jbuckysbarn

[jbuckysbarn]

hello! I really love reading your fics very much, always get excited to get home and lay in my bed to read the new ones you have published. I’ve thought about this for a while but idk if anyone has done this, but kinda like how Bucky has a metal arm reader has a metal like leg and Bucky had to witness it happen as it happened on a mission they were on together and being very worried but taking to get help and get a metal leg from wakanda. I’ve never done one of these before so I’m not sure how much details you need. I hope this is good thank you! you’re amazing!

thats so sweet🤍 bucky is most definitely the type to be there for you during that. he is the backbone of true recovery. currently crying

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It happens in a blur.

One second you’re running beside him, boots pounding through mud and debris, gunfire rattling in the distance. The next, there’s a sharp click beneath your heel, and Bucky’s gut twists because he knows that sound.

“Wait—!” he shouts, but the explosion swallows the word, swallows everything.

The world goes white, then black, then red.

When his vision clears, his ears are ringing and smoke stings his eyes. You’re on the ground. Blood. Too much blood.

“No. No, no, no.” His metal hand is already pressing into your thigh, desperately trying to hold you together. The bottom half of your leg is—God, he can’t even let himself finish the thought. Not when you’re gasping, eyes blown wide with pain and fear.

“Bucky—” Your voice breaks, fragile as glass.

“I got you, doll. I got you.” He says it like a prayer, over and over, trying to believe it. His flesh hand shakes as he tears his comm free. “We need evac! Now! She’s down!”

The seconds stretch. His chest heaves. Your blood coats his gloves, coats his knees. He’s back in the war, he’s back in Hydra’s hands, he’s back in every nightmare where someone he loves bleeds out while he’s powerless.

But you’re here, and you’re not gone yet. He won’t let you be.

He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, whispering even as he rips a tourniquet from his belt and cinches it high on your thigh. You scream, a broken sound that shatters something inside him. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Hold on for me. Just hold on.”

When the quinjet finally arrives, he carries you aboard, refusing to let anyone else touch you until medics pry you from his arms. He follows, metal fingers twitching like they can still feel your pulse beneath them.

The days blur together.

You survive the surgery. They save your life, but not your leg. When you wake, the sheets are too white, the room too clean, and your body feels wrong. Empty.

You don’t cry at first. You just stare at the ceiling, silent, while Bucky sits in the chair beside your bed like a shadow that won’t leave. His eyes are rimmed red, jaw tight, hands restless.

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s good at patching bullet wounds, at checking perimeter, at killing threats before they kill you. He’s not good at this—watching you stare at the blanket draped neatly where your leg used to be.

Finally, you break the silence. “It’s gone.”

His throat works, but no sound comes. Then, quietly, “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve still got both legs.”

The words are bitter, but not cruel. You’re in pain, and he knows it. So he doesn’t flinch. He just nods, eyes soft. “You’re right. I don’t know what it feels like. But I know you. And I know this isn’t the end of you.”

You turn away, blinking hard. “Feels like it.”

He wants to gather you up, to take the weight from your chest and carry it with the rest of his sins. Instead, he reaches carefully for your hand. When you don’t pull away, he threads his fingers through yours. “When I first woke up with this arm, I thought I was nothing but what they made me. A machine. Less than human. But… you showed me I was more. Still me. Still worth loving.”

Your grip tightens, just a little.

“You’re still you, doll,” he whispers. “Still the bravest person I know. And if I have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, I will.”

Recovery is hell.

Physical therapy drains you. Some days, you can’t look at yourself in the mirror. Some days, anger claws up your throat until you snap at him, at everyone, because it’s easier than admitting how scared you are.

Bucky takes it. Always calm, always steady. He coaxes you out of bed, brings coffee just the way you like it, sits beside you through endless exercises. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t let you give up, either.

When Shuri offers you a prosthetic—vibranium, sleek and strong, custom-built—you almost say no. You’re tired. Broken. Not ready.

But Bucky kneels in front of you, hands braced on his own metal arm, and says, “Let them help you, the way they helped me. You deserve it.”

So you try.

