Currently Torn Between The Idea Of Her Coming Back To Work Because Seeing The Way People Were Doing Her

•·.·´`·.·•• 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.

Red, White, and Blew em' All Away

Summary : Bucky asks John Walker to set him up with his best friend. Of course it's an unnecessarily complicated plan.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x sniper! reader (she/her), Best friend!John Walker

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Fluff, Cursing, brief mention of trauma. Implied sex. Brief mention of death. John has massive Ross from friends energy in this one. Mutual pining???? Everyone lives in the tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 5.3k

Note : This was inspired by the song Supersoaker by Kings of Leon. I’ll reply to some asks/comments soon since I’ve been short on time! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. I’m also closing it soon since it's getting a bit out of hand. Anyone have any suggestions on how to organise taglists better? Anyway, enjoy!

You were one of the most lethal soldiers of your generation—at least, you had been. Back in the 75th Ranger Regiment, you were very close with both John Walker and Lemar Hoskins. They were family, as far as you were concerned.

You never used to question orders. Back in the unit, that wasn’t your job. You were a sniper. You saw the world through a scope, in gradients of distance, timing, and target confirmation. You didn’t hesitate.

Lemar used to say, “You think too much after the mission.”

You’d reply with a dismissive chuckle, “That’s the only time it’s safe to think.”

But watching Lemar die changed something in you. You saw it in slow motion— the way his back hit the pillar, horrified as John’s guttural rage as you stood frozen on the spot. 

When you saw him raise the shield, you knew what he was going to do. But you didn’t stop him. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Watching John—your brother in arms—bring down his shield like a guillotine on a surrendering man snapped the last thread of who you thought you were.

So you fought Sam and Bucky in Latvia, trying to explain that John was in grief. You knew what he did was wrong, but fuck— you’ve just lost Lemar, too. 

Because if he wasn’t your field partner, who the hell were you? 

You held your own for a while— until Bucky disarmed you, pressed you against a wall, breath ragged, eyes wild. You’d never admit it, but that the moment stuck with you, burned itself into your memory like a scar on skin.

After the dust settled and Karli was gone, Sam reached out. He saw something in you. He dragged you to the VA, made you talk, made you work through what you felt. 

You started climbing out of the pit. And then, she came—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, with a promise of purpose and redemption. Just like that, you were right back at John’s side, following orders again.

—

But it was different now.

After New York, after pulling Bob out of his literal void, you had… a family. 

And you moved to Avengers tower with that family.

Bucky started noticing you more after that day. He always had, if he was being honest. From the first time you pulled the bolt on your M24 with that annoying little pretty smirk after you, John, and Lemar helped him and Sam with the Flag Smashers the first time he met you. 

You weren’t just good— you were dangerous. And that caught his attention. 

So when you both moved to live in the Avengers tower full-time, you and Bucky, ironically, clicked. Two ex-army snipers, worn out by decades of destruction, it felt like a no-brainer. You’d never admit it to anyone, but you thought he was stupidly hot even when he had a knife to your throat during training. He, likewise, thought your smile was devastating. 

You sparred. You bantered. You shot rounds together every morning now at the Avengers compound.

It was a ritual at this point. 0600 at the shooting range. You and Bucky would be shoulder to shoulder, trash-talking, competing, and trying to out-shoot each other like teenagers in basic training. The bullet holes on your targets were always nearly stacked.

“Can’t believe a relic like you still has steady hands,” you teased once.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Can’t believe you’ve got all these fancy new tech, and still can’t beat me. Back in the 40s, all I had was a good eye.”

“Whatever, old man,” You huffed, but smiled. He thought it was the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

So yeah, it’s safe to say Bucky had a crush on you.

The kind of crush that made him forget how to speak like a normal human whenever you looked at him. The kind that made him stalk around in doorways just a second too long, hoping you’d notice. The kind that had him memorising your coffee order and pretending it was just coincidence.

The only problem was that he had absolutely no idea how to ask you out.

So, naturally, he turned to the one person he thought might have some experience in that department.

John Walker—your brother in everything but blood. The man who once challenged a bouncer to arm-wrestle just because you said the guy looked strong. The man who had never, in the history of knowing you, made a subtle decision.

Bucky should have known better.

The second Bucky confessed, he regretted it.

John’s eyes went wide with shock and glee, like a kid on Christmas who just found out his new toy came with explosives. He damn near shouted, “Wait—wait. You have a crush on my best friend?!”

Bucky winced. “Keep your voice down.”

John leaned back and grinned like he just cracked the Pentagon’s launch codes. “Oh ho ho. This is gold. Don’t worry. I got you.”

“John—”

“I’ve got you, Buck,” he insisted, slapping a hand to his shoulder like he was about to make a blood oath. “I’m gonna help you win her over.”

Oh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

—

It was so bad.

Because instead of helpful advice or moral support—or literally any of the sane things a normal person might do—John decided to be John. Unnecessary, over-complicated, convoluted John. 

He ended up setting you up on a blind date with someone from his high school.

Not just someone. Bruce Mallory, the guy everyone hated. The walking red flag. A high school quarterback who used to cheat in every test and called women “females.”

Bucky found out three hours before the date.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, cornering John by the weights like this was a hostage negotiation.

“Relax,” John said like this was all going according to plan. “It’s strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“Yeah, man. Trust me.” He leaned forward like he was about to reveal top-level clearance intelligence. “She needs a push. I know her enough to know likes you, but she thinks you’re out of her league.”

Bucky huffed. “That’s insane.”

“Exactly,” John said, like that somehow made sense. “So, I set her up with a guy I know. Total douchebag. Real fucking dickhead. She’ll hate the date. Then you swoop in afterward, say something funny, remind her what a good guy looks like. Boom. Bucky gets the girl.”

Bucky stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re telling me… you intentionally set her up for a bad time so I’d look better by comparison?”

John looked insulted that he even had to explain. “It’s foolproof.”

Foolproof. Right. Coming from the divorced guy. 

Bucky groaned.

Somehow, this had become his life.

“See? Bruce Mallory,” John said, showing him this guy’s old high school photo on his phone. “Used to sell oregano as weed in high school. Had three girlfriends at the same time until they all found out at prom and cornered him by the punch bowl. Absolute legend.”

Bucky stared at him. 

It sounded unhinged. Bucky should’ve shut it down then and there. 

But the truth was, he was desperate. You haunted his thoughts. He couldn’t breathe right when you were in the same room as him. He was in deep, and every time he thought about telling you, his mind conjured a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t.

So yeah. He let John run his little plan.

And then watched it implode in slow motion.

Because when you came back to Avengers Tower after the date, you weren’t angry. You weren’t disappointed or exhausted or cursing John’s name. 

You were… happy? 

Bucky’s chest tightened like a vice.

“How was it?” he managed, voice tight, his rehearsed smile barely holding.

You shrugged casually. “Really good, actually.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh?”

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “he’s a pediatrician and goes to the same gym I used to. Volunteers in war zones sometimes for humanitarian missions and he’s currently saving up to establish a free hospital in areas of conflict.”

Bucky’s throat went dry. “Hmm?”

“Yeah. Also, he fosters dogs—he’s got this one now with three legs—and he’s been learning ASL so he can work with hearing-impaired kids.”

Bucky felt the world tilt sideways.

“He… fosters dogs?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, and it felt like getting stabbed with a butter knife— it was slow, messy, painful. “We’re going out again next week.”

“Thanks for introducing us, man,” You turned to John, whose mouth was agape from the kitchen, “You’re the best.”

John looked like someone had just told him his credit score was zero. “Uh… y-you’re welcome?”

Bucky laughed. It was a brittle, choking sound that tasted like rust in his throat. “Wow. Great. No, this is… this is great.” He turned to John, eyes cold. “Hey. John? Can we talk? Just real quick. In the hallway. Now.”

John followed him knowing he would get an earful. The second the door shut, Bucky pointed at him.

“What the hell did you do?!”

John threw his hands up. “How was I supposed to know he’d go through a redemption arc?!”

“You told me he was a human garbage fire!”

