Hideout

shall I? SHALL. I.

Everything's Just Perfect

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And for once, maybe for the first time in forever, Bucky believed that was true.

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

It's been a long time since I posted a Loki sketch so here we go 🥹

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss. Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss. A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss. Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly. Didn't say anything. Didn't tease. Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam. With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes. Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.' Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying. (Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze. You didn't cry. You never cried in front of him. But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in. Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first. Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry. But you breathed. And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board. Your crisis texter. Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked. Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms. "She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real. You were loved. And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

was reading through a fic on here that felt…off? in its writing, but was otherwise an interesting story. until i got to later in the story and the person forgot to erase the AI prompt response.

i’d literally rather your writing be shitty and barely there than using AI to write. at least then i know you had the heart.

i will never consent to AI being used on my writing nor will i ever use it. good fucking grief.

Haiii

hi, girly girl ♡♡♡

i’m re-reading your grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader series (bc of course i am) and i was wondering, if you’re taking requests, what your thoughts are about:

💭 something happening to sunshine!reader, during a mission or something else, and she’s emotional (maybe hurt) and frantically asking for bucky. cue extra-protective!grumpy!bucky.

k love u bye

hi, babe :))

it started out as thoughts and I worked it into a lil something something

love you more <3

You came? You called.

Pairing: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: The team’s brightest light shatters after a mission gone wrong, and only one person can put her back together.

Bucky Barnes :)

Word Count: Roughly 900 words 

Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, mild injuries mentioned (barely), mentions of blood, overprotective and soft Bucky, physical and emotional distress, a lil bit of angst (but just a pinch)

Author’s Note: I don't know where I was going with this, but I tried :(

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics

You’re not supposed to cry.

You're supposed to sparkle. 

You're supposed to laugh like you’ve never tasted bitterness, bounce off the walls like gravity never quite applied to you, and leave glitter bombs and rainbow cupcakes in your wake. 

You're the sunshine of the team, the chaos incarnate with fingers covered in icing from baking every other day, held together by too much energy and not enough fear.

But right now, you’re sobbing, shaking so hard it rattles your bones.

The safe house is too quiet. 

Too sterile. 

You hate the quiet.

Your world is made of giggles and explosions and yelling at Tony for calling you “a walking serotonin factory,” like it’s not the biggest compliment ever.

Steve’s kneeling next to you, his voice is soft, words calm and even, like a warm blanket. 

Nat’s crouched just behind him, her clothes smeared with blood that’s not hers. You know what that means. She already got them, the ones who hurt you.

But none of that matters.

You want him.

“Bucky,” you whisper softly, the name tumbling out between hiccups.

Steve tries to soothe you. “He’s coming, sunshine. He’s on his way.”

But that only makes it worse. It hurts, how badly you need him. The tight, aching space in your chest pulses with panic.

You try to push yourself off the couch even though your leg won't work right. The pain flares, sharp and hot, but not as bad as the panic clawing through your ribs. “I need him now. Please. I want Bucky.”

Your voice breaks, shatters into something raw and desperate.

Steve looks helpless. Even Captain America doesn’t know how to hold back the sun when it starts to implode.

Nat lays a hand on your shoulder. Her touch is light but firm. “He’s coming,” she says quietly. “He’s already ripping apart the walls to get to you.”

That sounds like him.

It helps, but not enough. 

The tears keep coming, stupid and hot, blurring everything. Your fingers grip the blanket around you, but it’s not what you want. 

You want metal and leather and the calloused hands that catch you midair when you launch off rooftops without a second thought. You want the gruff voice that mutters complaints when you bounce in front of him, bright and too close, but never pulls away.

You want Bucky.

And then he’s there.

Steve barely gets out of the way before Bucky’s next to you, metal hand cupping your cheek like you’re made of something too precious to break.

“There you are,” he breathes. “Sunshine, what did they do to you?”

Your hands reach out to grab him, clutching at his jacket, his shoulder, his neck, anything that’s him. 

You curl into him like a sunflower searching for sunlight, burying your face in his chest and gasping like you can’t breathe without him. 

He smells safe. 

Like home.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you sob into him. “I was so scared. I thought…”

He’s already wrapping around you, his flesh hand holding the back of your head, metal arm tucking you into him, so close there’s no space between your body and his. “Shh. I’m here, baby. You’re safe now. I got you. Nobody’s touching you ever again.”

You nod, even as the tears soak through his shirt. His lips press to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Like, if he kisses you enough, he can erase what happened.

“You’re late,” you whisper, your voice trembling and watery.