The first time you stand on two legs again—even if one is metal, even if you’re trembling and pale—he looks at you like it’s the sunrise. Like he’s witnessing a miracle.

You stumble. He catches you. His laugh is wet with tears. “Look at you. Told you, didn’t I? Still you.”

Weeks later, you sit together on the porch outside the compound. The night air is cool, the sky littered with stars. Your new leg gleams faintly under the moonlight.

You flex your foot, watching the way the metal moves like it’s always been part of you. “Still feels weird.”

“Yeah,” he admits. His own arm rests heavy against his knee. “Took me a long time to stop hating mine.”

“And now?” you ask.

He considers. Then he turns his palm up, the plates catching the light, and brushes it gently against your cheek. “Now I don’t think about it. Not when I’ve got you to distract me.”

You roll your eyes, but warmth spreads through your chest. “Smooth.”

“Honest,” he counters.

You fall quiet for a while, leaning against his shoulder. The cicadas hum. His arm curls around you, solid and sure.

Finally, you whisper, “Thank you. For not leaving.”

His chest aches at the thought. “Doll, I’ll never leave you. Not then, not now, not ever. You’re stuck with me.”

You smile into the fabric of his shirt. And for the first time since that awful day, you believe it—you believe you’ll be okay. Maybe even stronger.

Together.

[jbuckysbarn]

Everything soft, Everything slow

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 1.5k

Synopsis Bucky gets a slow dance, a song from another time, and a perfect moment—until the Thunderbolts crash it. Per usual.

Themes + Warnings FLUFF FLUFF FLUFFF , soft!bucky , lover boy finally gets the soft treatment he deserves :( , it’s been a long time mentioned AS THE SONG.

— Everything soft, Everything slow But I think… it was always yours too.

It started with the song.

You didn’t mean to find it—just happened to be scrolling through playlists while cleaning the Tower’s storage room when it came through your headphones. That soft, echoing crackle. That voice. That ache.

“Kiss me once, then kiss me twice…”

Your breath caught in your chest. It’s Been a Long, Long Time.

Of course you knew the history. It was Steve’s song. But maybe… maybe it was Bucky’s too.

And maybe he’d never say it out loud, but you saw it—that quiet way his shoulders dropped whenever that song came on. That deep, aching silence like he was standing in a memory so old it hurt to hold.

He never talked about it. Not really.

He never asked for anything either.

So you started planning.

The sun was slipping below the skyline now, that golden-purple hour stretching out over the Tower’s patio like spilled paint. You tugged the old extension cord tight behind a planter, whispering a silent prayer that Tony’s forgotten record player wouldn’t explode the minute it started spinning.

Candles. Check.

Old record player. Check.

Your favorite person in the entire damn world?

Well—on his way.

You had to kick it twice to get it working. Not exactly elegant. But when the soft static buzzed to life and the record finally started turning, your chest filled with warmth.

A few candles flickered to life beside the player, their soft light glowing against the glass. It wasn’t fancy. No five-star dinner. No rooftop fireworks. Just a song, a breeze, and a small moment carved out for a man who never asked for softness.

You stepped back, heart thudding, just as the sliding glass door behind you opened.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was rough from disuse, maybe from surprise. You turned.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair tied back messily, gray tee soft with wear, expression scrunched in confusion as he stepped out onto the patio. He blinked at the candles, the record player, the soft music now playing in full.

“It’s been a long, long time…”

His eyes locked onto yours. “What… is all this?”

You smiled, nerves fluttering in your belly. “A date.”

Bucky blinked again. “You planned this?”

You nodded, taking a slow step forward. “I know it’s not a roller rink or a rooftop picnic or a Coney Island roller coaster—”

“You remember all those?”

“I remember everything you’ve done for me.”

He looked stunned. And maybe a little… unsure. Like no one had ever given him back the kind of thoughtfulness he handed out like second nature. Like he didn’t quite believe he could deserve something so simple and good.

You held out your hand, palm up.

“Dance with me?”

He took it.

Without a word, Bucky stepped into your arms.