“He was! Last time I saw him he was getting dumped three times simultaneously. I didn’t know he’d become freakin’ Mother Teresa with a gym membership!”

“He volunteers in war zones, John!”

“I know!”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to peel off his skin. “She was supposed to hate him. I was gonna show up, make her laugh—”

John winced. “Yeah, that was the plan. But apparently, Bruce Mallory became Ghandi’s hot cousin, I know.” He paced around the room, “which means… I need to come up with a plan B.”

—

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the common room trying not to scream into a pillow.

Because Bruce Mallory was great. He was smart, kind, and selfless. But you knew exactly why you’d said yes to a second date.

Because you had to get over Bucky Barnes.

You’d been crushing on him for months. Hopelessly. Pathetically. Every glance, every half-smile had rooted deeper in your chest like a splinter you didn’t want to remove. But he was a war hero—broken and still healing, older than time yet still disgustingly handsome. He was Bucky Barnes.

There was no version of reality where someone like him would stoop so low and choose someone like you.

So when John set you up and Bruce Mallory came along, you stupidly thought, maybe if you dated someone else, it would fill that hole that Bucky left in your heart. Maybe it would help you let go of the fantasy of ever being with the former winter soldier.

So yes. You’re going on a second date, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

—

You went on the second date next week and didn’t say much after, just that it went “well” and you were “going on a third.” No dreamy smiles, but still— no complaints either.

Which, for Bucky, not knowing everything was somehow worse.

He stood in the gym, punching a bag so hard it nearly came off the chain.

Across the room, John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him implode.

“She didn’t rave about it,” John said helpfully. “That’s something, right?”

Bucky didn’t respond and just kept punching.

“She didn’t not like it,” John added. “But you know, not every spark sets the world on fire. Maybe she’s just... being polite.”

“John,” Bucky growled, sweat dripping from his temples. “Do you have a Plan B?”

John nodded, a little too quickly. “Absolutely. We’re going on a family vacation.”

—

“Team bonding weekend!” he announced in the New Avengers group chat like it was to pile a group of super-operatives and Bob into a rented cabin in the woods for a little R&R. 

Yelena immediately called dibs on making the s’mores and threatened anyone who brought off-brand marshmallows.

Bob asked if the cabin had satellite TV.

Ava sent a thumbs-up and a gif alluding to arson.

Alexei promised “memorable Soviet campfire tales.”

And Bucky was both extremely nervous and cautiously hopeful. Maybe this was the break he needed— a moment for you to see him outside the chaos. 

Plus, John was undeterred. Because this wasn’t about s’mores or a holiday. This was about you and Bucky finally getting your heads out of your asses and realising you were cosmically meant for each other.

The centerpiece of his romantic heist was one single strategically placed bed. 

He got there early and rigged the room assignment, going so far as to fake a DO NOT USE sign on the air mattress. He removed the backup cot and hid it in the woods. 

It was all going to work. Maybe you would get a confession. Maybe a kiss under the stars.

What he didn’t account for was your complete and utter, soul-crushing obliviousness.

—

When you got to the cabin and walked into the room, you took one look at the bed, then looked at Bucky—already slightly pink in the ears—and then just shrugged.

“Two seater,” you said, tossing your duffel onto the small, barely padded couch in the corner of the bedroom. “I’ve slept on debris-filled floors. This’ll be a luxury.”

Bucky muttered a curse under his breath. “You’re sleeping on the couch?”

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged, “You’ve got the vibranium arm. Probably not great for furniture. Go take the bed.”

“No,” he insisted. “You take the bed. It’s final.”

You raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “You pulling rank on me, Sergeant?”

Bucky loved it when you called him that. “I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

“Oh, sir, yes sir,” you said with a playful laugh.

The flirty tension was there, for half a second. 

It was enough for Bucky to remember how soul-crushing his feelings for you were.

—

The evening passed in a haze of awkward not-quite moments.

Outside, the others drank by the firepit. Yelena was teaching Ava how to make s’mores using a knife for a stick. Alexei was yelling about surviving a Siberian winter inside a collapsed barn with only a spoon and a shield. 

When you excused yourself early—“Gonna crash”—Bucky followed too quickly. “Yeah. Same. ‘M exhausted.”

You both entered the room and settled into the roles you had clearly assigned yourselves: You on the bed, arms crossed behind your head, and Bucky on the couch, perched like it might collapse under the weight of his own emotional constipation.

And outside the window, just beyond the tree line, John Walker lurked like a raccoon, peeking through the curtains and mouthing: “DO SOMETHING.”

Bucky didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He just sat there until the silence got too loud to ignore.

And because Bucky apparently hated himself, he asked the one question he absolutely shouldn’t have. “So… how’s Bruce Mallory?”

You looked over, surprised. “He’s good. Actually good. I was surprised. When John said ‘high school friend,’ I thought he’d be a creep. Most of the guys I’ve met from his past are… dumpster fires.”

Bucky forced a civil nod. “That’s… great. Just great.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Sure. Sounds like a nice guy.”

You’d hoped—just a little—that he’d show something. Jealousy, maybe. Some sign that maybe he cared.

But there was nothing. Just that same unreadable distant face. 

And the lack of reaction hit harder than any rejection.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you and turned your back. “Yeah, I guess… I’m gonna see him again.”

Bucky’s voice was flat. “Have fun.”

That was it.

No follow-up. No argument. No protest. 

You closed your eyes.

And across the room, Bucky stared at the ceiling like it knew he’d just let the only person he wanted walk a little further away. Again.

Outside, John peeked through the window one last time.

You were asleep on the bed.

Bucky was wide awake on the couch.

And John, crouched behind a tree with a fistful of s’mores, muttered furiously, “Goddammit.”

—

After the fourth date, you came home smiling. Nothing euphoric, nothing giddy—just… content.

Which killed Bucky inside.

So when he asked, against every warning in his head, “going on a fourth date?”—and you answered with a quiet “yeah”—he didn’t flinch.

He just smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

John, standing nearby, turned to him the second you walked out of the hallway.

“Okay. Okay,” he started, “This is it. Emergency measures. We’re moving to Plan C.”

Bucky shook his head immediately. “John, it’s over.”

“Plan C is going to work.”

“I said no.” His voice didn’t rise, but it was cold. “Leave it.”

Bucky had reached that particularly cruel stage of heartbreak—the one where everything about him turned a little too polite. He’d only smile when you made a joke. Compliment your shot grouping briefly at the range. Nod when you passed him in the hall, and then walked away before you could see the way it killed him to be near you.

And you were not better off.

Bruce Mallory was… kind. Charming. Smart. He didn’t just talk, he listened. He asked questions. Sent you little check-ins during long missions. He liked your dark humour and never looked at your scars like they were something to ignore or erase.

But still—every time Bucky walked into a room, you felt the same electric flutter in your chest, like your heart forgot what it was supposed to feel, like it didn’t care that you’d ruled him out months ago as something impossible.

Because surely, surely, Bucky didn’t want you like that.

So you told yourself Bruce was a good choice. That maybe a few more dates would silence the crush you’d spent so long burying. That maybe Bucky would stop living rent-free in your head.

But you were John Walker’s best friend.

And he knew better.

So as Plan C, John thought that if he’d whisper the truth into the right ear, it would spread like a quiet fire until you realised what had been in front of you the whole time.

He picked his weapon: Yelena.

During sparring, he said it casually. “Hey, so, if it ever comes up… maybe you could mention that Bucky’s got a thing for her. Like, plant the seed.”

Yelena snorted, blocking his punch with ease. “You want me to gossip?”

“It’s not gossip,” he said, ducking her counter. “It’s… just, well, true.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sure.”

The next day later, while sharpening a knife, Yelena said to Ava, “Apparently Bucky’s got a sad little sniper crush.”

During a tech debrief, Ava pointed at you when you walked past and whispered to Alexei, “Bucky’s in love with her. Isn’t that sweet?”

Alexei, profoundly misunderstanding the nuance, leaned over to Bob during lunch and declared with confidence, “Bucky is madly in love with her. They are clearly dating.”