“I know, dollface,” he murmurs, his voice cracking at the edges. “I should’ve been faster.”

Steve clears his throat, somewhere behind you. “Maybe give her a second to breathe, Buck.”

“I am breathing,” you mutter into Bucky’s neck, your voice muffled but stubborn.

Bucky glares at Steve. “She wants me, she gets me. End of story.”

Nat smirks from the corner, arms crossed. “She was begging for you like the world was ending.”

“She’s my world,” Bucky shoots back without hesitation.

He tilts your chin up gently, and when your glassy eyes meet his, he winces. “Look at what they did to my baby,” he whispers. “Your face. Your leg...” He trails off, breathing hard, like he might go find the bastards and rip them apart again just for good measure.

“Nat already got them,” you say, sniffling, managing a tiny smile. “Bet she looked really cool doing it, too.”

“I wanted to be the one to end them,” he mutters darkly.

You tug on his sleeve. “You’re here now. That’s better, the best thing ever. Promise.”

He melts at that, just enough. His forehead presses to yours. “You scared me, you little menace.”

“I scare everyone,” you mumble, eyes drooping as the exhaustion catches up with you. “But you always come back.”

“Always, sunshine.” He kisses the tip of your nose, holding you like you’re breakable. “You’re my favorite chaos.”

You hum, smiling sleepily at him, and he has to look away so he doesn’t fold. “I like when you call me that.”

“I’d like it even more if you didn’t almost get yourself killed,” he mutters. “No more solo missions. No more running ahead without backup. No more playing bait.”

“But I’m good bait,” you protest, nuzzling into his chest.

“I don’t care. No more.” His voice is final. His grip is absolute. “You’re sticking with me.”

And maybe that sounds like a means of control to anyone else.

But you? You just smile.

Because you’re safe. 

Because he’s here.

Even the brightest light needs a shadow to guard it.

And Bucky Barnes is your favorite one.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp @winchestert101 @thatesqcrush @bamitzzsam @grubler @peaches1958 @helen-2003 @ickearmn @Kimmie113080 @Xgbtmdmx @buckysbunnie @Shower-me-with-roses @pigeonmama @civilbucky @piinksdoll @desimarie12 @sleepysongbirdsings @barnesb420 @Suffereroflife @pigeonmama @yes-ilovetowrite @shadowstar1072 @serenaivy

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JUST A BITE

You learned quickly that Bucky Barnes had the tastebuds of a man who’d survived decades of rationed food and army chow—because he could eat anything. And not just anything… but pain. Pure, fiery, tear-inducing, sweat-on-your-brow spice.

You, on the other hand, would combust at a medium salsa.

The first time you’d gone out to eat together, he’d asked if you wanted to try a bite of his dish. You’d said yes, stupidly trusting. And when you took a mouthful of his flaming Thai curry, it was like your soul left your body for a moment.

Tears streaming, hiccuping, you’d waved wildly at him while gulping water, and all he’d done was laugh. That rare, deep laugh that lit up his entire face and made your heart flutter despite the actual hell in your mouth.

From then on, it became a silent agreement. You’d order something gentle—creamy, sweet, or mild. He’d get something that could probably strip paint. And no matter what, halfway through the meal, you’d each push your plates halfway across the table.

“Wanna trade a bite?” he’d ask casually, like this wasn’t a weekly ritual by now.

You’d glare at him every time. “One bite. One. And a small one.”

He’d just grin, breaking off a piece of your naan or scooping a bit of your pasta with practiced ease. You’d do the same, trying to find a pocket of his dish that didn’t look lava-adjacent. You never succeeded.

Tonight was no different. You were at a cozy little Indian place you’d both grown fond of. You had your creamy butter chicken with fluffy rice, and Bucky had some devil-red vindaloo that made the air around it spicy.

You exchanged bites like clockwork.

He hummed happily when he tasted yours. “God, how is this so good?”

“Because you can taste it,” you countered, taking the tiniest possible bite of his. “Oh my god—nope, still evil. Still so evil.” You grabbed your mango lassi like it was holy water.

He snorted into his water glass. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re a spice masochist.”

“Maybe I just like flavour, doll.”

“That isn’t flavour.. it's... it's- I dunno but it hurts”

Still, you tried it. You always tried it. Because for some reason, part of you loved the way he smiled when you did. Like he was in on a private joke with you. Like he liked knowing you’d brave the fire for him, even if it made your nose run.

And maybe… you liked feeding him a bite of yours, too. Watching his eyes flutter shut just a little at the sweetness, the softness of it.