. You regularly keep him on his toes.

He sighs, which makes you look up at him. “okay?” You ask, he smooths your hair down and nods. “Fine, little sleepy.” He murmurs, getting you to lay your head back down. “You wanna go to sleep?” You ask and he shakes his head, he feels like an old man enough, he doesn’t need a bedtime. You go back to lying down and he feels like a worm again. The softness and smoothness of your skin, god, you aren’t even calloused. Just never worked a day in your life have you? He wants to make sure you never have to. You’re not some midlife crisis, he’s ready to ride or die. Both probably soon, he doesn’t worry about it that much anymore, you’ve done a lot to ease his worries. He’s knows you aren’t a baby, you’re a modern lady, and he’s trying to be your modern man.

credit to @cursed-carmine for dividers

HE NAKEYYY🤺

Spicy Brownies

18+ 

High Bucky x reader 

Remember Spicy Plants ? Here’s spicy brownies. Welcome to another crack fic. 

Imagine the first time Bucky tries edibles. He knew they would hit differently than smoking but he didn’t think much would happen so he had another. Then another. He was a super solider so he’d be fine. So he had one more. 

He was fine.

He was totally and completely fine. 

“Y/N!”

“Y/N Y/N Y/N!!”

“Oh my GOD!”

You and Steve sat in the living room, giving each other panicked looks hearing Bucky yelling from your shared bedroom. You both sprinted to the elevator and ran down the hall, bursting through the door, unsure of what was going on. 

“What is it Buck- oh my god” 

“What the hell…” Steve blinked, slowly backing away while you cocked your head to the side, observing a very naked Bucky looking at the mirror. 

“He nakeyyyy” Bucky whispered, staring at himself in the mirror wide eyed, cupping his own cheeks in utter shock. “Y/n, there’s a naked man in our room” 

Keep reading

I need to be his controversialy young girlfriend 🏌🏻

babydoll ⋆.𐙚 ̊

cw: age gap

He feels like a creep. Plain and simple. Bucky knows that any woman would be considered “younger”, but you just take the cake. He momentarily feels how hot hell is when you delicately push his hair to the side, clipping in into place with pastel beret. The rest of it gathered into a cutesy scrunchie. “Okay, this one is for wrinkles.” You say, clambering onto his lap. His girl isn’t the most graceful.

The bottle makes him grimace, but the feel of your cute butt in his lap makes it tolerable. He has wrinkles older than you—yikes. “It smells.” He grumbles as he feels you rub skincare product into his skin. “It’s supposed to be lilies!” You say lightly patting his cheek. “This is stupid.” He deadpans, he wraps his arms around your middle when you loop your arms around his shoulders. “It’s not stupid, you’ll thank me someday mister.” You chide very seriously, yelping when he smacks your side. It’s not fair, when you pout like that he wants to kiss you senseless. “Don’t call me mister, ‘m not some stranger you little brat.” He grumbles, being particularly gentle as he slides his cool metal arm under your shirt, just over your tummy. “Sorry baby.” You croon, taking the moment to steal a kiss.

His mental crisis is not helped by the pet name. Baby? If anything you’re the baby here, he gives you a look, it makes you laugh. He finds you to be soothing. You’re a modern woman sure, but those little pj’s you have on with your hair all done up in rollers make him remember a simpler time. He’ll deal with the weird glances whenever you two walk down the street together. He’s not embarrassed anymore to pad over and ask you whatever slang word he’s picked up while people watching. Best of all, he’s finally stopped being stubborn about using his reading glasses to read your texts and see all the cute little selfies you send him.

You pat lotion into his skin, and smile at him. He kisses you, scratching you with stubble. It’s a welcomed itch. When you pull away and kiss the tip of his nose he can’t help but squeeze you. You make him want to smother you. It’s the same when you hear a kitten mew or a baby coo. He likes the feeling. He likes you.

a/n: its almost been an entire month LOL anyways… i think dating a woman under the age of 35 would send bucky into crisis mode and make him feel like a total scumbag (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

credit to @aquazero for dividers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

---

Y/N sat on the rooftop, knees drawn up to her chest, a thick hoodie wrapped around her. The stars were faint, blurred by the city lights in the distance, but still visible if you looked hard enough. She liked it here—above everything, where the air was just a little colder and a little clearer. Where she could breathe.

She didn’t expect to hear footsteps. But she knew whose they were and her heart began to beat faster, her cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. 

“I figured I’d find you up here,” Bucky said, his voice low, carrying just enough to reach her without shattering the quiet.

She didn’t turn around right away. “Can’t sleep either?”

He chuckled, sitting beside her. “Do I ever?”

She glanced at him. He was in a black Henley, sleeves pushed up, metal arm glinting faintly under the moonlight. He looked tired—but softer. Like maybe he found a kind of peace in the stillness too.

“I like the quiet,” she said after a while. “When everything slows down.”

“Yeah.” His gaze followed hers, out toward the faint skyline. “Me too. It's easier to think.”

“To feel?” she asked, careful with the question.

Bucky looked at her then. Really looked. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That too.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was warm. Safe.

“You don’t have to talk,” Y/N said, resting her head on her knees. “Not if it hurts. But if you ever do... I’ll be here.”

A breath left him—soft, like it took weight with it. Then, after a beat, he reached out and wrapped his metal hand gently around hers.

It was cool, careful, but steady.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“The news?” Y/N questioned. 

“Yea…I just can’t believe that Sam would give up Steve’s shield like that.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment. “Do you think maybe he’s just not ready?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just continued to stare ahead. “I just- it makes me think that if Steve was wrong about Sam then maybe he was wrong about me.” 

Y/N turned her body towards Bucky. She reached out and grabbed ahold of his hand-the flesh one- and squeezed it. “Please don’t say that. I didn’t know Steve and don’t know Sam but I’m sure Steve knew what he was doing when he gave Sam that shield. He also was not wrong about you, Bucky. I’ve known you for a few months and you’ve been nothing but kind to me. I mean sure maybe you can be a little grumpy but you’ve never made me feel threatened or uncomfortable.” 

Bucky looked at Y/N. “Grumpy?”

Y/N chuckled and gave him a playful smack on his arm. “Only a little and only sometimes.” 

Bucky’s hand brushed gently against Y/N’s, the faintest touch sparking something quiet and familiar between them. Neither moved away. Instead, their hands lingered, fingertips grazing in a silent understanding—an unspoken comfort that had settled between them like second nature.

----

The last of the customers trickled out of the bar, their laughter fading into the night as the door clicked shut behind them. Y/N made her way to the front, fingers brushing against the slightly smudged glass as she flipped the sign to Closed, the quiet of the empty room settling around her like a soft exhale. It had been a long shift—steady, a little chaotic at times—but now all that remained was the comforting rhythm of cleanup before she could head home, curl up on the couch, lose herself in a feel-good movie, and dig into some well-earned takeout.

But just as she turned to grab a rag from behind the bar, the front door creaked open again. The bell gave a soft chime as it swung closed, and Y/N instinctively pivoted, ready to let the late straggler know they were done for the night.

The words caught in her throat.

A slow, surprised smile bloomed across her face when she saw who stood in the doorway.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, his frame slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure he should be there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. There was something uncertain in his eyes, the kind of vulnerability that made Y/N’s heart squeeze just a little.

“Hey,” she greeted softly, drying her hands on a towel. “How did you know where I worked?”

He gave a small shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that almost resembled a smirk. “I have my ways.”

That earned a quiet laugh from her, but the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, familiar. He made his way over to the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down with a quiet sigh, resting his arms on the counter. His fingers traced absent patterns on the worn wood, eyes downcast.

Y/N turned back to her cleaning, though her movements had slowed. She kept stealing glances at him, watching the way he sat so still, like he was trying to sort through a storm in his head. She wanted to ask if he was okay, the words right on the edge of her lips. But instead, she waited—giving him space, hoping he’d let her in on his own terms.

“I know that look,” Y/N said gently, glancing over at him as she wiped down the last bit of the counter. “Something’s bothering you. I can tell.”

Bucky shook his head almost too quickly, eyes darting away. “Nope. Nothing’s wrong.”

She didn’t push, just gave him a quiet, knowing look. “Alright. I’m almost done here, then we can head out.”

He gave a small nod, the kind that said he was grateful she wasn’t pressing him. Y/N tucked the last few bottles back into place, the clinking of glass the only sound between them. Then she bent to grab her bag from beneath the bar, slinging it over her shoulder with a tired but content sigh.