Which is how, in the middle of an otherwise average Tuesday dinner in the Avengers compound— Bob looked up from his fifth plate and casually said, “So I heard you’re dating now. I thought you were going on with Walker’s old football friend.”

Forks froze and chewing stopped.

You looked up. “...What?”

Bob, all golden retriever-like his enthusiasm, smiled between you and Bucky. “Bucky’s in love with you, right? Alexei said so.”

Across the table, Bucky looked like he’d just taken a bullet in the chest.

He wanted to speak, to explain, to lie, to run.

But you chuckled too quickly. Too loudly.

“Oh! No—no, that’s—you probably misheard,” you said, waving a hand, forcing ease into your voice. “That’s not—I mean, Bucky doesn’t—come on. It’s Bucky Barnes.”

You said his name like it was sacred, like it belonged somewhere far above your head, up in the clouds with legends and gods.

You turned back to your food, smiling awkwardly. “He’s just nice to me because we shoot together. That’s it.”

Bucky didn’t move. Because how could he?

You’d shut it down so fast, it broke his heart into a million little pieces.

To you, shutting it down made perfect sense.

Because how could someone like Bucky — war hero, former congressman, team leader—look at you and want you?

Even if he did.

Even if every morning with you on the range made the day better. Even if your voice could pull him out of his worst spiral. Even if he'd give anything just to hear you say his name.

But he said nothing.

And across the room, John Walker sat in silence, hands limp around his fork, watching the flaming wreckage of Plan C.

After dinner, Bucky found John in the kitchen. 

“Okay, that did not go how I planned,” He said to Bucky. “Plan E. Or F. Whatever. I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.”

Behind him, Bucky sighed. “John. Stop.”

John turned, his eyes were too gentle for someone who was normally so brash.

Bucky shook his head. “You were wrong,” he said sadly, looking utterly lost in his own head. “She doesn’t like me.”

But John knew you, so by extension, he knew how wrong Bucky was. 

—

Today was the day of your fourth date. You were almost at the elevator— you had your coat on, keys in hand, and an intoxicating trace of perfume behind your ear—when John stopped you.

He just stood in the hallway to the tower’s residential floor with his arms crossed. You paused, blinking. “What do you want, man?”

He looked you dead in the eye and said, flatly, “You know Bruce Mallory lied to get Katie Jansen suspended in high school, right?”

Your brows shot up. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nodded solemnly, “Faked some emails, told the principal she was selling test answers. All because she was gonna out him for cheating on her with her sister.”

You stared. “What?”

“And he used to smoke in the cafeteria,” John added, like that was somehow worse.

“That was surely years ago, John,” you said, suspicion blooming in your chest. “Besides, why are you telling me this now? You’re the one who set me up with him.”

John held up both hands, like he wasn’t also the arsonist in this particular fire. “Look, all I’m saying is— I’m your best friend. I know you. And I don’t think you’d actually like Bruce Mallory.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why would you set me up with someone you don’t think I’d like?”

“I was trying to push you in the right direction!”

“What fucking direction, Walker?” You demanded, very confused all of a sudden. 

“Ugh, look,” John said defensively. “Last I saw him, he was trashing locker rooms and pissing behind the bleachers. I didn’t realize he’d gone and joined Doctors Without Borders and cleaned up his whole life.”

“Did you, what, set me up to fail?” You crossed your arms. The idea of that seemed impossible, but you also knew how your best friend sometimes played 4D chess with very questionable motives. 

“I’m just saying,” John muttered under his breath, “he’s not your type.”

You stepped back and raised your eyebrows. “And what exactly is my type?”

John hesitated, then shrugged like it was obvious. “Taller than you. Broody. Built like a brick wall. Shoots better than you half the time and won’t let you forget it. Has a metal arm, probably.”

Your jaw dropped, blinking slowly.

He knew of your crush? 

Of course. Of course he knew. 

“…You just described Bucky.”

John tilted his head. “Well, yeah.”

You stood there—mouth open and brain short-circuiting like a glitching circuit board. “I—okay, maybe, but that doesn’t mean anything! That’s Bucky Barnes. He’s out of my league!”

John actually groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You—you absolute dumbass.”

“Excuse me?!”

“BOB WASN’T LYING!” John shouted, shaking you by the shoulders as if it was going to knock some sense into you. 

You gulped. “What?!”

“Bucky is in love with you, you idiot!” John practically yelled, voice echoing through the hallway. “He’s been in love with you since you knocked him on his ass in training week one! Do you never notice how he paces around like a sad little Victorian widow every time you go out with that pediatrician saint?! He just thinks he’s too fucked for you, which again: Not true!”

You just… froze. For once, you had no witty comeback.

John pointed at your chest, eyes narrowed with brotherly fury. “I cannot believe I have to say this out loud: you are not out of anyone’s league. Least of all his. You are literally his exact brand of damaged.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart felt like it had slammed into a wall and kept beating anyway.

“…I need to find Bucky,” you finally whispered.

John nodded, satisfied, already pulling his phone out. “I’ll text Bruce Mallory. Tell him you’ve got a classified emergency. You can explain later.”

You hesitated at the elevator door. “But—”

“You’re about to go find the guy who thinks your laugh is the only thing worth surviving for.” John arched his brow.  “Mallory hasn’t even brought up ‘exclusive dating’ yet. He’ll be fine.”

—

You went downstairs and stood outside Bucky’s door.

You were really doing this, were you?

You raised your hand and knocked—quietly at first, then a bit firmer when there was no answer.

There was silence for a bit, and then a shuffle. The. Footsteps. Then you heard the sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor and a small “shit,” muffled through the door.

When it opened, Bucky stood in the doorway, shirtless, wearing those low gray sweats that should honestly be illegal on him, as if he just got back from the gym. 

And when he saw you, his breath hitched. 

His eyes trailed from your heels, up your legs, over the curve of your waist, and finally rested on your face—hair done, lips glossed and parted slightly in hesitation.

“...You look—” His voice faltered. You didn’t need any of this— Bucky loved you as is, but seeing you go through all this effort for another man hurt. “Wow. You got all dressed up for him, huh?”

He meant for it to sound casual, even teasing. But they came out almost bitter.

You swallowed. Your heart was racing, and not for Bruce Mallory.

“I—” you started, then faltered. You looked down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “I’m not going.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not going on the date?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just looked at you like you’d said something in a language he didn’t understand.

“I was.” You stepped in a little closer. “But I couldn’t do it.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, “Why not?”

You hesitated, your voice dipping lower. “Because I realised I didn’t want to see him.”

His head lowered just slightly. “I… well. What—”

You interrupted him, and your throat felt tight. “I wanted to see you.”

You shifted your weight, arms wrapping loosely around yourself. “And… John kind of straight up told me.”

Bucky sighed. “Told you what?”

You let out a long breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. “That you liked me. That you get weird when I talk about going on dates, and that the reason you haven’t said anything is because you think you’re too messed up, or broken, or whatever Bucky Barnes excuse you’ve decided to make up this month.”

A small, crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “He said all that?”

“Well… not verbatim,” you chuckled. “And the thing is…” You hesitated. “I never thought I had a chance.”

His brow creased. “What?”

“I thought you were out of my league,” you said gently. “You’re… you. You’ve been through hell and survived it. You’re unfairly hot even when you’re grumpy. And I’m just me.”

He stepped toward you, pulled you in by the wrist and closed the door. Your heart started racing out at your chest.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he insisted. “You’re kind. You’re stubborn. You laugh like the world isn’t on fire. You’re gorgeous, not to mention.  And you… you see me. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Avenger. Just… me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear.

He cupped your face, thumb trailing your cheekbone, eyes locked with yours.

“C’mere,” he whispered, barely audibly.

You didn’t hesitate. You closed the gap and kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate or frantic. It was slow and deep—like every moment of tension between you had been leading up to this. His mouth moved against yours like he already knew the rhythm of your soul. His metal hand found the small of your back, fingers wrapping possessively. The other curled gently at your chin, tilting your face so he could kiss you better

You sighed into him, hands bunching in the fabric of his sweats as he backed you against the door, never breaking the kiss. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing a low moan from your throat, and he smiled into the kiss like he’d just won a war.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, he whispered, “Tell me you’re mine now,” he whispered, “Because I don’t think I can go back to pretending I don’t want you.”