Bucky blinked. “This song…”

You knew what he was thinking. You knew exactly who this song made him think of. But you also knew it wasn’t about Steve. Not tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I think… it was always yours too.”

His metal hand hesitated a moment, hovering near your back before gently settling there—featherlight. His flesh hand curled around yours. You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and together, you swayed.

Slow.

Quiet.

The kind of slow dancing no one teaches anymore. The kind where you’re just standing still, moving in tiny circles, listening to the song instead of the world.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just held you.

The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt. The candles flickered beside the record. The city below kept going—but you didn’t. Neither of you needed to.

“I haven’t heard this in…” Bucky’s voice broke slightly. “God, a lifetime.”

“I figured,” you said softly. “But I thought maybe… maybe you missed it.”

He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you.

And oh, God, that look.

Not the one he gave you when you wore something he liked. Not the amused, crooked grin when you beat him at cards. Not the smirk when he teased you in front of the others.

No—this look was softer.

Older.

Like you were something rare. Something he never expected to have again.

“I used to imagine this, you know,” he murmured. “Back when I was… in the middle of it all. When I was out there with HYDRA, or on the run, or just trying to keep my head on straight. I used to imagine moments like this.”

You squeezed his hand.

“This isn’t just a date,” he said, voice thick. “It’s a piece of something I thought I’d lost.”

Your throat tightened. “Then I’m really glad I brought it back.”

Inside, through the glass doors, the Thunderbolts were shamelessly watching.

Yelena had her feet up on the couch, aggressively eating a bowl of cereal at 8PM like it was popcorn. “They’re so gross,” she whispered with a grin. “I want to cry.”

Bob (Robert Reynolds) had his hoodie half-over his head, hands tucked in the sleeves like a comfort burrito. “This is beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. Can we just—can we always be this soft?”

John Walker looked deeply uncomfortable. “Are we… supposed to be watching this?”

“You could turn around,” Ava said flatly, not turning away.

Alexei let out a grumble from the kitchen. “This is how real men love. Bucky Barnes, you are my son now.”

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Alexei. “You can’t adopt him, he’s 100 years old.”

“I have spoken!”

Back outside, Bucky leaned his forehead against yours. The music slowed.

“I thought my heart would die…

Didn’t I tell you…

You’d be back, and you’d be mine…”

His voice was barely a whisper now. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”

You smiled through the wetness in your eyes. “It’s just a song and a patio.”

“No. It’s you. You thought about this. About me. You… you brought something back I didn’t even realize I was still missing.”

You closed your eyes and held him tighter.

And for the first time in what might’ve been decades, James Buchanan Barnes let himself melt into someone’s arms.

Not as the Winter Soldier. Not as an Avenger. Not as a Thunderbolt.

Just a man.

A man who survived.

A man who learned how to love again.

And a man who, for the first time in forever, didn’t have to plan a single thing.

Because this? This was his moment.

And you made it just for him.

You felt Bucky smile against your temple as the last note of the song drifted off into the night.

For a long moment, the world stayed still.

Your arms stayed around each other, the record spun lazily to a stop, and the only sound was the rustle of wind through the railing and the faint crackle of the vinyl cooling down.

And then—

A very loud, very obvious whisper pierced the silence.

“OH MY GOD JUST KISS ALREADY—”

You both froze.

Bucky didn’t move his head from your shoulder, but you could feel him go completely still.

You blinked. “Was that—?”

CLANG.

The sound of a cereal bowl hitting glass.

You slowly turned your head toward the patio doors.

There they were.

Five adult disasters, all crammed in the doorway like a bunch of raccoons caught rummaging through someone’s fridge.

Yelena stood front and center, hands smushed against the glass like a toddler in a zoo exhibit. Bob was behind her, grinning so hard it looked like his face might crack in half. Ava had her arms crossed but she didn’t move. John Walker was pretending not to be watching while clearly watching. And Alexei was holding a half-eaten apple like he might use it as a dramatic prop.

“We weren’t watching,” Bob said immediately.

“I WAS rooting for the kiss though,” Yelena added unapologetically.

Bucky turned so slowly to face them. His hands never left your waist.

His expression?