As they stepped outside, the night air wrapped around them—cool, crisp, and a little biting. She grinned, nudging him playfully. “So… did you really come all the way down here just to walk me home from work?”

Bucky’s lips twitched with a trace of a smile. “Maybe.”

A chill danced up her spine, and she shivered without meaning to. Bucky noticed immediately. Without a word, he tugged off his hoodie and held it out to her. She blinked in surprise, hesitated for a second, then took it. As she pulled it on, the sleeves hanging long over her hands, she caught the scent of him—clean soap, leather, and something warm that was just him. It made her chest ache in the sweetest way.

“I was thinking we could grab something to eat,” he said casually, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “Or… whatever you want.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I was planning on takeout and a movie.”

He tilted his head. “Unless that sounds boring to you,” she added quickly.

His smile came easy this time—gentle, genuine, the kind that lit up his whole face. “That sounds perfect.”

-------

Y/N led the way down the quiet street to her favorite little pizza place, the one she always ended up craving after a long shift. The familiar scent of garlic and melted cheese hit her the second they stepped inside, instantly lifting her mood. She placed an order for her go-to pizza, the one she could eat a thousand times and never get tired of.

“Are you sure you don’t want your own?” she asked, glancing up at Bucky with a raised brow.

He just shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m good. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

When the total popped up on the register, Y/N instinctively reached for her wallet—but Bucky was quicker. He slid his card across the counter without missing a beat.

“Hey—come on, I’ve got this,” she protested, nudging his arm.

He just gave her a look. Steady. “Next time.”

With the warm box of pizza in hand, Bucky carried it like it was something precious as they walked the short distance to their apartment building. Inside the elevator, the hum of machinery filled the space as he hit the button for her floor. The moment was quiet, but not awkward—just a soft kind of stillness that felt easy between them.

Once inside her apartment, Y/N headed to the kitchen, pulling out two mismatched plates from the cabinet and handing one to Bucky.

“I’ll be right back,” she said with a smile, before slipping down the hallway to her bedroom.

She changed quickly, trading her work clothes for a pair of well-worn leggings and her favorite oversized t-shirt. After a moment’s pause, she grabbed Bucky’s hoodie from where she’d left it earlier and slipped it back on—it still smelled like him, and the extra weight of it around her shoulders was oddly comforting.

When she padded back into the living room, Bucky was already seated on the couch, the pizza box resting on the coffee table in front of him. He sat back with his arms crossed, muscles stretching beneath the tight fabric of his t-shirt in a way that made Y/N pause in the doorway a second longer than she meant to.

She shook herself out of it and moved to the couch, settling a safe-but-not-too-far distance from him.

Grabbing the remote, she pulled up her favorite comfort show—one she’d seen a hundred times but never got tired of—and hit play. She reached for a slice, the warmth of the food matching the growing ease between them.

Bucky grabbed a piece too, and for a while, they sat side by side, the glow of the TV flickering across their faces, saying nothing at all.

But the silence was anything but empty—it was filled with the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from being with someone who feels like home.

As the night wore on and a few more episodes passed, Y/N realized—somehow, without even noticing when it happened—that she was sitting much closer to Bucky than she had been at the start. The gap between them had gradually disappeared, replaced by the easy lean of shared warmth. She knew he usually shied away from touch—but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t flinched or pulled back. If anything, he seemed… settled.

The credits of the latest episode began to roll, the soft background music filling the quiet room.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, his voice low and almost hesitant.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, her brows drawn together gently. “For what?”

He gave a small shrug, blue eyes fixed on the screen like he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “For letting me crash your night. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t,” she said softly, her lips lifting into a smile. “I like hanging out with you, Bucky.”

And before she could overthink it, she reached down and slid her hand into his—his flesh one—her fingers curling gently around his. She gave a soft squeeze, grounding and sincere.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “Even if you don’t want to talk. We can just sit. Be. I’m okay with that.”

For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Then she felt his hand tighten around hers, not possessively, just… steady. Reassuring. And he didn’t let go.

The next episode began to play, the familiar theme music rising again, but neither of them really paid attention. They stayed just like that, fingers laced together, hearts quietly aligned in the shared silence—trying, and failing, to focus on the screen when all they could really feel was the presence of the other.

---

Y/N stirred slowly, her eyes fluttering open as the early morning light filtered softly through the curtains. For a moment, she blinked against the haze of sleep, her brain sluggishly trying to piece together where she was. The couch. Her living room. The remnants of the night before flickered back into focus like a warm dream.

What she hadn’t expected was the weight wrapped around her—the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of two strong arms encircling her.

Bucky.

Her head rested against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded in a calm, even rhythm. His breath was slow and steady, lips slightly parted in sleep, completely at peace in a way she rarely got to see. And somehow, over the course of the night, they’d both melted into one another, tangled up on her small couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She should’ve been surprised. But she wasn’t. Not really.

Y/N shifted slightly, her body stiff from sleeping in one position for too long. Carefully, she reached out, fingers brushing against his arm as she tried to slip out of his hold without waking him.

But before she could move more than an inch, Bucky’s arm tightened around her waist—gentle but firm. His other hand came up sleepily to rest at the small of her back, and without opening his eyes, he pulled her right back against him with a quiet, content sigh.

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, caught between amusement and something far softer, deeper. Her lips curled into a sleepy smile as she relaxed into him again, letting her eyes drift closed once more.

If this was how mornings with Bucky felt—quiet, safe, wrapped in warmth—she wouldn’t mind waking up like this a lot more often.

“Don’t move. I’m comfortable,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. 

Y/N let herself relax against him again, her cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside didn’t exist—not the mission reports, not the news, not the ghosts that sometimes lingered in both their silences.

Just the two of them.

She felt Bucky shift slightly, just enough to rest his chin lightly on the top of her head. His hand—flesh and warm—brushed slow, absentminded strokes along her arm. It sent a tingle down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You’re warm,” he murmured sleepily.

She smiled against his shirt. “That’s because I’m wearing your hoodie.”

“Keep it,” he said, without hesitation.

Y/N tilted her head back slightly so she could look up at him. “You sure?”

His eyes met hers, blue and unguarded, still heavy with sleep but clear in a way that made her breath catch. “Yeah,” he said, softer. “Looks better on you anyway.”

That made her cheeks flush, and she quickly looked down to hide the smile pulling at her lips. His fingers brushed her jaw gently, coaxing her gaze back to his.

“You always do that,” he said, voice quiet.

“Do what?”

“Look away when I’m staring at you.”

“That’s because you stare,” she teased, her voice a little too breathless for her liking.

“I do,” he admitted. “And you never seem to notice how much I like it.”

She blinked. The teasing vanished from his voice—replaced by something quieter, deeper.

Her heartbeat stumbled.

“Bucky…” she started, unsure of what to say. But he was already leaning in, his hand moving up to cup her face with infinite care—like he was afraid she might flinch or vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he murmured, eyes flicking from hers to her lips and back. “Unless you tell me not to.”

She didn’t say a word.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she nodded, just once—barely a breath of movement—and then he was kissing her.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded or rushed. It was the kind that lingered, like he had all the time in the world. His lips moved against hers with a careful sort of reverence, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and she kissed him back just as softly, pouring into it every quiet moment they’d shared—every time he’d sat beside her in silence, every word he hadn’t needed to say.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

“Well,” she whispered, her lips still tingling, “that was... worth staying up for.”

Bucky gave a small huff of laughter. “Yeah?” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I think I just did,” he said, and this time, the smile that curved his lips was real—and a little smug.

Y/N shook her head, grinning as she nudged his chest playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he said, pressing another feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

Loving how they used the comic design for the new red star ⭐

Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.

A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)

-

Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra. 

He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.

He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.

It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.

And yet …

“Not too tight, Bucky.”

Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.

Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.

“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.

“Perfect.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.

“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.

“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.

“Would you mind running to the store later?”

“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.

When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.

“What do you think?”

Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.

When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.

“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.

-

Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.

Granola

Eggs (2 dozen)

Apples

Tomatoes

Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)

Toothpaste (2x)

Tampons

Ice cream (!!!)

He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.

By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.

He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.

Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.

Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.

-

The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.

He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.

She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.

“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”

Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”

“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”

Bucky frowned.

It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.

“There’s nothing I could take?”

She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.

“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.

Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.

“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.

They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.

“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”

It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.

Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.

“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”

Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.

Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.

“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”

Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.

“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”

She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”

“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”

-

“I can’t believe this!”

There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”

Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.

“How about this snowy one next?”

At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.