“I think…” you nodded with a whisper, “I’ve always been yours.”

He grinned that boyish grin, like the sun breaking through clouds. 

—

The next morning, the sun was barely up, the building was still quiet — too early for most of the other avengers — but not for you and Bucky.

You were standing barefoot in front of the stove, one of Bucky’s sweatshirts drowning your frame, your hair a little messy from the night before. He was behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he murmured in your ear.

“I’m gonna burn the pancakes if you keep distracting me,” you teased, half-laughing as he pressed a warm kiss to the curve of your neck.

“Worth it,” he muttered, nuzzling in like he didn’t care about breakfast at all.

You giggled and leaned into him anyway, flipping the batter one-handed while his fingers played idly with the hem of your — well, his — sweatshirt. He hadn’t stopped touching you since you woke up. A kiss to your cheek while you brushed your teeth. A gentle pull back into bed when you tried to get up. And now… this. 

Not that you were complaining.

He handed you the toast while you plated the eggs, sneaking another kiss to your temple as you reached up into the cabinet.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured.

Then came a little creak.

Both of you turned toward the hallway as a pair of socked feet appeared near the door. And there was John. Peeking around the frame like a kid in pajamas. His smile was smug enough to power the whole building.

“I did that,” he announced proudly, pointing at the two of you.

You narrowed your eyes. “You literally almost made it worse.”

“Shhh,” John put a finger to his lips. “Don’t ruin it. Let me have this.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “Let him gloat. It’ll keep him busy for a while.”

John leaned in toward Ava, who’d flickered into existence behind him with a cup of tea— as she often didn’t bother to control her phasing when she was still tired. “I just gotta figure out how to convince them to name their firstborn after me,” he whispered dramatically.

Ava rolled her eyes. “John, they’ve been dating for eleven hours.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, wondering how she knew the exact timestamp. “Wha—”

She raised her hand before you could ask. “You were loud,” she said, as if stating the obvious, “I’m pretty sure the whole tower knows by now.”

You turned back to the stove, trying not to let the heat creep up your cheeks as Bucky slid beside you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Firstborn, huh?” he said against your ear.

You gave him a look. “Don’t encourage him.”

John, from the couch, said, “Middle name at least! I’m not asking for much.”

And with that, you leaned into him again, plate in one hand, his fingers in the other.

If this was how mornings were going to be now — then yeah, you could definitely get used to this.

-end. 

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 @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

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

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

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

Miss Navy! What if the reader joined the thunderbolts and fooled around with Bucky?

Bahaha. I have a thot, nonnie.

Not Exactly a Secret

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are really good teammates... and more.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Kissing, implied smut, humor, team bonding (kind of), Thunderbolts spoilers, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Using this beautiful @nixakimbo edit for reasons (you know why if you've seen Thunderbolts!). ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

In hindsight, they all should've seen it coming.

You were the last to join the team and easy to get along with. You could roll with the punches and keep up with Alexei, put John in his place when he stepped out of line, sympathize with Bob, and have a blast with Yelena and Ava. Hell, you even congratulated Bucky on his six month stint as a Congressman and swore he made a difference. He admired your kindness. He admired you.

The team thought Bucky was just being extra welcoming since he always found an excuse to be around you. If you offered to cook for the team, he was beside you in the kitchen ready to help. If you wanted to spar, he dropped what he was doing to go to the training room. And if you suggested a movie night, he sat next to you with your favorite snacks ready to go and a blanket in case you got cold.

Everyone noticed that Bucky smiled more when you were around. He laughed more, too. Turned to you for advice and didn't mind staying up late to chat or exchange books. Your room also happened to be beside his and he spent a lot of time in there, more than a regular teammate should.

The recent movie night you snuggled against him and started to doze off. If anyone else had tried to snuggle with him there was a chance they'd lose a hand, but not you. “Mmm. You're so good to me, Bucky,” you said when he picked you up.

“You know me. Just being a good teammate,” he replied, holding you close the way a boyfriend would and not at all like a teammate.

Yeah, they should’ve seen it coming.

Bob stumbled upon you by accident. He had forgotten his hoodie in the common room after one of the movie nights and froze when he spotted you and Bucky making out on the couch. He stood there for a full minute torn because he wanted to get his hoodie back, but he didn't want to interrupt. He ultimately decided against it when Bucky pushed you back on the cushions. On top of his hoodie.

“I’ll just… I’ll get it tomorrow. And I’ll wash it. Yeah, yeah. I'll do that. It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he mumbled as he went back to his room.

You were kind enough to wash it yourself the next day and offered to buy him a new one, but he declined. It was nice that you offered. And he was happy because he saw how happy you made Bucky.

Yelena caught the two of you in the training room. For a moment it looked like Bucky was trying a new move on you and she almost asked him to show her how it was done. Tilting her head after a few seconds, she realized what she was seeing wasn't a defense move at all. If there was any doubt, the grunt he let out and the moan you gave him in response when some clothes were moved aside told her very loud and clear what was happening. And it would've been rude to stay and watch.

“Oh, I'm not sparring on that mat again,” she muttered.

She did spar on it again after Bucky cleaned it twice.

Ava didn't catch the two of you doing anything. She phased in the kitchen one day while Bucky was eating and making a mess. The exasperated look on your face when you tossed him a paper towel was adorable, as was the smile you two exchanged. Bucky never looked that soft around anyone else.

“You eat pussy like that?” Ava asked to get a rise out of Bucky when another drop of sauce hit his shirt.

“Yeah, he does,” you said without skipping a beat.

Ava laughed, thinking it was a joke at first, before she caught Bucky staring you down and licking his lips. You bit your lip and Ava almost phased out of the room to give you two some privacy. You beat her to it by sauntering out of the room with a smirk, the super soldier hot on your tail and leaving his mess behind.

“Thank you for not using the counter since we eat here!” Ava called out after the two of you.

Bucky had you on the counter the next day so he could eat, too.

Alexei found the two of you in his limo tangled up in each other. You couldn't explain why you and Bucky decided to fool around in there, but you wanted to have some fun and the limo was there. And it was clean. The Red Guardian wasn't at all upset. In fact, he felt honored that the Winter Soldier wanted to have sex in his limo and blasted “Pony” to set the mood.

“That’s what I talk about!” he cheered before Yelena dragged him away.

She also decided then and there that she’d always ride in the front seat of the limo.

John was the last to know, which surprised no one. After a successful mission, he realized neither you nor Bucky had answered a question he asked. Whatever smartass comment he began died in his throat when Bucky unashamedly kissed you. There was nothing gentle or chaste about it. It was a deep, filthy kiss and he felt like a perv watching.

Bucky must've thought something similar since he gave John the finger all while he continued to kiss you and you gripped his hair.

“Are you guys…” John trailed off since the rest of the group didn't seem at all surprised by the display. “Wait, did everyone know? Was I the only one who didn't know?”

“Yes, dime store Captain America.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Everyone knew.”

Whether it was the insult of being the last to know, John looked offended. “Even Bobby? And since when did the two of them become a thing?”

Bucky broke the kiss to glare at the blonde. “Yeah, asshole, Bob knew,” he replied.

“And it wasn't really a secret. We just hadn't officially announced it,” you said, giggling when Bucky’s lips found yours again.

Apparently the display was the official announcement.

“I really did know,” Bob smiled before he cleared his throat. “I, uh, found them in the common room.”

“Training room,” Yelena said.

Ava nodded. “Kitchen.”

“Limo!” Alexei shouted, hitting his chest. “My limo.”

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered.

Bob shrugged. “I think they make a good couple.”

“Of course, you do,” Yelena said, a small smile forming on her face as you and Bucky carried on. “I think so, too.”

Yeah, lovelies. Loved the film. Not at all sorry. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

talking in your sleep pt 2

Summary: You wake up 14 hours after your Melatonin-aided much needed sleep and face the aftermath of your confession to Loki. A confession you believed was a dream.