Pure, stone-cold Winter Soldier Threat Level 10,000.

That blank, terrifying calm that said: I have fought aliens, Nazis, and my own brain. You do not scare me. But I will ruin you.

No one moved.

Not even Alexei.

Then—softly, calmly, in that voice that used to make grown Hydra agents piss themselves—Bucky said:

“You’ve got ten seconds to run.”

Bob screamed.

John tripped trying to turn around and crashed into the wall.

Ava vanished—literally—into thin air.

Yelena, ever the menace, just grinned wider. “You didn’t say which direction, Barnes.”

Bucky raised one eyebrow.

She immediately bolted.

Alexei didn’t move. “I do not fear you, Bucky. You are my tiny angry son.”

Bucky took one step forward.

Alexei dropped the apple and ran like hell.

The door slammed behind them, followed by a chorus of chaotic yelling and muffled laughter trailing down the hallway.

You turned back to Bucky, who looked only slightly regretful.

“They were trying really hard not to ruin it,” you said, amused.

He huffed. “And they still ruined it.”

You pressed your cheek to his chest. “I don’t know. I think you threatening their lives really added to the vibe.”

Bucky chuckled, low and warm in your ear.

He pulled you in closer and, without another word, began dancing again—no music this time. Just the sound of laughter echoing down the halls and the soft thud of his heart beneath your hands.

(You’ve got mail!) HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO my handsome, elegant, intelligent, charming, kind, thoughtful, strong, courageous, creative, brilliant, gentle, humble, generous, passionate, wise, funny, loyal, dependable, graceful, radiant, calm, confident, warm, compassionate, witty, adventurous, respectful, sincere, magnetic, bold, articulate, empathetic, inspiring, honest, patient, powerful, attentive, uplifting, friendly, reliable, ambitious, intuitive, talented, supportive, grounded, determined, charismatic, extraordinary, trustworthy, noble, dignified, perceptive, innovative, open-minded, composed, imaginative, mindful, optimistic, virtuous, noble-hearted, quick-witted, fearless, affectionate, expressive, emotionally intelligent, resourceful, delightful, fascinating, sharp, selfless, driven, assertive, authentic, vibrant, playful, observant, skillful, generous-spirited, practical, comforting, brave, wise-hearted, enthusiastic, dependable, tactful, enduring, tasteful, joyful, understanding, genuine, brilliant-minded, encouraging, magnetic, dynamic, radiant, radiant-spirited, soulful, radiant-hearted, insightful, creative-souled, justice-minded, tender, uplifting-minded, persevering, devoted, angelic, down-to-earth, golden-hearted, gentle-spirited, clever, courageous-hearted, courteous, harmonious, loyal-minded, beautiful-souled, easygoing, sincere-hearted, respectful-minded, comforting-voiced, confident-minded, emotionally strong, respectful-souled, imaginative-hearted, protective, noble-minded, confident-souled, wise-eyed, loving, magnetic-souled, expressive-eyed, brilliant-hearted, inspiring-minded, absolutely unforgettable AND GOLDEN GLOBE NOMINEE AND WINNER SEBASTIAN STAN !! 43 is such a sexy number 😩

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck @peanutbutt3rcup @piatosniathenie @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes

[jbuckysbarn]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 !

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You come down with a horrid cough and scratchy throat. Bucky is there to care for you with gentleness and so much tea.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Sickfic, minor illness (just cough/cold symptoms), Bucky is so sweet and caring and gentle you might melt or implode.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐊𝐎-𝐅𝐈

It starts with a cough. Harsh, splintered. The kind that claws up your throat like it’s trying to take pieces of you with it. You press your sleeve to your mouth and try to keep it quiet, but there’s not much you can do about the burning behind your eyes or the ache blooming at the back of your neck.

You’re wrapped in three blankets and still freezing. The apartment is quiet except for the wind and rain outside the windows, rattling the glass in that steady, distant hum. You’ve been stuck on the couch all day, tea abandoned on the coffee table, tissues balled up in a soft mess around you. Sleep won’t come. Swallowing hurts. Breathing hurts.

Eventually, you hear keys in the door.