“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”

Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”

Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”

Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.

“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.

He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”

“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”

“Sure, it does.”

Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.

At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.

“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.

“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”

“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”

She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.

But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.

-

Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.

She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.

For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.

With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.

Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.

“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.

“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”

Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.

“I’m—”

“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”

Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”

Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.

“What were you going to say, then?”

She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.

“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”

“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”

A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.

-

“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”

Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.

“It rains a lot in Scotland.”

“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”

“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”

An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.

“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”

Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.

“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”

“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”

She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.

“I thought you didn’t like heat.”

“What made you think that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”

Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”

She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”

“Deal.”

After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.

“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.

The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.

-

A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF

Just give Buck his baby

Sarge? 🪖

Well..

Twisting the knife 🔪

#Welcome back The Winter Soldier (insp)

Sketch of Bucky's new Rivals skin * Let's hope i get to actually render this one day hehe

So excited for Thunderbolts aaaaaaaaaaa (੭ ˃ ᴗ ˂)੭

Make-Out Point

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Making out with Bucky is always an event to remember.

Warning: Uuh making out? Not really any I think?

Word Count: 810

A/N: Here’s the 2nd request for Miri’s 2k Celebration. Thank you to everyone who has submitted requests. I am working on them as first come first serve style. I hope to get two more out this weekend and work on rest throughout the week. This one came from @moodymcu​ Thank you for the requests sweetheart.

hi! i recently followed you and congrats on 2k! i was wondering if you could do a drabble about the STEAMIEST make out session with bucky or steve would be like?? congrats again! 💗  

Keep reading

nowhere for you to stay (bucky barnes x reader)

content warnings: angst, allusions to depression (bucky, not reader), sad bucky, mental health, lack of self-care, female reader, this is basically just me venting about the terrible ending that they gave steve (he didn’t deserve this and neither did bucky nor me)  word count: 1.5k a/n: so, i promise, i really am trying to finish my wips, but this came to me today while listening to renegade, also sorry for being m.i.a. for like three weeks but I spent easter with my family and had to recharge lol and then uni started again, so that kinda kicked my ass a little also, i watched thunderbolts* yesterday and it was great!!! (dw, this is spoiler-free)

You knocked on his door – three sharp, distinct sounds – and waited.  For a few seconds you entertained the thought that Bucky wasn’t home. That he was out and about, doing something with his life. Maybe he had picked himself up and gone to the gym, or maybe he had finally deleted the various food delivery apps and instead had gone grocery shopping. But there was a faint whirring, locked behind the old wooden door to his apartment, a sound that belonged to a light turned on. The complex in which Bucky resided was old – not as old as the man himself but certainly bordering on it. Windows creaked when the wind was strong, the lighting flickered, and pipes groaned during the coldest months.   He had moved here after returning from Wakanda and you had helped him set up his living space. You had begged and pleaded with him to rent a place closer to you, or to maybe even move in with you. But he had just shook his head and had looked at you with those heartbroken, empty eyes that seemed a little less blue and a little more grey since Steve was gone. So, you had helped carry the sparse amount of furniture and décor he had up to the fourth-floor apartment, had sorted spice containers of which you were sure that he hadn’t used them yet and had presented Bucky with a plant as a housewarming gift. He had smiled sadly and thanked you and you had known that the plant was not going to make it more than a week. Every day you called, every day he answered – for a limited time. Sometimes, the exchange was as short as thirty seconds, just enough for you to hear that he was still alive and not planning on changing that.  Once a week, on Saturdays, you took the subway to visit him, to stay with him for a few hours. You never managed to convince him to get out of the apartment with you but at least you saw him.  The last week had been different. He hadn’t answered your calls, only sent short messages (“I’m fine – can’t talk right now” or “let me call you back later”) and your heart ached every time the busy signal had echoed from your speaker. Of course, you hoped that it meant that he was actually busy, distracted, doing something.  But the faint buzz of a burning lamp in his apartment told you that he was home. No matter what, Bucky always made sure to turn off all lights and close all windows before he left his place, so he must have been ignoring the knocking.  To his credit, you were a day earlier than usual. It was Friday instead of Saturday, and you hadn’t announced yourself either, so he wasn’t expecting you. The silence, the unanswered calls had given you anxiety induced stomach pains, so you had taken the day off from work and had gotten an Uber to his place.

You knocked again and lightly cleared your throat – a chance for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to place you and for him to open the door. Still, the knob didn’t twist, the many locks he had put on additionally didn’t rattle and you could have sworn that the whirring of the lamp you had heard earlier died down. “Bucky,” you called out, “It’s me. Can you please open the door?” You waited. Seconds that felt like minutes ticked by and your hands got clammy as you shifted on your feet. “Bucky, you gave me a key. But I don’t wanna use it, so, please just let me in. Bu-,” before you could finish his name, you heard a series of noises. A pair of feet shuffling over creaky old floorboards, and what sounded like dishes being set down in the sink. Then you heard a window being ripped open – the frame squeaked terribly – and then the footsteps came closer.  One lock was unlocked, then the second one. A metallic clank sounded and then the doorknob turned.  The door opened with a squeak that made your teeth hurt.  The apartment was dark, and despite the cold breeze that the recently opened window let in, it smelled dusty and faintly like old takeout food.  “Hey.” One thing about Bucky is that he just could not lose his charm. He stood before you, eyebags darker than ever, brown curls unkempt and knotted, and his scruff on his cheeks a little longer than usual and asymmetrical – as if he had laid on one side for too long. 

Despite his appearance, he leaned against the doorframe with a trace of his characteristic smile turning up his mouth corners.  “Hi,” you replied, slightly perplexed.  “I didn’t realise it was already Saturday,” he said after a few seconds of silence and attempted to swipe his hair from his forehead until he realised that it was too unbrushed to run his fingers through it.  He awkwardly dropped his hand but gave you another smile. “It’s not,” you answered and peered past him. Before you could properly glance into his apartment, he moved into your eyeline, a determined look in his eyes.  “Oh. Then what are you doing here?” He asked, shifting again when you tried to steal another glimpse into his living space. You took a few seconds before you replied during which you struggled not to be offended by his question.  “You never called me back,” you explained then, and locked eyes with him. Heat rose on his face as you bluntly called him out and his hands again found their way into his hair, and again, he had to drop them back to his sides as he couldn’t nervously run them through.  “Yeah, no, I meant to, but I… I was busy,” he stammered, blocking your third attempt to look past him.  “Okay,” you murmured slowly, “Can you… would you mind letting me in?” Bucky chewed on his lip for a few seconds, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to find a way to let you down gently. “Uh, now’s not a good time.”

Your heart sank even further as you tried to come up with reasonings with his behaviour. “Are you-,” you began, and stared at your feet instead of meeting his eyes, “Is someone in there with you?” His eyes went round with surprise before he composed himself.  “What? No, no, I’m… I’m alone in here, but it’s just not, uh, a good time, like I said.” A little bit of the tightness in your chest loosened as he genuinely looked shocked at your implication. But you still couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let you in. “Are you leaving? Like, are you going somewhere?” You inquired then, trying to find a reason that would satisfy you. Bucky stayed quiet before he shook his head.  “No, nothing like that. Listen, doll, I just… I haven’t really prepared for visitors, or anything like that, so it’d be great if… um –,“ before he finished speaking, you could tell that he was having a hard time sending you back home. He knew how long the ride here was and that you usually worked on Fridays. “it’s just not a good time,” he concluded.

There was a faint line, so thin that it was barely visible, that you were threatening to cross right now. A line between what Bucky allowed you to see on the Saturdays when you visited him, and the rest of his life.  “Just let me in,” you whispered. “Let me… help you.” The conflict in his eyes played out like a storm. Vulnerability and stubbornness raged against each other, as he seemingly weighed his options: allowing you in or pushing you away. Both seemed to frighten him as you heard how his metal arm whirred while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Alright,” he mumbled and slowly stepped back. His apartment was in a terrible state. For someone who had very little furnishings, a tiny amount of clothes and basically no personal belongings it should have been easy to basically produce a clinically clean space. Instead, you saw instant food packaging, empty beer cans and ripped paper shreds sprawled across his couch table. You recognised the paper as an article about Steve – honouring his legacy and paying tribute to his sacrifice. You had read the same one a few days ago and had cried until your head hurt. The sofa cushions were crumbled up and uneven. A thin blanket laid on the floor as if it had fallen off or been pushed off in a hurry. He must have slept there instead of in his bed.  The kitchen door was half closed, and through the gap you saw dishes towering dangerously, a towel haphazardly slung over them in an attempt to hide them. You turned to face Bucky, who refused to meet your eye. Instead, he clenched his jaw so tight that it must have hurt and stared out the opened window. “Bucky,” you whispered.  “Like I said, I didn’t know you were coming.” His tone was defensive and sharp, but his eyes glistened as the shame burned in him. “Bucky, look at me,” you pleaded and took a few steps towards him. “This place is a mess,” he croaked, his voice heavy with unshed tears, “There’s nowhere for you to stay.” “But I’ll stay anyway,” you murmured and rested your hand on his cheek. “I’ll stay and help you.”