Pairing: Loki x Reader (friends to lovers)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: implied smut, Loki being hot (not sure if this needs to be a warning but it's there), mild angst (?) [let me know if i missed anything!]

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was that it was dark outside. You'd slept the day away. Maybe even more. But you felt rested, fully energized, ready to go back to your office and face the behemoth that was the security system of the Ten Rings.

Just as you were about to stand up and head back to said office, you vaguely remembered Tony's words about not wanting to see you in your office for the next seven days. That was when you noticed the next thing. This wasn't your home. You didn't even remember leaving the tower. But you did remember bits and pieces of a conversation between Loki and Natasha arguing about whose room you would sleep in.

"FRIDAY?" you called out into the dark empty space. 

"Yes, Miss Y/L/N?" the AI answered. 

"Could you tell me what day it is, how long I've been asleep, and then turn the lights on at 50%?" 

"Certainly, Miss Y/L/N. It's Friday, the 16th, and you were asleep for fourteen hours. Turning on lights at 50% brightness." As light slowly filled the room, you took note of your surroundings. The neatly organized shelves, the helmets hung on the walls, the emerald green bedspread that was an almost exact match to the clothes you were wearing.

You groaned. "I'm in Loki's room?" 

"Indeed you are, Miss Y/L/N. And I've been instructed by Mister Laufeyson to tell you to meet him at the kitchen when you wake. Will that be all?" 

"Yes, FRIDAY, that will be all. Thank you." You took a look around the room, trying to remember anything more than fleeting moments of the last two hours before you fell asleep, to no avail. So you decided instead to follow FRIDAY's words and make your way down to the kitchen to meet Loki. 

Once you reached the bottom of the stairs, you noticed that the tower was strangely quiet for a Friday night. "Lo?" you called out into the quiet space, your voice echoing from the walls.

"In here, darling," you heard him call out. When you walked into the kitchen, you had to catch yourself at the sight of him wearing only a pair of green silk pajama bottoms, a match to the sheets upstairs. You willed your eyes not to roam, not to appreciate his literal godly form, to keep them trained on his face. Big mistake, because once he turned around and his eyes met yours, a devilish smirk crossed his features and his eyes roamed your form. "You are quite the beguiling sight in my colors, dear Y/N. I may have to tell Romanoff she's not getting those clothes back." 

"You plan on keeping them for yourself?" you quipped, trying your best not to let his gaze affect you. But then he set the plate in his hand down and made his way over to you, crowding your space. 

"You have your wits about you again. That's good," he said in a low almost whisper. "You should tell her you're keeping this for yourself." His tone was almost authoritative, as if he wasn't giving you room to protest. You suddenly get flashbacks of him declaring that you would stay with him while you slept in that same tone. Except this time there was a softness to his words, like he was trying to wrap you in them, in his presence. 

It's like he's seducing me, you thought to yourself. But there's no way; you're being delusional, Y/N. Of course you were. He didn't see you that way. He never would. 

You struggled to compose yourself. "I thought you had a thing against people wearing your colors." 

You felt your heartbeat at your fingertips as you watched him raise his hand and slid his finger under and along the strap of your camisole. "Perhaps under the correct circumstances, I would be willing to share." And then he looked at you through his lashes and you could've sworn your heart stopped beating altogether. 

The way you saw it, there were two options. Keep the flirty banter going and see how far he'd take it, or stop it where it stood and play it off like a joke between friends. You didn't trust yourself not to get hurt with the first choice. "Pssh," you chuckled. "You know for a second there, Lo, I could've sworn you were flirting." And you gently nudged his hand away and sat down on a stool  by the kitchen island. "Where is everybody, by the way?" 

"They went out to one of Stark's many clubs to intoxicate themselves on inferior ale and gyrate all over strangers they will cease to remember by morning. Maximoff left that out for you and told me to make sure you ate it once you woke up." 

"Why didn't you go with them?" 

"Nothing in that image fit my rendition of an enjoyable time, darling. And there are far more important things to attend to." 

"Such as?"

"Ensuring that someone I care for is taken care of after she endangered herself the way she did this week." There was no mischief in his eyes as he said the words, as he stared into yours, like he was trying to see into your soul. "Y/N, swear to me you'll never be that reckless again. When you nearly fell earlier…" He seemed to fight back his sentiment.

You placed your hand over his. "I promise," you said softly. "I just forgot--"

"You cannot afford to forget these things, Y/N." His voice sounded almost desperate. Then he took a deep breath. "I don't want to live in a world bereft of you a day sooner than I absolutely have to. I do not wish to even contemplate that world, do you understand?" You had no words, no witty comebacks, no jokes, nothing. All you could do was nod as he held on to your free hand, returning your nod as he raised your joint hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. He then let go and motioned to the plate of pasta in front of you. "Eat, darling." 

You did your best to focus the next several minutes solely on finishing your plate, rather than allowing your mind to wander in the direction of the smoldering shirtless god standing by the counter pretending to leaf through a book, when in reality he was watching your every movement. 

Once you were finally done he ceased his charade and walked over to place himself behind your seat. You visibly stilled as you felt him reach from behind you to slide your plate over to the side, and then proceeding to lean over and rest his chin on your shoulder. 

"What’s up?" You did your best to sound casual. He wasn’t ever like this with you. Whatever this was. So to have him behaving like this now? It was jarring, that was for sure. 

"Did you know you talked in your sleep, dear Y/N?" Your breathing hitched as you both felt and heard his words, what with him having his lips so dangerously close to your ear. The effects he and that absolutely sinful voice of his had on you felt like they were magnified. Tenfold. 

You took a deep, slow breath, trying to find your footing, finally taking notice of how he’d placed his hands on the marble top, effectively trapping you between him and the kitchen counter. You let out a half-hearted chuckle. "Nice try, Lo. I know I don't." You made a motion as if to step off your seat, but his next motions kept you right where you were, as you watched his his forearms flex ever so slightly and he stepped even closer to you and you felt his chest pressing against your upper back. It was clear the message he was trying to send across to you. Don't move an inch.

"That may be so," he started speaking again. He let go of the island and proceeded to sweep your hair over your shoulder with one hand and wrapped his other arm loosely around your waist. "But you say the most interesting things when you're under the influence of that medication, in the moments before you succumbed to its full effects." 

Your blood ran cold as you got flashbacks of the most wonderful dream. You were laying in bed, in Loki's arms, as he asked you if you were his. And you told him you were and that you were defenseless against his perfection, that you fell in love with him. Such a damn shame you don't feel the same way. 

"That wasn't a dream," you whispered, barely even able to breathe properly as you felt his nose tracing along the length of your exposed neck. "You know." You were doing your best to choke back the sob that threatened to escape you. 

"I do." 

"I'm sorry." Your voice was barely audible. Any louder and you were sure to be a sobbing mess in his arms.

"What ever for, darling?" His words came out so softly, so lovingly, with just a hint of longing. But surely you were imagining it. Right? "You've done nothing wrong."

"I don't know," you whispered, on the verge of hysterics. "I just feel like I should be apologizing for something." And then another flashback. A dream – no, a memory – of you pressing your lips to his neck right before everything went black. Your breath hitched. "I'm sorry I kissed you."

"Don't be, my precious girl," he crooned. "I quite enjoyed it. The feel of your soft, luscious lips on my skin. It was as if the universe stopped; I wanted it to. I wanted that fleeting moment to go on for eternity." What? "The only thing I did not enjoy was you succumbing to slumber before I could return the favor." Oh, you were sure you stopped breathing now. Was he really saying what you think he was saying? "No matter. You're awake now."

You went near frigid in his hold as you felt him press his lips softly to your skin, and he let out an audible exhale that felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. If you thought he would stop at one, you were adorably naive.

He proceeded to press kiss after kiss to your skin, each getting less chaste, more frantic. You began to question if you were still dreaming, but feeling the edges of the stool you gripped so tightly in your hands digging into your palms told you you most definitely were not. This was real. This was all real. 