You turn, or try to, body aching from the sudden movement. You forgot to text Bucky. Or maybe you didn’t. You can’t remember anymore, everything’s gone a bit hazy around the edges.

The door opens. He’s home.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice is already soft. Careful. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying not to startle you, like you’re a half-wild thing he’s coaxing out of the cold.

You blink blearily at him from your blanket cocoon, eyes watery and sore. Bucky’s entire body stills when he sees you.

“Baby,” Bucky exhales, already dropping his keys into the bowl, unzipping his jacket, then rushing across the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too slow. “You’re sick. Why didn’t you call me?”

You open your mouth to answer, to explain that you didn’t want to bother him, that you thought it would pass, that it was just a sore throat this morning and now it’s not. All that comes out is a hoarse whisper followed by another ragged cough.

His expression tightens like someone’s pulled a string behind his eyes.

“Oh, honey.”

He’s kneeling in front of you a second later, fingers already brushing your forehead, cool metal trailing over heated skin.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You’re burning up.”

You shake your head weakly. He frowns. “Don’t argue,” he says softly. “You’re flushed. You sound awful.”

You cough again, violently, and Bucky is already there, pressing a hand against your back to steady you, other palm gentle and cold against your ribs.

You sag against him. You don’t even mean to. But the weight of the day, the heat of your skin, the spinning of the ceiling, it all eases just enough when he’s this close. It’s instinct. It always is.

Bucky lets you lean on him, lets you bury your face into the warm crook of his neck, even though you’re sniffling and probably miserable to hold. He doesn’t care. He never does.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “You’re okay. We’re gonna fix this.”

You try to apologise. You really do. It comes out mangled, somewhere between a cough and a croak. He hushes you immediately.

“Nope. None of that. No apologies.”

You breathe in, shallow and shaky, fingers curled into the front of his hoodie. You catch the scent of his aftershave, the one you like because it smells like cedar and rain and the clean air of home.

“Come on,” Bucky murmurs. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You grunt in protest, some weak sound that probably means no, I’ll get you sick, but Bucky is already shifting, tucking his arms around you, lifting you like it’s nothing.

You hide your face against his shoulder as he carries you, grumbling softly under your breath. He’s amused. You can feel the grin tugging at his mouth where it brushes your cheek.

“You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

You try to swat him. It’s pitiful. He laughs quietly and presses a kiss to your temple.

Fifteen minutes later, you're in bed, surrounded by an army of pillows, freshly changed clothes, and a heating pad. The room smells like mint and eucalyptus from the diffuser he set up at your bedside. Bucky left once and only once to heat up soup and fetch a fresh glass of water.

Now, he sits on the edge of the bed, a hand resting on your knee over the blanket, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into the fabric.

Your voice is mostly gone, reduced to nothing more than breathy sighs and occasional coughs, but he doesn’t need you to speak.

“I know you hate this,” Bucky says gently, placing a kiss against your knee.

You roll your eyes and he chuckles, brushing a hand down your arm.

“I love taking care of you. I don’t love seeing you like this. Just… let me take care of you, okay, sweetheart?”

You look at him, really look, and the tenderness there almost kills you. His hair is a little messier than usual, stubble dark sits against his jaw, his eyes are soft enough to melt the sharpest parts of you. You just nod, tired and aching and so full of love it almost hurts more than your throat.

Bucky smiles. “Good,” he says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “That’s all you gotta do. Just let me love you.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it has nothing to do with being sick.

Later, when you’re asleep, curled on your side with your hand limp in his, Bucky stays awake.

He watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, counts your breaths like they’re sacred. He keeps a hand on you at all times. Just in case.

He sets an alarm every few hours to check your fever. He Googles ‘remedies for sore throat’ even though he’s already bought every brand of tea and every over-the-counter painkiller known to man.

Every time you cough in your sleep, Bucky winces. It breaks his heart a little. How small you sound. How miserable you must feel. How hard it must’ve been for you to keep quiet all day, alone in the apartment while he was on a mission.