Brother from another mother

Wyatt being the new extrovert to Sebastian while Anthony is away😭

😭😭HELP KAKSKSKS

In tears😭

Hey darling! I loooove AHMBI (and fuck you Ophelia, you bitch). But I'm not doing very good, my dog is really sick and I'm heartbroken💔. If requests are open, can I ask for one where reader's pet is sick and how Bucky comforts her or something? ( could be Alpine too, if you want). If not, that's okay, I'll love you regardlles♥️ I always look foward to your fics 🥰♥️

I’m so sorry this took me so long to get to, my darling. It has been in the back of my head since you sent the ask and I just haven’t taken the time to get it out. So, Hurricane Ida has freed up some time for me to work on it. I hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader

Trigger Warning: Death of a pet

Despite the rain, you cracked the window leading out to the fire escape, knowing your visitor would be here soon. Technically, your dog’s visitor. Your fifteen year old daschu-huahua-terrier, Sir Didymus (Didy for short) had fallen in love with a beautiful white cat that would show up on your fire escape nearly daily. They would sit on opposite sides of the window and calmly watch each other.

One beautiful day, you had the windows open to air out your apartment when the cat dropped right in and curled up with Didy on the couch. They had napped together, played, and cleaned each other before a gruff voice could be heard calling “Alpine!” The cat, who you now guessed was named Alpine, scurried out the window and down the fire escape. You had looked down to see if you could identify her owner but saw no one. From then on, you left the window cracked enough for her to shimmy through after you got home from work each day or around that same time on the weekends and, like clockwork, Alpine showed up. When her owner called out for her, she left again. She rarely missed a visit and you had begun to wonder about her owner after this went on for the better part of eight months.

Each time you caught one of your male neighbors at the elevator, the mailbox, or the laundry, you wondered if they were Alpine’s owner. You had finally determined that she lived in the apartment three floors below you and you knew her owner had dark hair as you had seen his head before he ducked back in once, but you thought it would be strange to follow her down. Your innate awkwardness kept you from asking around but once you’d determined that he lived in 4E you began taking more notice. The mailbox said Barnes on it and you wondered if it was the absolutely gorgeous hunk that you’d only ever caught a glimpse of. He was elusive and the one time you’d ridden the elevator with him he had flashed a set of baby blues that could drop panties from 50 paces before asking you what floor. You had stammered your response and spent the rest of the ride with your face in your phone hiding your embarrassment.

Tonight, as you crack the window, you feel like the world is crying with you. You had taken Didy to the vet after she had seemed to sleep a lot more lately and wasn’t eating as much. Your longtime veterinarian had walked in with a somber expression that was not her usual demeanor and your stomach had dropped as your worst fears were confirmed. Your constant companion of the last fifteen years was dying and there was nothing you could do. The sweet pup who had seen you through so much in life, broken hearts, a new city, job changes, everything, probably wouldn’t last the night. You nodded as tears streamed down your face and took Didy home for one last night together.

You heard a gentle “reow” as Alpine jumped through the window and cuddled up beside Didy. You petted her and explained the situation while bawling yet again. Alpine turned and licked Didy’s cheek as if understanding everything. You sat beside them, petting them both and telling Didy how much you love her. Alpine purred as she lay with her dying friend and you knew that somehow the sweet cat did understand.

“Alpine!” the call came from your neighbor but, unlike every time before, Alpine stayed put. Her head turned to the window for a long moment and then she nestled in beside Didy for a nap. His voice called her name several more times and even though you felt bad for him, you just couldn’t bring yourself to leave them.

Forty-five minutes later, there is a knock on your door. You keep one eye on Didy as you answer it and are not surprised when your neighbor is on the other side.

“Hey. I’m Bucky. I live on the fourth floor. This is kind of awkward but I thought I’ve seen my cat come out your window before and she hasn’t come home. Have you seen a white cat? Her name is-”

“Alpine. Yeah, she’s here. I’m sorry I heard you calling but I didn’t want to leave-” your voice broke and the tears started again. You covered your face for a second to gather yourself before continuing, “Sorry, um, your cat has befriended my dog. She comes and hangs out with him every evening until you call for her. Um, but, we got some bad news today and Didy, my- my dog, probably won’t make it through the night. I’m sorry, please come in. I don’t mean to keep you out in the hall while I bawl in front of you trying to explain.”

“That’s okay, doll. If you need her to stay, I understand,” Bucky says softly.

“Really, please,” you back away from the door and wave him in. You tell him your name as he follows you to the couch where you sit next to Didy and Alpine.

“So, uh, how did this happen?” Bucky asks as he looks at the two curled up together.

“About eight months ago, Alpine showed up and just sat by the window watching him,” you say as you pet the sleeping dog, “One day the window was open and she came right in. They’ve been fast friends ever since.”

“I’ve been wondering where she disappears to everyday.”

“Yeah. She, um, she seems to understand what’s happening and doesn’t want to leave him. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Gotta ask, though, doll. You always invite strange men that show up at your door into your apartment?”

“Your Alpine’s owner. She’s a pretty good judge of character,” you smile at the cat who is sleeping peacefully.

“That’s true.”

“She gave me very clear advice about my last boyfriend,” you chuckle at the memory.

“You gotta tell me,” Bucky grins.

“He came by for a visit and she was hissing at him everytime he got near me, her, or Didy. Which made Didy start barking every time. That was strike one. Then he turned to me and said how he hated animals. Strike two. Then he went on to say that if we move in together I’d have to get rid of them. Strike three. Threw him out immediately. And then ate all of the pork dumplings and Thai food we’d ordered by myself. Well, they might have helped me eat some of the drunken noodles.”

Bucky was chuckling as you told the story. You turned back to look at Didy and your face fell, knowing how little time you had left with him. Seeing your sad face, Bucky stood up saying, “I’m gonna go grab Alpine’s food. Do you mind if I come back in a bit?”

“Yeah, of course. Feel free to just come in. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Don’t you dare. This is a dangerous city, doll. Lock it behind me and I’ll knock when I get back.’

“Okay,” you smile at his sweet chivalry.

Thirty minutes later, Bucky knocks. You open the door to find him holding a cat bowl, cat food, a bag full of Thai food, and another bag filled with several types of treats.

“What’s all this?” you ask, surprised.

“Food for Alpine, food for us, and some sweets. Oh, and a treat for Didy.”

“That’s so nice of you. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Plus, if you’re anything like Alpine you get cranky when you don’t eat.”

“It’s like you know me already.”

Bucky stays on the couch with you through the night. He makes sure you eat something, tells you stories about Alpine, asks questions about you and Didy, and consoles you when Didy crosses the rainbow bridge around 3 in the morning.

Over the next couple of weeks, Bucky and Alpine visit every day. Often with food. The two of you talk, learn more about each other, laugh, watch movies, and just enjoy the building of a friendship. Of course, you also develop a massive crush on the gorgeous man. The first night they don't show up at your apartment, you knock on their door with a pizza.

"Hey! I have this large pizza and I was thinking you could help me eat it," you smile but then notice the blond man standing behind him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company."

"You must be the neighbor he's been going on about. I'm Steve. This jerk's best friend," he smiles broadly at you while Bucky's cheeks turn pink.

"Hi. If it was good things, then yes, definitely me," you wink at Bucky.

"All good things. He's pretty enamored with you," Steve smirks.

"You're such a punk," Bucky growls. "Come on in, Doll."

You grin as you start to walk past him but pause long enough to whisper in his ear, "The feeling's mutual."

Bucky finally did ask for that date after Steve left for the night. You dated for six months before moving in together. A year after that, Bucky proposed with the help of Alpine and an adorable rescue puppy that you named Ambrosius.

And Didy smiled down on you as he watched from across the rainbow bridge, knowing that he had held on long enough to bring you the love of your life.

This way...