"Relax, darling," he whispered into your skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. You could've sworn your heart stopped beating the moment you felt his tongue flick against your skin. His hold on you tightened so slightly as he moved his lips to your jaw. "You have nothing to fear. You've done nothing wrong, my little mortal." His lips moved closer to yours, stopping at the corner of your mouth and pressing a kiss there. "All you've done is the impossible." 

"Which is?" you breathed out, surprised there was any air in your lungs at all after receiving this kind of attention from him. You never thought he would; you often forbid yourself to even dream it. You wouldn't dare, because even in your dreams where you were undoubtedly the best version of yourself, even there you never saw yourself worthy of him.

"I won't tell you until you relax, dear Y/N," he teased, his lips moving against your skin, so tantalizingly close to your lips. "Let go of the breath you're holding and lean in to me." 

"I'll fall." 

"You won't. I'm here. You're safe with me. You always have been." That did you in and finally you slowly felt yourself loosening your grip on your seat, exhaling and doing exactly what he asked, leaning against him. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, gently tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. "All you've done is love me. As I've loved you." 

Before you could respond, he captured your lips with his in a kiss that was heated but held such restraint, as if he was still testing the waters with you. Your heart felt like it was soaring as you started to wrap your head around what was happening, as if a fire was ignited in you that warmed your entire body. 

When he pulled away from you, you immediately felt the loss, craving his kiss once more. If you'd thought you were intoxicated by being in his presence before, you were downright drunk on it now. Addicted, even. "Oh, my love. My darling Y/N. It seems one taste of you and I've become insatiable." The feeling's mutual, you thought to yourself, unable to form words. There was that word again. Love. He turned you around in your seat so that you were facing him. "Look at me." You tilted your head up to look into his steel blue eyes, your breath hitching as you saw all the emotions swimming in them. "I want you to say it. Say the words that made me whole. I want to gaze upon your ethereal perfection as you say it. Please, Y/N." 

You took a breath, and the words spilled out of you, as if you couldn't say them fast enough. "I love you, Loki Laufeyson." 

You watched as the brightest smile lit up his face before he leaned in to kiss you again. "I love you, Y/N Y/L/N." He lifted you into his arms and you wrapped your legs around him, as if by instinct. Like you were meant to do this. Made for it, even. "The only damned shame is that we failed to tell each other sooner. I could have had you so much sooner." 

He began to walk you back up the stairs when the elevator doors dinged and opened to reveal Tony and the rest of the team coming back. He took one look at the two of you and blurted out, "I don't even wanna know. I'll see you the week after next, Y/N." 

"Keep the clothes, Y/N," Natasha hollered. "Suits you better anyway." 

You couldn't be bothered to respond, not like you could anyway. Your lips were otherwise occupied. So you gave a half-hearted thumbs up and waved goodbye at the team watching what was transpiring from the common area. 

"Well it's about goddamn time," you heard Wilson boom from the doors. "So who had money on tonight?" 

"I did," you heard Wanda answer him. "I told you all to never bet against me, but none of you listened. And now I'm rich. Should I silence Loki's room?" You didn't hear the response. You didn't care.

You faintly heard a door closing before you felt your back hit the silken sheets of his bed. "I must remember to thank Stark for giving you a week away from your duties," he murmured as he pressed kisses to your jaw and neck. "We have an abundance of lost time to make up for, my love." 

"Everyone knows exactly what's happening right now," you gasped out, your filter going completely out the window once again.

He pressed a kiss above your heart before looking up at you through his lashes. "Does that bother you? That they know?" 

A devious smirk graced your lips as you coyly shook your head. "Not really, no." 

A/N: Does this still count as fluff? I don't know anymore lol

Taglist: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @redbluekjw @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @springdandelixn @ficitve-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446

chill, Loki x GN!Reader

A/N: here to post a super duper quick oneshot in between my studying for finals. I couldn't resist this one, and it's very self indulgent as I deal with another bout of anxiety pains. Still, even if it's not particularly relatable to everyone, I hope it is still entertaining enough to be enjoyed <33 I hope to be back soon with more!

thank you to @cafekitsune for my usual choice of dividers! :)

(we don't get enough soft Loki smiles, okay? Loki's literally just a girl, this diva needs to smile more)

ALSO!!!

TW/CW: mentions to anxiety here!! Not a panic attack or anything, but reader is mentioned to be actively dealing with it and is dealing with anxiety related muscle tension

It was a loud thrum inside of you. You usually explained it as it being in your head, but you also felt it in the aches all over your body, your tense shoulders, in the feeling of your heart sitting heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Every day felt like a new development. Some days, heat worked to ease the tension. Other days, it didn’t, and you had to sit there and let the uneasiness interweave itself with your being. Anxiety sucked.

For the past few days, you’d been dealing with really bad tension in the shoulders and neck. Whilst heat didn’t seem to be helping, ice was. So here you were, laying in bed on a weekend, an ice pack on the back of your neck easing the tension and the slight dizziness that came with it, your two worst companions lately.

“… What in the Norns?”

You  startle at the unexpected voice of your partner, Loki. The door to your bedroom was slightly open, and as he’d been walking by, he saw you lying on your stomach, ice pack on the back of your neck. You didn’t understand his offense.

“What is it?”

“What-” He scoffs. “What is it? Is that an ice pack, dearest?”

“Yes…? Are we cross with them at the moment?”

“Well, I might be amenable to that now.” He huffs, pointedly entering the bedroom and closing the door behind himself, as if to keep this entire conversation under wraps.

“What are you doing, my love?”

“… Icing my neck.” You say dumbly. You were clearly missing something. “I’m all tense again and anxious deep inside and it’s like churning upwards-” You cut your rambling off. Sometimes it felt like no one truly could understand what it was like. Especially because it was so different from person to person, too.

He sighs, moving to sit on the edge of your bed, a hand on your lower back. You can see his lip twitch briefly when you mention how tense you are, but he schools it, opting to be mature. For now.

“I am sorry you feel that way once again, my love.” He rubs your back gently. “But I am also deeply offended by your choice of tool this time around.”

You turn your head back around to look at him curiously, eyebrow raised.

He sighs dramatically, looking up to the ceiling briefly.

“You have chosen to use a measly packet of frozen, quickly melting, gelatinous mixture to ease your pains. Have you forgotten who you share your wonderful bed with every night?” He mirrors your raised eyebrow. A challenge.

Feeling particularly tired and drained, you can’t exactly figure out what he’s criticizing now.

“… You wanted me to use the bag of peas instead…? More surface are?”

He huffs indignantly.

“No. You have a wonderful, powerful, attractive, intelligent God in your bed, my darling.” He sits up higher as he talks, looking all proud. “What’s more, is that I am a Jotun. Or did your clever, delicious mind opt to forget that piece of information for today?”

As he talks, he leans over, pressing a gentle, fleeting kiss to your right shoulder blade.

“Loki… I know that. But this is a silly problem. Nothing too serious, and you always claim you’re ‘too busy’ to do stuff around the house.” You say gently, sighing with relief as you move the ice pack slightly to the left, letting it hit a new part of your neck.

He looks at the gel pack as if it has personally insulted his choice of Asgardian garb one too many times throughout his long life.

“My darling…” He croons, putting on that charming tone he likes to use when he wants to get out of something. Another kiss to your shoulder blade. “I don’t do things around the house because I am a God. And a Prince, if we must be specific. But you… I would do anything for you. What’s more, I love to do you.” He speaks slowly, the last bit evidently making him grin.

You huff, not dignifying him with a response to that salacious comment.

“That’s great, baby, but what are you offering here?”

“What am I offering? I am offering to be a mortal’s ‘ice pack’. You should be very, very honoured. Kneeling at my feet, even.” He murmurs.

“Maybe later.” You quip back dryly, turning back to rest your cheek against the pillow.

He makes an unhappy sound, and suddenly, the weight of the ice pack disappears from the back of your neck. Your hand reaches for it, trying to find it, when Loki’s suddenly finds yours.

“Do not fret, dearest. Your favourite little ice pillow is back in your freezing compartment.” He explains calmly, fingers interlacing with yours, his lips suddenly kissing your knuckles, too.

“It’s called a freezer, Loki.”

“Mm.” He hums noncommittally. “Do you still ache?”