He wishes he’d come home sooner. Wishes he could just take it from you. Shoulder the ache, the sore throat, the exhaustion. He’s survived so much, what’s one more thing, if it means you get to rest?

He kisses your knuckles. “You’re doing great, baby,” he whispers into the dark. “I’m right here.”

You don’t stir, but your fingers twitch beneath his. And that’s enough.

The next morning, you wake up to find Bucky sitting on the floor beside the bed, head tilted against the mattress, hand still in yours. He looks exhausted, but peaceful.

The tray on the nightstand holds three mugs. One smells like lemon and ginger, one like honey and chamomile, and the third is peppermint. There’s a bowl of soup too. It’s still warm.

Your throat burns when you try to sit up, but you manage. You cough, harsh and guttural, and Bucky jolts awake.

His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s flattened on one side. “You okay?” he rasps, sitting up straighter, already reaching for the thermometer.

You squeeze his hand. “Better,” you whisper. It hurts. But you say it anyway.

Bucky beams at you like you just told him the world’s not ending. He cups your cheek, thumb sweeping under your eye.

“You scared me,” he says, voice thick. “You didn’t text.”

You lean your cheek into his palm. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Bucky laughs, soft and incredulous. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in close, “I live to worry about you.”

You huff a broken laugh. It’s scratchy and weak, but it’s still yours. He smiles like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @writingcrustacean @feliciahardysgf @ayvuhs @nomajdetective

[jbuckysbarn]

𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗹 | 𝖻. 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝗌

summary : you run into some trouble on your way home, but of course your boyfriend will always be there when you need him

pairing : bucky barnes x reader

word count : 1.3k

cw : mugging, unwanted physical touch, knife, state of panic, minor injury, canon typical violence, lots of comfort, bucky being sweet and caring with his girlfriend, pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby), established relationship

prompts : "a necklace" and "knife to throat"

a/n : i actually asked my friend to choose one number from two prompt lists and this is what i came up with so hope y’all enjoy !

english is not my first language so feel free to correct me if you see any mistakes !

"Bye Ava", with a wave of your hand you took your bag before leaning towards her and whispering teasingly "And good luck with the old Joe"

"Funny, she deadpanned, I hope you’ll laugh as loudly when I don’t clean his puke and leave it for the morning shift, which you happen to cover if I remember right.", she shot back, but failed at containing her smile and waved back at you before you disappeared behind the employee exit, leading to a poorly lit alley that seemed to get more and more invaded by trash bins each day.

It honestly wasn’t much worse than your entire walk back to your apartment but you had grown accustomed to it and the acrid smell and dark corners were just routine by now.

You’ve been working at this small diner in a not-that-safe neighborhood for a few years now. The pay wasn’t crazy and the hours not the best but you enjoyed the comfort of the routine and you loved your usual costumers and colleagues—Ava mainly.

You were now only a few blocks away from your home and could already feel the knots in your shoulders disappear at the thought of Bucky waiting for you at home.

Deep in your thoughts—and left neglectful by years walking the same road to and from work at ungodly hours- you failed to see the man that has been following you for the past block and that was now only a few steps away.

When you heard the rushed footsteps it was already too late.

Suddenly, you were pushed against a brick wall in a dark alley, your head spinning from the force at which you had hit it.

Heart in your throat and the words stuck on your tongue you did the only thing you could remember Bucky teaching you for situations like this.

You pressed the panic button hidden on the side of your watch.

The sound of a blade being drawn brought you back to reality and you pressed yourself even further against the wall if it was possible.

When you managed to look the man in the eyes all you saw was a manic glint in his irises.

"Do you have something for me sweetheart ?", he rasped out, his hot breath drowning you in his smell.

His hand stilled low on your stomach, holding both your hands as the other drew the blade against your body, through the layers of clothes. You shivered in fear as he dragged it higher on your chest—slowing there disgustingly and letting his gaze linger where your work uniform had dipped with all these movements.

And when something grabbed his attention you whimpered as the knife settled on your throat.

"I don’t have anything on me I swear", you blurted out, you voice breaking on every syllable.