Masterlist

Find me on:   AO3     Ko-Fi Updates and taglist:  Updates for series will be made weekly. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and t

Piece of art 💓🦇

unsolved masterlist

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse.

(Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, horror/paranormal elements

Disclaimer: no plot just vibes <3 it's just another banger dynamic that i loved and therefore had to write a garbage fic about. This is, in no way, a literary masterpiece so just be warned.

Here’s my Ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

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Part 10

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Part 13

Chocaholics Anonymous

For @buck-star 's Easter Challenge 🐣🐰

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Trope: Friends to lovers

Prompt: 🐰 Choclate (way toooooooooooo much)

Word count: ?

Tags/Warnings: None. Just really goofy fluff

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through AI. All of my work is 18+ so read at your own risk.

Summary: You notice that your chocolate stash is depleting rapidly and begin a note exchange with your chocolate thief.

Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

A/N: Also 350+ followers?? Hi you guys!! ☺️

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Navigation

Your chocolate stash was a chocoholic's dream. Hidden in the back of the dustiest, least used kitchen cupboard was a fake backing; with no pipes running through it to make sure no one accidentally stumbled upon your stash.

Steve and Thor were cretins when it came to chocolate and - probably due to their size and training regimens - could eat your stash in one sitting. However, you'd chewed them out so bad you thought they would burst into tears, and then promptly devised your super secret stash cupboard to ensure it never happened again.

Which was why you were surprised to find that, even though you'd definitely replaced your fake backing when you last used it, your stash had most definitely depleted.

You couldn't remember eating the bars that were missing. Even if you had somehow managed to sleep walk to your cupboard, the lack of evidence in wrappers and chocolate smears was concerning.

You didn't want to signal to the other avengers that you had a new secret stash, or that you knew one of them was a thief, so you opted to leave a note printed from the team's computer. With a team full of spies, geniuses and magic users, you didn't need the thief to know who you were from your handwriting.

Placing the note clearly upon the chocolate pile you re-fix the fake backing, the words slowly fading from view.

I know who you are. Count your days chocolate thief (<.<)

Bucky was surprised to find a note left on top of the supposedly abandoned chocolate stash he'd stumbled upon. He had - incorrectly - assumed that the chocolate stash had been long forgotten about and that the goldmine of sweet, cocoa-y goodness was his and his alone. Knowing that he was in fact a thief, made him feel only slightly guilty as he reached for another chocolate bar, deciding that he would leave a note of his own and replace what he'd taken.

Clearly, whoever had left the note and created this hidden stash wanted to remain anonymous. However, he wondered who on earth on the team it could be.

You read out the newest note aloud in the quiet of your room, trying to put together a mental list of suspects as you skim the words.

"Dear Chocolate Fairy," you begin, already frowning. "I'm sorry for eating your chocolate. Great. At least there's an apology."

You sigh. An apology meant it couldn't have been Tony; he'd never apologise for something like that. Maybe buy you stock in Cadbury but never apologise apologise.

"To make it up to you, I'll buy your favourite to replace what I stole. Just leave me a note of your chocolate of choice."

You nod approvingly but keep your frown as you type up your new note into a word document. Who on earth was your Anonymous Chocolate Thief?

A week later, you were no closer to finding the identity of your Chocolate Thief.

Steve and Clint were on a mission when the last note appeared, Thor was off world and when you'd subtly asked Bruce if he'd like any chocolate from the store he'd told you he preferred savoury snacks and asked if you'd pick up some Pringles instead.

On your weekly coffee meet with Natasha, you ask her about her chocolate preferences, only earning you a sigh.

"This again?" She tuts. "You're a chocaholic. Besides, with Steve and Thor gone you have nothing to worry about and you don't keep chocolate in the tower anymore. What's bothering you?"

You look sheepishly into your hot chocolate and try to come up with a good excuse.

"Nothing." You sip at your chocolate-y concoction. You couldn't tell Nat about your chocolate issue because she'd find out who it was immediately and truth be told you were enjoying your game of Whodunnit. "Anyways, tell me about that last mission you were on..."

"Man, this is too much chocolate. Even for you." Sam had rummaged through some of Bucky's grocery bags to find that at least two of them were filled with chocolate bars. "What are you gonna do with all this?"

Bucky eyes him suspiciously before snatching the bar he was holding out of his hand. "None of your business."

Sam throws up his hands in defeat before sneaking another bar into his pocket. "Do I need to let Steve know in case this is a... Thing?"

Bucky frowns over at Sam, picking up the grocery bags in his left hand. "A Thing?"

"Yeah. A Thing." Sam frowns back, folding his arms over his chest. "You're hoarding chocolate like it's gold so unless you're plotting something, I don't see how you're gonna eat that much."

Bucky purses his lips in consideration before sighing, realising Sam was correct and that he was acting stranger than usual. "I...you're gonna have to trust me Sam, this isn't for me."

"Right."

"I swear."

"Yeah." Sam shakes his head. "Whatever man, if you get stuck in a chocolate coma I'm not helping you out of it."

Bucky rolls his eyes and is about to pad off to his room to wait until everyone is asleep to access the secret stash but halts when Sam chirps behind him.

"You should ask Y/N if she wants any of your bars."

"What? Why?" Bucky turns back to Sam with a curious look.

"She's a chocaholic to the max." Sam chuckles and gives Bucky a knowing smirk. "Besides, it might gain you some points in her favour don't you think?"

Bucky spins around on his heel to try and hide the warmth gracing his cheeks but Sam had already spotted it and snorts, calling after him.

"And try smiling more!"

The following night, you almost burst into laughter when you open up the false backing. The stash is filled to the brim with your favourite chocolate that you feel sick just looking at it. Attached to the very top is a note that reads "Sorry :(".

A small twinge of guilt twists in your stomach and you feel a little disappointed that your Chocolate Thief is no more. You'll never know their identity - and you wonder if your mysterious Chocolate Thief will visit your dreams as a handsome man who looks suspiciously like one Bucky Barnes.

You sigh picking up a bar. There's so much chocolate stuffed inside it could take you a year to eat through it all. You startle when you hear the approach of footsteps, and begin hurriedly shoving chocolate bars back into the cupboard, smacking your head as you jump off the ground.

"Hi." You say, trying not to look too frazzled as Bucky appears.

"Hey." He says and for a moment you both stare at eachother in the dark of the kitchen.

"What are you doing up so late?" You stall, kicking a stray bar across the kitchen floor.

"Uh..." Bucky panics and then wiggles a piece of paper he's holding. "Report."

"Couldn't it wait till the morning?" You ask, starting to smile.

"Couldn't sleep." Bucky finishes lamely before smiling shyly. "You?"

"Same." You lie but if staying up meant eating chocolate and speaking with Bucky, you'd gladly pay the price of no sleep. "Want a cocoa?"

Bucky snorts. "Sam said you were a chocaholic."

You shrug trying to play it off but man, you really did have a reputation.

"I'm thinking of starting a club." You say playfully, heading to the cupboard for a mug. "Chocaholics Anonymous. What do you think?"

Your grin widens when you hear Bucky's laughter, heart fluttering when you catch a playful gleam in his blue eyes.

"I think you'd be the only member." Bucky says, watching you make your chocolate drink with a hint of jealousy.

"I could get Steve and Thor involved." You say mock-thoughtfully.

"Do you even have a favourite chocolate if you're a chocaholic?" Bucky asks curiously.

"Oh yeah." You say nonchalantly, adding heaped teaspoons of cocoa mix to your mug, uttering your favourite bar without a second thought. "But there's different brands who use different amounts of cocoa to milk solids and blah blah blah."

You turn and fix Bucky with another smile. "What about you?"

Bucky opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. He can feel heat crawling all over his face and a smile itching to break free; you were the Chocolate Fairy. It was your stash he'd broken into.

No wonder you'd been so touchy about your chocolate.

"I don't have a favourite." Bucky says. "I take what I can get my hands on."

You falter at his words for a moment before grabbing the milk from the fridge. "Yuh huh. I know the type."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bucky teases and you giggle as you put your cocoa in the microwave.

"Nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing."

"Bucky, come on -"

"Sounds like you were insinuating I was some sort of Chocolate Thief."

You spin around to face him pointing wildly. Bucky points back accusingly.

"You're the Chocolate Thief!" You gasp.

"You're the Chocolate Fairy!" Bucky exclaims back.

A moment passes before you both dissolve into a fit of giggles, interrupted only by the ding of the microwave.

"You bought wayyy too much chocolate, Buck." You snicker, grabbing your mug. "But I'll happily share it with you."