“Yeah, but it’s not as bad.”

“Well, with the ice having abandoned you, I suppose I must rise to the challenge.” He sighs again, almost sadly, as if to express how difficult his life is.

As if he doesn’t lounge around your place like a cat every day.

“You’re the one who made the pack disappear, it’s literally your doing-”

“Shhh, shh, shh, shh.” He shushes you, petting your head like a mother would do to a fussy babe.

You feel almost offended enough to hit his chest or something. But he wouldn’t even care. In fact, he’d like it.

“Fret not, my dearest, sweetest love. You are in the hands of an expert masseur.”

“Lucky me. This won’t end in sex, though.” You warn him.

“Well… not before I’ve even started, no.” He agrees, chuckling softly at his wit.

Just as the back of your neck has started to go back to room temperature and you’ve eased your face back into the pillow, you jolt at the feeling of cold fingers on your neck.

There’s a snort from the (supposedly) very clever and sage God behind you.

“Oops… I forgot to warn you. My mistake.” He says with a tad of forced remorse.

He goes quiet for a bit, moving onto your shared bed in order to sit up against the headboard, letting his hand rest more comfortably and naturally onto your neck. There’s another brief fizz of magic, and then you hear him opening some book or other.

“You can rest now, my love.” He says tenderly, tone much more honest, now. “My hand shall stay there for as long as you need and bring you eternal relief. Unlike that ice pillow.” He mutters derisively.

“… Thank you.” Your answer comes softly, too.

He rubs a cold thumb over the back of your neck in response.

You both sit in quaint, comfortable silence for a while, the sound of book pages turning soothing you into near-sleep. As promised, his hand does not stray, move, or lift itself off your neck. Eventually, the cold of it even gets to be too much, and you move to reach for the blankets, intending to warm yourself up with them.

Loki’s side of the bed goes quiet, and his hand lifts off your neck. He tuts softly.

“What is it now, dearest? Are you cold, now?” He teases softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the cold skin of your neck. He could never resist.

“Mmhmm. Thank you for your services, babe, but I think that was enough for now.” You reply, still feeling a tad bit sleepy.

You pull the covers over yourself, and lay down with the intent of a nap. Your peace doesn’t last long at all, before Loki slides in beneath the covers with you, hands seeking you out and grasping at you. He attaches himself to you like a barnacle, and you can’t help your sleepy smile.

“I thought you were reading…?” You say lazily, words slow and tired.

“Well, yes, but I’ve read that story hundreds of times. It’s centuries old, darling. You are not.” He flirts, kissing your jaw.

“No, but you are.” You snort.

“I see how it is. I was going to offer you a massage, you know. One to warm you up, now that it’s clear just how sensitive you are to temperatures. Mortals… why was I even surprised?” He sighs. “That offer is certainly off the table now that you have called me old.”

He goes quiet again, and you nearly manage to fall back asleep. But of course, he goes back to talking all of a sudden.

“Might I remind you how very delightful I am as a bed partner, my love? Hm? Might I? We are formidable together. Truly. A true menace to your neighbors’ peace and respite. But yes… my mistake, of course. I am old.” He whispers into your ear, the quiet of it not at all enough to stifle his apparent offense.

“… Sorry.” You mumble back.

“Yes, well… I suppose that’ll do. I can’t expect mere mortals to be consistently eloquent, can I?” He murmurs, now focusing intently on kissing your neck, clearly deeming your half-assed apology satisfactory.

“You’re getting soft.” You tease. “You’re so easy to satiate nowadays.”

“Nonsense, dearest. On both counts.” He grins, biting your neck briefly.

Haiii

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.

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

Gorgeous ll Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings/tags: non, fluff, total fluff, fem reader, drinking word count: 1226 a/n: wrote this in an hour because i saw an edit of bucky to this song on tiktok and couldnt get it out of my head

It had been a long time since you’d been to the tower—maybe a year or two. A robot had nearly taken over the world (well, nearly decimated it, but details).

The tower still looked as it always did: people rushing around, trying to make something of themselves under the Stark name. The only difference now was that the Avengers had moved upstate. In an official capacity, anyway.

Stark still liked to host his parties at the tower, much to the dismay of his security.

When you got the invite, you rolled your eyes and ignored it. But then Pepper texted you to come, and you sighed, found a dress, and now stood in the middle of a sea of rich people.

Tony called out your name as he stumbled into you; he shook you, lifting you off the floor for a second.

“Tony,” you greeted him, giving him a small hug.

If there was one thing Tony Stark was, it was eccentric.

“No drink? Have mine,” he said, pressing his glass into your hand.

“You’re already drunk,” you snorted.

“I’m convinced Nat is giving me watered-down shit,” Tony replied seriously. “You have this. I’m going to get the real stuff.” He wiggled his brows. “Oh look, there’s Capsicle and his assassin buddy.”

He pushed you in Steve’s direction. Steve greeted you with a smile. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I didn’t either,” you replied, taking a sip of the drink Tony handed you. You scrunched your nose. “This is not watered down.”

“Tony?”

“Tony,” you confirmed with a nod. “Here, you take it. It tastes horrid.”

“Then have mine. It’s something strawberry.” You swapped glasses, clinked them together.

“Oh, this is my friend Bucky,” Steve said, turning you to face the man who was watching you both.

If anyone asked why you choked on your drink, you’d say it was because you drank too quickly.

The truth was: Bucky was a gorgeous man. Tall, dark-haired, and too handsome to be real. Ocean-blue eyes that made you feel like you were drowning. Your breath hitched—you couldn’t look away. His hair fell around his face, sharpening his already rugged features. His broad shoulders were hugged by a fitted black shirt that had to be a size too small. It was ridiculous. How was this man just that handsome?

“A pleasure,” you said, holding out a hand that you hoped wasn’t clammy. Internally, you were on fire. He looked way too cool to be at this party. Full offence to the rest of the Avengers.

“The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”

His hands were calloused and firm, but soft enough to feel like a pillow to your own. His hand engulfed yours and you were pissed. Even his hands are hot.

“Ma’am?” You snickered, trying to ignore your thoughts. “Very Steve of you.”

“Bucky’s my friend from the war,” Steve explained quickly. You blinked at him, then looked back at Bucky, who was glancing between you both. If he looked at you for more than a second, you were sure you’d implode.

“That… makes sense,” you said, swallowing down your drink. “I’m going to get another. Want anything?”

“Whisky on ice?” Steve asked Bucky, who nodded.

If you took two shots at the bar, no one knew. Except Natasha, who raised an eyebrow. You shook your head, hoping she wouldn’t ask.

You returned with their drinks and your own, which you stared at instead of looking at Bucky.

Pool was played. Your body relaxed as the night went on. You were convinced Sam was cheating, but since he was on your team, you said nothing.

“Switch?” you heard and thought nothing of it—until Bucky stood at your side instead of Sam. You took another sip of your drink, bracing yourself.

“You want to go first?” he asked. You just nodded silently, not trusting your voice.

If you watched him lean over the pool table, that was between you and God. If you sighed when he grinned at Steve after potting a ball, you hoped no one heard. You were furious. There was no way this man was real. You didn’t know if you were mad that he was gorgeous, or that he wasn’t yours.

You snapped upright at your own thought.

Sam moved a ball with the back of his stick and you pointed at him. “That’s cheating!”

“I didn’t even touch it,” Sam said, offended.

“You’re lying. I saw it with these two eyes, man.”

“You sure? Pretty sure you were checking out Buck’s ass.” Sam grinned as he took his shot.

Your face burnt. But before you could respond, Bucky answered coolly, “Don’t call me Buck.”

He disregarded Sam’s comment like it was nothing.

Your thoughts spiralled. Why didn’t he react? Did he know? How obvious were you? Was he ignoring it because it was awkward? Oh god—what if he hated you now?

Unconsciously, you drifted closer to Bucky like he had his own gravitational pull. Your team won and you threw up a finger in Sam’s direction.

“In your face!”

You ducked into the bathroom. As you washed your hands, your thoughts raced. Did he have a girlfriend? Whoever she was, she was lucky. If he didn’t—why not? You pressed your cold hands to your cheeks, trying to ground yourself. The bathroom definitely made you feel more drunk than you actually were.