"And what is this ?" he hummed as the blade picked up the chain adoring your neck that slipped under your shirt. The blade picked it up, the steel rattling against the chain in a noise that made your teeth grind.

Finally, the pendant slipped out of your cleavage and he lifted it higher, letting it catch the moonlight.

Bucky’s dog tag.

"Please- please let me go." you whispered desperately, you chest was raising and falling more and more dramatically with each second.

Oh how you regretted not agreeing when Bucky asked you if you wanted him to pick you up today.

At the thought your eyes watered but you were interrupted by the man who were seemingly not interested anymore by your necklace.

"You want me to let you go" he mimicked, letting out a raspy laugh. "But what about what I want huh ? Nobody cares about what I want." The blade was now resting against your throat and he was just rambling about things you couldn’t make out but he was growing agitated and-

The sound of footsteps running toward you.

And suddenly-

A jaw- breaking. The crunch of the bones resonating in the now less empty alley.

Bucky.

The relief made your vision blurry and as the man fell unconscious you flinched when a cold hand settled on your elbow, a broken whimper leaving your throat.

But then your eyes set on a pair of blue eyes. Rugged skin. Brownish hair. A small scar above the left eyebrow.

"Bucky..?" you let out breathlessly.

"Yeah baby, it’s me. It’s me, you’re alright. Can I-" you fell into his arms answering his question before he could even get it out.

Your shoulders shook relentlessly as you gripped his shirt with unclenchable fists, struggling to ground yourself despite all your willpower.

"Come on sweetheart. You’re alright, you’re safe." he squeezed you as hard as he allowed himself without hurting you. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re alright. Look at me baby."

He leaned back just enough to catch your gaze and scan you for injuries, his hands lingered near your throat were a trail of blood flowed down slowly. And when he whipped his thumb across your cheekbone he realized his hand holding the back of your head was already bloody his jaw clenching at the thought.

"You did perfect baby, you were so brave and perfect." he whispered against your skin again and again. "I’m gonna carry you now alright ? Just so we can get you home fast and get you nice and clean. Okay sweets ?"

He waited till your head moved into the tiniest nod before starting the walk home.

Everything passed in a blur and only did you realized you had made it home when a hand settled on your chin.

You felt the green sofa -one you had both picked out in an antique shop one afternoon that felt an eternity ago- under your hands and lifted your eyes to see Bucky who had seemingly been waiting to have your attention for a moment now.

"Huh ?"

"I asked you if it was okay if I left you here just for a sec, just to get you warm clothes and draw you a bath ?"

You hummed in answer, lost in your thoughts but when his hands left you and he got up only did the words register.

"No ! Wait whe- where are you going ?" you stammered, your hand flying to grip his.

Something broke in his eyes but he simply answered, ever so softly : "I’m just going to grab you some clothes so you can shower and relax baby. But you can stay with me while I do that. Would you prefer that sweetheart ?"

"Please." you mumbled, your voice small even in the quiet of your apartment.

"Of course baby."

And you followed him like his shadow as he made sure to never let go of your hand.

You breathing was much more calm now. And in the absurd normality of your home you could almost forget the event that unfolded earlier. Almost.

The warm hand on your side moved slightly higher bringing your attention back to him. Your eyes fluttered open and caught his stare on you.

"You okay ?" he whispered against your forehead, pressing a kiss there.

"I think yeah. I just.. need you to hold me." you whispered lifting your gaze to his.

One of his hand shifted from your waist to your hip to stroke his thumb there, as the other travelled up to your cheekbone slowing slightly at the gauze on your throat.

"You were so so brave. I’m so proud of you." He brought your face to rest on his neck as he continued to whisper into your hair, punctuating his words by kisses. "My beautiful strong girl, I’ll make sure you never have to use that button again. But if you do, I want you to know that I’ll always -he stopped to press a kiss to your hair- always come for you."

"I know."

And that you did. Because no matter what you were facing he had -and always would- be standing beside you.

first time writing for Bucky.. hope I didn’t write him too ooc 💔

feedback is always appreciated !! requests are open !