"Sam did say I went overboard but I have a better idea." You raise an eyebrow at Bucky, who gives you a cheeky smile. "We choose some snacks and a movie, melt the chocolate and gorge ourselves into a chocolate coma."

You nod excitedly, your stomach swooping with joy. "It's a date, Thief."

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Pretty flowers for a lovely boy

Flower Bouquet

Summary: You buy him flowers.

Word count: 1811 Words

Warnings: No one.

Bucky Barnes X Reader

You walk into the flower shop, your footsteps quiet on the polished floor. The moment you open the door, a wave of floral scents greets you, sweet, fresh and calming. You pause for a second, just to take it all in. Flowers have always held a special place in your heart. They’re simple but full of life, just like the way you feel when you’re with him. Bucky.

You glance down at your phone. It’s been a few months now. Time has flown by, but in the best way. You and Bucky have found a rhythm, a connection that grows deeper each day. He’s no longer the stoic man he once was. Not entirely. And you… you’re no longer the person you were before he came into your life.

A smile tugs at your lips as you begin to peruse the shelves. The roses are beautiful, but not today. Not for him. You want something different, something that suits who he is, not just the conventional symbol of love. Your fingers brush against a bunch of white lilies, their petals delicate and pure, and you stop.

Perfect.

You pick them up carefully, admiring their simplicity. Their fragrance fills your nose, soft but with just enough sweetness to make your heart flutter. You take your time, adding a few sprigs of lavender and a couple of purple irises to the mix. It’s subtle, elegant.. like him. You know he’s not someone who needs grand gestures, but you also know how much he appreciates when people show they care, when they take the time to think of him.

The florist wraps the bouquet in soft tissue paper, tying it with a simple satin ribbon. You thank her, your hands cradling the flowers like they’re something precious, because to you, they are. You’re giving them to him.

When you reach his apartment, the nerves start to settle in. They’re not nerves from doubt, but more from the excitement of wanting to make him feel special. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten him something, but it’s the first time you’ve given him flowers. It feels like a big deal, like you’re taking another step together. You’re not even sure why you decided to do this, maybe just maybe because you saw them at the flower shop and thought of him, or maybe because you just want to see him smile.

You knock on his door and wait, your heart thumping in your chest. A few seconds later, the door opens and there he is. Bucky. Standing in his usual attire, a simple T-shirt, jeans and his leather jacket that fits him perfectly. The way he looks at you, his blue eyes lighting up when he sees you, makes everything inside you settle.

“Hey” he says, his voice warm, low and familiar. His gaze flickers to the bouquet in your hands. “What’s this?” he asks with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

You grin, a little shy now, but trying to keep your cool. “For you,” you say, holding them out to him. “Just because.”

Bucky blinks, his gaze dropping to the flowers. His metal hand twitches slightly at his side, like he’s not sure if he should take them or not.

“…You got me flowers?” His voice is cautious, like he’s expecting a punchline.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that’s usually how this works.”

His brows furrow slightly in surprise, his lips parting as if he’s not sure what to make of this. His hand hesitates before he takes the bouquet from you, fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low but filled with genuine gratitude. “What’s the occasion?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, though your heart is racing a little. “No occasion. I just thought you’d like them.”

Bucky stares down at the flowers, his expression softening as he takes in their delicate beauty. “They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “But, uh… I’m not used to getting flowers.”

He looks at it like it’s some kind of unfamiliar artifact, turning it slightly in his hands, inspecting the mix of blue delphiniums, white lilies and a few sprigs of lavender.

“No roses” he murmurs.

“You don’t seem like a roses kind of guy.”

His lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile. “And I seem like a…?”

You shrug. “Delphinium and lavender kind of guy.”

Bucky lets out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s a first.”

You chuckle, stepping closer to him. “Well, consider it as our first,” you tease. “I figured you could use something to brighten your day.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, do I get a ‘thank you’ or are you just gonna stand there looking at them like they’re a bomb?”

He huffs a laugh but looks back down at the bouquet, his fingers tracing one of the petals absentmindedly. His expression softens, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“I… yeah.” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Thank you. I just… no one’s ever given me flowers before.”

You tilt your head. “Never?”

He shakes his head. “Not really something guys like me get.”

You frown slightly. “Well, that’s dumb. Flowers aren’t just for girls. They’re for people you care about.”

Something in his expression changes, something subtle but deep, like he’s trying to process the weight of your words. He looks back down at the bouquet again, then exhales softly, almost like he’s letting himself accept it.

He smiles again, this time with a hint of something vulnerable. He looks up at you, his gaze searching, before he clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t really know how to handle this.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s simple, Bucky. You just accept it. No need for a big speech or anything.”

He lifts the bouquet to his nose, inhaling deeply. For a moment, his eyes flutter closed and a quiet sigh escapes him. You watch him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s a simple thing, this gift, but you can already tell it means something to him. Maybe it’s not the flowers themselves, but the thought behind them. The fact that you were thinking of him, that you wanted to give him something. You know that his past has made him wary of affection, of kindness, but moments like this show that he's willing to let down his guard just a little more each time.

After a moment, he looks back up at you, his expression softer, more open than before. “Thank you. This... really means a lot to me,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite name.

You smile, relieved to see that he’s not rejecting the gesture, but genuinely appreciating it. “I’m glad you like them. I thought they suited you.”

He chuckles, a small, almost awkward sound and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just not used to this. People... doing nice things for me, just because.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Well, you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. And these” you gesture to the bouquet “are just a small way of showing you that.”

Bucky’s eyes soften and you notice the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you in a new light. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe, like he’s trying to process it all. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Your heart skips a beat and for a second, you don’t know what to say. You just stand there, looking at each other, a thousand unspoken words hanging between you. The vulnerability in his voice, the warmth in his eyes… it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Well” you say, your voice teasing to break the tension. “Now that I’ve made you blush, I’ll take my leave.” You make a move toward the door, but before you can step past him, Bucky grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait” he says, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I want to thank you properly.” He pulls you back toward him, not forcefully, just enough to close the distance between you. His eyes search yours and before you can even react, he steps closer, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.

You freeze for a second, your breath catching. He pulls away slowly and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You glance at the flowers in his hands again, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you.

“You didn’t have to do that” you murmur, though you know it’s a lie.

“I wanted to” he says quietly, his thumb gently brushing the back of your hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me. You’re making me believe in things I didn’t think I could anymore.”

You look up at him, your heart full. “I’m glad,” you whisper.

“Come inside” he says after a moment, stepping back to let you in.

You follow him in, watching as he moves toward the kitchen, still holding the bouquet with a sort of hesitant reverence. He sets them down on the counter, staring at them for a second before glancing at you.

“So… what do I do with them?”

You snort. “You put them in water, grandpa.”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I know that.” He pulls a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water before placing the flowers inside. It’s not the best makeshift vase, but it works. He stares at them for a long moment, then, almost absently, lifts one of the lavender sprigs and twirls it between his fingers.

“They smell nice,” he mutters.

You smile. “Yeah. Figured you’d like that.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second before he leans against the counter, looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. “You really just… got these for me? No reason?”

You shrug. “Do I need a reason?”

He shakes his head slowly, his thumb brushing over the lavender again. “No. I guess not.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten. You don’t push, don’t press him to say anything more. Instead, you just step closer, resting your hip against the counter beside him.

Bucky exhales, running a hand through his hair before giving you a sideways glance. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You smirk. “I get that a lot.”

He huffs another soft laugh, then looks back at the flowers, something warm settling into his expression. “I like ‘em,” he admits, voice softer now.

Your chest warms. “Good.”

And as he stands there, quietly admiring the simple gift, you realize that this, this quiet, unspoken moment, is exactly why you brought them in the first place.

Bucky is gorgeous and he needs to be reminded everyday 💓‼️

More to Love

Summary : Bucky marries you, someone who shows love through food. When his body changes, you show him he’s cared for no matter what.

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

Warnings/tags : FLUFF! Hurt/Comfort, Body Image Issues, Insecurity, Established Relationship, Weight Gain, implied sex, cursing, Food as Love Language.

Word count : 2.4k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky hadn’t meant to gain weight.

It wasn’t like he woke up one day and decided, hey, let’s pack it on.

It crept in, slowly, like moss between cracks, or rust under paint. At first, it was just little things: seconds at dinner, not skipping dessert, an appetiser here and there.