When you stumbled out (from the shoes, not the alcohol), you unfortunately bumped into the plague of your thoughts. Bucky.

“You alright there, doll?” His hands burnt against your bare arms—even the one made of metal.

“Doll?” You echoed. “I… doll.”

If you’d short-circuited, it must’ve shown—his face turned worried.

“I’m okay,” you rushed out with a quick nod.

He smiled, and your insides melted. “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Are you single?” You blurted.

His eyes widened. Yours did too. And before he could respond, you spun on your heel and rushed down the corridor.

The landing pad was blessedly empty. The rails were up, the wind was sharp, and the New York skyline was hazy in mist.

“So stupid,” you muttered, leaning over the rail.

It had to be the alcohol. You hadn’t acted like this since high school. First, you could barely speak to him. Then you asked if he was single. And every time he looked at you, it was like your whole body went up in flames. Maybe that was his superpower—making people fall for him.

The door opened.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Oh god,” you mumbled, not realising he could hear you.

He walked over, sleeves rolled up, eyes drifting across the skyline before landing on you.

“I am so sorry,” you began, already rambling. “I shouldn’t have asked that earlier. It was stupid. And I’m sorry about Sam’s comment. The question just came out like word vomit and I couldn’t stop it, and running away was definitely worse, and I’m just—really sorry.”

He stared at you with those blue eyes again. His hair was pushed back, showing more of his face.

“I am,” he said. “Are you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m single. Are you?” He repeated, hands in his pockets.

You blinked again. Deer in headlights. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but just nodded instead.

He smiled at your expression. “May I take you out to dinner, then?”

You nodded again, stiffly. What in the actual fuck was happening?

“Let’s get back inside before you catch a chill,” he said, holding out his arm. Without thinking, you took it.

“You’re pretty cute, you know.”

You grinned and looked away, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “You’re gorgeous. It should be illegal.”

He laughed, head thrown back, as you both walked into the party again.

You glanced up at him, studying him for a moment.

He truly was gorgeous.

Extremely cracky but I am cackling at the thought of Thunderbolts endcredits(/Doomsday?) Bucky and pregnant reader hanging out with other heroes and the topic falls on everyone's hero suits and someone asks reader what she thinks of Bucky's new suit and she goes "Well, does this answer your question?" and points at her belly because he absolutey knocked her up when Bucky fucked her still wearing the fit.

If you want to make it smutty it can always include a flashback. 🤷‍♀️

in the suit?! | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Smut | Detailed Open Door | Dirty Talk | Innuendos | Are we still saying John Walker as a warning? | Choking | Pregnant Reader | Mild Language | Alcohol Use | Suit Kink

Word Count: 965

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this. And getting to stare at clips of Bucky in the suit as references. Thank you. Ps-Gif has nothing to do with the one shot, but fuck.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

Present:

Your post-mission debrief had somehow turned into a party—beers around a bonfire, with s’mores. Yes, someone had brought s’mores. It was Bob. You half suspected that he’d googled ‘what do friends do for fun?’ on the way back to the tower.

You were sitting on a lawn chair, mocktail one hand, the other absently rested on your stomach—the baby bump very much obvious at this point. Behind you, Bucky stood with one hand on your shoulder and his vibranium hand wrapped around a beer while he looked like he wanted to re-enter the void any time anyone got too loud.

And naturally, Yelena got loud.

“Okay, here’s the real question,” she called out, waving her beer bottle around the team like a sword. “Which one of the ‘new’ Avengers has the best suit?” 

“That’s so subjective.” Ava groaned.

“Exactly my point,” Yelena replied. “Subjectively, it’s me.”

Puffing out his chest, Alexei snapped. “I will ignore this insult and remind you of this iconic design!” 

“You literally squeak when you move,” Walker said. 

“You squeak emotionally.” Ava scoffed, taking a swig of her own beer bottle.

Walker pointed toward Bob. “What about him? Dude’s got like, three different fits.”

Bob smiled politely, yet his hand visibly trembled. “Thanks… I’m molecularly unstable.” 

Then suddenly, all eyes turned to Bucky.

Including yours. 

How could they not? The matte black suit. The red star. The arms. 

After a beat of silence, someone—you think it was Ava—looked at you and said: “What do you think of Barnes’ new suit?” 

Bucky froze. His hand tightened against your shoulder. Slowly you lowered your mocktail, raising your brows toward Ava.

“Well, Miss Starr,” you gave your swollen stomach a gentle double tap. “Does this answer your question?” 

In surprise, Yelena dropped her beer into the grass. Alexei smiled, until the realisation flashed over his eyes and he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. Bob blinked rapidly in your direction, as though he was running a diagnostics. Walker let out a bark-laugh, quickly turning it into a full wheeze. 

“No. Nooo,” He shook his head, the laughter still ringing through your ears. “Are you saying—Wait—in the suit?!” 

You smirked, and shrugged your shoulders slightly. “Didn’t even take the glove off.” 

Bucky’s eyes widened. 

Three Months Ago:

The safe house door slammed behind you. You barely crossed the entryway before Bucky had you pressed against the wall. His breath was hot, his body humming with some leftover tension from the mission.

He was still in his New Avengers suit—matte black kevlar clinging to his body like a sin, his dog tags swung with every move, and his arm plates clicked together.

You barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth crashed into yours. 

“Are you going to keep the suit on?” you murmured between kisses, fingers tracing the lining of the red star embroidered into his right arm. 

His teeth pulled at your bottom lip. “Are you complaining?” 

You weren’t.

Instead, you desperately tugged on his belt.

He growled.

And before you knew it, your legs were around his waist, his arm braced under your thighs. His vibranium hand reached up to cup your cheek, trailing his lips over your jaw with a ragged breath.

“You’ve been staring at me in this thing all damn day,” he hissed against the shell of your ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, babygirl?” 

“Maybe–Maybe I wanted you to.”

In response, he ground his hips against you—still dressed, but the feel of him had you clenching around nothing. Bucky didn’t rush. He never did. He made you feel it. He made you feel him. And every ridge of his suit, the inches of him still layered between you.

Finally, he freed himself, and you let out a sharp gasp at your underwear being shoved aside. “Don’t hold back, sergeant.” you breathed, fingers entwining in his hair, pulling the strands. 

And he didn’t.

With one hard thrust, he was buried to the hilt—dragging out a broken moan from the back of your throat. He was rough, relentless. His hips snapped into you, driving you like he was proving a point.

He let your name fall from his lips. 

The suit creaked with every movement, and his gloved right hand tightened around your thigh. His grip was bruising. His left hand found your throat—firm, grounding. Just enough to make your vision blur—not enough to lose control.

“You take me so good, baby,” he panted. “Fuck—you’re so tight, can feel you everywhere.”

Unable to form words, you gasped. High-pitched, wrecked whines of: ‘Harder—’. Pushing your chest out, you felt his dog tags swing between your breasts with every thrust.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit—still gloved, the textured leather moved over your skin toward the sensitive nub—rubbing tight, delicious circles. 

You screamed his name.

Your body shuddered against him, vision turning white at the edges as your orgasm washed over you. Bucky’s hips stuttered, groaning deep from his chest as he spilled into you. His forehead pressed to yours. 

He didn’t let you go.

Breathing hard, you clung to him.

Present:

“So, just to confirm,” Walker continued to laugh. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter freaking Soldier, turned into a thirst trap and you said ‘yes’ without any hesitation?”

“I said ‘harder’, actually,” you corrected, taking your mocktail straw between your lips.

Bucky muttered under his breath, looking up to the sky, up to the stars. “You tried to, at least.” 

Yelena collapsed into Ava’s shoulder. “I never want to see that suit again.” 

“I’ll be seeing it again, tonight,” you said sweetly, standing up to make your way toward the bathroom. Patting Bucky’s chest as you pass. “Pizza first, though. I’ll need the carbs.” 

Bob blinked. “Should–Should I get more s’mores?”

“Yes, Bob,” the New Avengers said in unison.

___