See, when you and Bucky first started dating, it didn’t take long for him to realise that food was your love language. You cooked like it was second nature—every ingredient always added with care. He’d come home from missions or long training days to find you in the kitchen with your sleeves rolled up, humming to some old tune while stirring sauce or kneading dough. And your smile always lit up when you fed him, like watching him eat something you made was its own kind of joy. And Bucky, who’d spent so much of his life surviving, hadn’t known how hungry he was for that kind of care until you started filling his plate and his heart at the same time.

Somewhere between your late-night pastas and Sunday roasts, his shirts started to fit tighter around the middle. The scale ticked up a few numbers. He still trained, but it was different now. He wasn’t on a calorie deficit, and he was doing things for functional and not aesthetic purposes. He focused on Pull-ups, sparring, lifting until his arms couldn’t take any more. He could throw a grown man across the room. Probably you too, and that wasn’t a fantasy you were opposed to.

But even when his body changed, and time went by, your cooking didn’t stop. If anything, after you got married, it grew more intentional. You experimented more— comfort dishes from his childhood, thick stews you imagined his man might've made, and big, carb-heavy meals to help him recover after a mission. You packed him leftovers in little glass containers, sometimes with a note tucked in the lid. You didn’t just feed his body. You fed his memory, his heart, his right to be human again.

Still.

He’d catch his reflection in the bathroom mirror, shirtless, sweaty from a workout, and stare at his stomach. 

He hated that it made him feel weak. Sloppy. 

“Used to be leaner,” he muttered once, toweling off after an especially brutal workout session. 

You rolled your eyes, but with love, and tossed another towel at his chest. “Yeah? Well, I used to think I liked abs, but turns out I like a powerhouse husband who can deadlift a damn car more.”

That earned you a faint smile, but it didn’t erase the dread in his eyes— the one that said you’re lying, or you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

You weren’t.

God, you weren’t.

Because Bucky Barnes built like a brick shithouse? Bucky Barnes with thick arms and wide shoulders and thighs like tree trunks and a stomach that was less abs and more functional muscle? He was the kind of man you could climb like a jungle gym and bury your face against to feel safe. That strength wasn’t just aesthetic— it was real. 

And every meal you cooked was another way of telling him so. Every tray of roasted veggies, every slow-cooked braise or pan of cinnamon rolls was a reminder: You’re still cared for. You’re still mine.

To be fair, he’d never been satisfied with his body, not really. Not when it was used as a weapon. Not when it was hyper-lean, a machine starving for control. And not now, when he felt like losing the only grip he’d ever had on himself.

Then came the movie night.

You were watching some dumb action flick, all glossy lighting and guys with chiseled jaws and ten-pack abs. The kind of thing that didn’t usually bother you. 

C’mon, watching a superhero movie while being married to one? It was kind of surreal, kind of stupid. 

You’d whipped up a bowl of nachos earlier, layered with roasted veggies, black beans, just enough cheese to feel indulgent, but still a net benefit for your body, the way Bucky liked. He’d been halfway through the bowl, one hand resting on your thigh, when he suddenly stopped eating.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was full. Maybe the movie was just boring. But then you felt the way he shifted like his body was trying to shrink.

You turned your head to see him.

His eyes flicked to the screen. Then to the bowl. Then to his stomach. And then away.

You paused the movie.

“Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t look at you. “I’m fine.” He said it too quickly.

You set the nachos aside and turned toward him. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated.

“Look at those guys,” he said, motioning toward the frozen screen. “All shredded. And I’m just—” He trailed off, letting the bitterness finish the sentence for him.

Your heart broke.

You reached over and rested your hand on his chest, right where his heart beat under your palm.

You frowned in that goddammit I love you, why don’t you see what I see? kind of way.

You didn’t say anything right away, but moved closer, settled into his lap, and rested your forehead to his. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice soft as a feather, “you could have abs again tomorrow and I wouldn’t love you more than I do right now.”

He swallowed hard. 

“You say that now,” he insisted. “But maybe one day you’ll wake up and realise you’re married to some washed-up vet with a gut and a metal arm.”

You cupped his face firmly and made him look at you.

“Hey,” you scolded playfully, “Don’t you dare talk about my husband like that.”

A ghost of a laugh bubbled out of him. 

“You carry people out of burning buildings, Bucky. You wrestle Walker for fun and win more than half the time.” That earned you another chuckle. “You’ve got a body that’s survived hell and back. And you still use it to hold me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world.”

He looked like he didn’t know whether to cry or pull you into his arms and never let go. So you did it for him— you held him close, kissed the curve of his neck where tension still pulled on his muscles.

“You are so hot, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered. “So fucking hot. Built like a damn tank. Fuckin’ making me feel like the luckiest woman alive.”

He buried his face in your shoulder then, arms wrapping tight around you, so you didn’t move for a while.

He held onto you like you were tethering him to the Earth. His arms were so big, so safe and real. 

Eventually, his rapid breathing slowed. Then, slowly so as not to startle him, you leaned back just enough to look at him. His eyes were pink, glassy, and still a little distant.

“C’mere,” you whispered, taking his hand.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going. He just followed you, quiet and trusting, fingers interlaced with yours. You led him into the bedroom, and he paused near the mirror at the side of your shared bed.

“I don’t—”

“I know,” you said. “But I want to show you something.”

You stood behind him at first, wrapping your arms around his thick waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. He tensed up at his own reflection. You could feel it in the way his shoulders were bracing for impact.

But instead of asking him to look, you slowly stepped around him, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled him gently toward you.

He didn’t resist.

You kissed the underside of his forearm first, the one made of flesh. Then his metal hand. You worked your way up, past scars and veins and muscle, until he was standing between your knees, and you lifted up his shirt and lowered his sweatpants just a bit, until you were kissing the stretch of skin just above his waistband.

Then, higher.

His stomach rose and fell under your lips.

You kissed the curve of it. One, then another. A third, right by his belly button. Your hands held his hips like he was loved. 

“You think this makes you less?” you said in disbelief, your breath warm against him. “Because all I see is more. More to hold. More to love. More of you.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides. He was stock-still, as if when he moved, he might fall apart. You looked up at him and saw the tears gathering again.

“Every inch of you is mine to love,” you whispered, “and you don’t get to tell me which ones I can’t.”

A choked sound made it last his lips. 

He dropped to his knees in front of you and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your chest like he was starved for touch.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbled, voice breaking at the seams .

You kissed the top of his head.

“Tough,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re stuck with me. And so is that stomach. And that chest. And fuck— those thighs.”

He huffed a laugh against your skin. “You like the thighs, huh?”

“Obsessed.” You nuzzled into his hair. “Do you even know what it does to me, watching you exist in this body like it was built for loving me?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His cheeks were pink, and for the first time that night, you saw something wonder bloom behind the disappointment in his eyes.

You leaned in again, your lips brushing over his—soft first. It deepened the moment he kissed you back. It wasn’t desperate, not yet. 

Just… vulnerable. 

It was as if everything unsaid between you was being poured into it, every little bit of doubt and love and hunger bleeding through.

His hands found your hips, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe you were real. You felt him, too—not just the muscle, but the man who wanted, who needed to be seen, to be held, to be devoured.

“You drive me insane,” you whispered between kisses, your hands running up under his shirt, palming heat and muscle and that slight softness you loved more than you could say. 

He groaned low in his throat, and you felt it reverberate all the way down. 

You tugged his shirt up and over his head. You bit your lip as he fixed his posture, solid and built like sin.

God, you couldn't get enough of him. He had thighs thick enough to crush, arms big enough to cage you in. You ran your palms down his chest, over the swell of his sides, and kissed just above his waistband again.

“I want all of this,” you whispered. “Want to feel it. Fuckin’ climb it, baby.”

That did it.

He leaned forward before picking you up like you weighed nothing. You let out a gasp as he plopped you on the bed. His mouth was back on yours in an instant, kisses turning rougher and hungrier as his hands roamed  with that same desperate worship you gave him.

And when his thigh slid between yours, thick and commanding, you nearly whimpered.

“Bucky—” your voice broke on his name.

He pulled back just enough to growl, “You love this?” His thigh pressed harder, “Love how big and strong I am for you?”

You could barely think, could only nod, fingers tangled in his hair, body arching to meet his.

“Say it.”

“I love it,” you moaned. “I love the way you take up space. I want you to break me in half.”

His blue eyes darkened, his grip tightening just slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he kissed you again, and there was no more sound except for bodies moving like they were made to fit, made to ruin each other sweetly.

And when he finally, finally settled over you like the living embodiment of every gentle and savage thing you even loved—you whispered against his ear, “Don’t hold back.”

He didn’t.

—

You woke up to sunlight cutting through the curtains, the kind of light that felt too ethereal to feel real.

Bucky was already up.

He was standing, shirtless, hair still sleep-mussed, his sleep trousers hanging low on his hips, metal arm catching a glint of light as he rubbed at the back of his neck. You watched him from the bed for a minute.

He was staring at the mirror.

And not with that same bitter expression he usually did. This time… it was different. His brow was still furrowed, sure, but he looked… thoughtful. He looked like he was seeing something new.

Or maybe just seeing it the way you had all along.

There were faint bruises along his hips—your marks. Scratches across his back, red and already rapidly healing thanks to the serum, that they would be gone before the day. His skin was still flushed in places, the way it always got after you touched him like you meant it, like every inch of him was holy ground. 

You let the silence steep, just long enough to not startle him. “Staring at yourself like you’re in love, Barnes,” you finally mumbled sleepily from the pillows.

Bucky turned, but not ashamed. His eyes met yours across the room, and god—there it was. 

A smile.

“Maybe,” he said. His eyes dropped to his stomach, his chest, his body— painted in proof of your love last night. Then he looked at you, still tangled in the sheets, bare-legged, cheek creased from the pillow, looking at him like he was the answer to a prayer you hadn’t even known you wanted.

He shrugged, but it wasn’t dismissive. More like he didn’t know how to put it into words yet.

You sat up and let the sheet fall a little. His eyes flicked down and lingered, mouth parting, even after all this time.

“You didn’t seem to mind this body last night,” he said, quieter and teasing.

You gave him a look—are you serious?—then got up and walked across the room. You stood in front of him and slid your hands up the planes of his torso, over his stomach, then around to his back.

“Bucky,” you said, lips brushing his collarbone, “I wrote scripture out of this body last night.”

He laughed an open, sleepy-morning laugh, like you’d summoned it right out of his ribs. He ducked his head into your neck and held you for a second, arms around your waist.

When he pulled back, you kissed him once, then you glanced toward the mirror.

“Go ahead,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his stomach. “Smile at yourself again.”

He did.

And he didn’t look away.

-end.

Extra Notes : This was really special to write, especially with so many fics like this going around! I used to have an unhealthy obsession with working out purely for aesthetics, but a few years ago, after moving out of my home country, I started reconnecting with my culture’s food. Cooking and eating became a way to feel close to home, so my body changed! I also shifted toward weight training and functional exercise, and while I’m definitely more muscular than lean now, it took me a while to realise this version of me is so much healthier than when I was stuck in an obsessive calorie deficit. Remember, bodies change, and I find our inherent ability to be look so different and still be worthy of love wonderful!

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

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

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy

Wherever You Are, I’ll Be

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: He needs your touch like air, anchoring himself to you in every room, every moment, his hand always finding your skin as if you’d vanish otherwise.

Bucky Barnes had never known softness until you.

Not in the silk of a Sunday morning when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Not in the brush of a hand against the small of his back while he cooked eggs. Not in the way someone would instinctively lean into him instead of away. But now? He needed it like breath. Like blood in his veins.

He needed you.

And more specifically, he needed to feel you.

Your thigh draped over his on the couch. Your pinky finger curled into his when you walked through the city. His hand on the curve of your waist while you brushed your teeth, and the comforting press of your calf against his in bed. Even now—his arm lay lazily around your shoulders as you laughed at something Sam was saying across the room.

But Bucky wasn’t listening.

He was watching your profile. The way your lips tilted up at the corners. The crinkle beside your eyes. And, maybe more urgently, the way a man had just walked up to you from behind and tapped your shoulder like he’d known you for years.

And Bucky—without thinking—tightened his grip.

His vibranium fingers flexed slightly on your arm. A grounding pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable. You didn’t even glance at him, just reached over your shoulder and rubbed your thumb across his knuckles as if you knew exactly what that little squeeze meant.

You did know.

-

He never liked when people approached out of nowhere. Not when it was you. Not when he was already two seconds from spiraling.

“Sorry,” the guy was saying. “Are you Y/N? From the Stark internship program?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Yeah… That was years ago.”

“I thought so,” the stranger smiled. “I recognized you. You did a seminar on AI ethics, right? I was in the audience.”

“Oh, wow,” you said, ever polite, while Bucky’s jaw tensed beside you. “That’s a blast from the past.”

He had the gall to laugh, too charming for someone standing way too close.

Bucky’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist.

Not just touching now. Holding.

He kept his eyes locked on the guy, his chin barely tilted up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And sure enough, after another thirty seconds of awkward small talk, the guy politely excused himself and walked off—leaving behind the heat of Bucky’s jealousy simmering in his chest.

You turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to walk away from you,” you whispered gently, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes dark. “But it feels like you might.”

Your brows softened. “Buck…”

“Every time someone walks up to you, I think they’ll take you. I know it’s stupid. I know you love me. But the part of me that lived through losing everything…” He swallowed hard. “That part doesn’t trust anything.”

You traced your fingers along his jawline. “Then let me show you. Every day. In every way.”

He looked at you like you’d just promised to rebuild him.

Because you had.

Later that night, he didn’t let you go once.

You brushed your teeth with his arm slung low around your hips. He undressed you with both hands on your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And when you crawled into bed, he pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t leave the bed before me,” he murmured, his voice sleep-heavy.

“Even for coffee?” you teased.

He opened one eye. “I’ll get it for you. Just stay.”

You did.

And the next morning, when sunlight peeked through the curtains, Bucky was already awake.

He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting against your bare thigh. The metal one cradled your ribs under the blanket. Protective. Possessive. Gentle.

“Morning,” you whispered.

His lips curved softly. “Still here?”

“Always.”

Throughout the day, it was more of the same.

Bucky on your hip at the grocery store. His thumb stroking circles over your back while you chose tomatoes. He kissed your temple in the aisle, not because he needed to—but because he had to. Because the warmth of your skin beneath his lips told him this was real.

He didn’t speak much in public. Never had. But the world quieted around him when you were near. And he knew—knew—if he just kept one hand on you, he’d never lose you.

At the Tower, Sam clocked the way Bucky’s hand kept drifting. To your lower back. The nape of your neck. Your shoulder.

“You two glued together now?” Sam teased as he passed by.

Bucky didn’t respond. He just shifted slightly closer to you.

You smiled, not even trying to move away.

“Jealous?” you called after Sam.

Sam huffed a laugh but didn’t reply.

Bucky’s hand slid lower, resting on your hip bone as if claiming you in silence.

And for all his posturing—for all the brooding and quiet sulking—when the door finally closed and you were alone, the first thing Bucky did was pull you into his chest and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

You looked up at him, brushing a hand across his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, James,” you said, voice steady. “Even if someone offered me the world.”

He kissed you like it broke him to believe that.

That night, after making love slow and reverent and full of whispered promises, Bucky tucked his head into your neck.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.

His voice was barely audible when he spoke.

“Sometimes I think you’ll wake up and remember you could have anyone. And that you’ll leave.”

You pulled back, cupping his face so he had to look at you.

“I already have everyone I want,” you said. “He has blue eyes, a vibranium arm, and the softest damn heart I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked fast.

“Touch me,” he rasped.

You leaned forward, brushing your nose to his. “I already am.”

“No,” he said. “Always.”

And he meant it.

Because to Bucky Barnes, touch wasn’t just a way to connect.

It was a promise.

A silent vow that he wasn’t alone.

That this time, the people he loved—you—weren’t going to be ripped away.

And you, with your arms around him, legs tangled with his, fingertips dancing over his ribs, you were keeping that promise.

One touch at a time.

Want to join my taglist? Fill out the form at this link or drop a comment below!

Taglist: @avengersfan25,@doilooklikeagiveafrack, @hits-different-cause-its-you

Can we talk about how no one seems to acknowledge in the mcu that Bucky took the serum unwillingly. That he was experimented on against his will and absolutely terrified of what it would do to him.

Yet you have John walker talking how much Bucky must enjoy it. At what price and what use when he’s to afraid to use that strength

Sam talking about how he should have taken it like him. When Bucky literally did not.

Even now the red guardian being all like oh the fancy stuff. As if it wasn’t a experiment that had high failure and Bucky was lucky enough to survive.

And even with all that, no one even sees he’s as much as a exceptional like Steve by not being corrupted by the serum.

And please marvel please let someone please acknowledge these two things and say it in the mcu because he deserves to hear them.

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

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