[jbuckysbarn]

The Domestic Soldier

Summary: You come home to find Bucky fully embracing his role as a househusband: cooking, cleaning, and running the apartment with soldier-like precision. His domestic streak reaches peak intensity when he bans you from folding laundry “wrong” and vows to handle it himself forever. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 900+

Main Masterlist

You weren’t expecting the smell of fresh bread to hit you the second you opened the apartment door, but there it was: warm, buttery, and so mouthwatering that you actually stopped in the doorway just to take it in.

“Close the door, doll, you’re lettin’ the heat out,” Bucky called from somewhere inside.

You stepped in, kicking off your shoes before following the sounds of clinking dishes and the faint hum of a song you didn’t recognize. When you rounded the corner into the kitchen, there he was. Bucky Barnes with his hair pulled back with a small tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an apron tied neatly around his waist. Not just any apron, the ridiculous pink one you’d gotten him as a joke for Valentine’s Day. The one that said Kiss the Cook.

He glanced up from where he was slicing vegetables with the kind of precision that made you suspect he was overqualified for anything involving knives. “You’re home early.”

“And you’re… domesticated.” You leaned against the doorframe, grinning.

He smirked, not looking the least bit embarrassed. “Somebody’s gotta keep this place running. You work too hard.”

The kitchen looked like something out of a magazine. There was flour dusted across the counter, a loaf of bread cooling on a rack, and two pots simmering on the stove. He moved through it like it was second nature, and you realized this wasn’t some one-off experiment. He’d been doing this all day.

“Bucky,” You said slowly, “How long have you been… nesting?”

He chuckled low in his chest. “Since about 9 this morning. Did the laundry, vacuumed, and fixed that squeaky cabinet door you hate. Then I figured I’d make dinner from scratch.”

“And bread?”

“And bread,” He said, as though that was the obvious next step after laundry.

You wandered over, reaching out to tear off a piece of the loaf, but his metal hand gently caught your wrist. “Not yet. It’s still cooling. You’ll ruin it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious about this.”

“I’m serious about you,” He said simply, then went back to chopping.

That was Bucky all over, making big gestures sound like small ones. You sat on the counter, watching him work, and listening to him mutter about seasoning ratios and the importance of letting dough rise properly. Every so often, he’d glance up and smile at you, like having you there was the best part of his day.

When dinner was finally ready, he set the table with a care that made you feel like a guest instead of someone who lived here. The bread was perfect too, soft inside with a crust that crackled under your fingers. The soup was hearty and rich too, while the salad crisp and colorful.

“You missed your calling,” You told him between bites.

“Nah,” He said with a little shrug. “I’m right where I wanna be.”

Afterward, you tried to help with the dishes, but he just kissed your temple and shooed you away. “Go relax, sweetheart. This is my department tonight.”

From the couch, you could still see him moving around in the kitchen, humming again wit( his sleeves still rolled up and that pink apron still on. You realized that Bucky Barnes, the feared soldier and trained assassin, was somehow the most dangerous when he was like this. Gentle, steady, and completely at home.

And as you curled up under a blanket, you realized you hadn’t needed grand gestures at all. Just this, him, and the simple peace he brought.

The next morning carried the same quiet warmth, sunlight spilling across the apartment with the smell of fresh coffee drifting in the air. You’d barely started on the day’s laundry when the sharp sound of a throat clearing behind you made you freeze.

“Doll…” Bucky’s voice had that dangerous calm to it, the one you’d heard before missions. Except now, he was standing in the laundry room with his arms crossed over his chest.

You glanced over your shoulder. “What?”

He walked forward slowly as if approaching a wild animal. His eyes were locked on the shirt in your hands. “What… exactly… are you doin’ to that shirt?”

“Folding it?” You looked down, baffled. It was folded. Mostly.

“That,” He said, pointing at it, “is not folding. That is crumpling with intention.”

You blinked at him. “Are you seriously critiquing my laundry skills right now?”

“I’m not critiquing,” He said with absolute solemnity. “I’m intervening. There’s a difference.”

Before you could respond, he was already plucking the shirt from your hands and shaking it out like it had been through a war. He smoothed it over with precise, soldier-like movements, then folded it into a perfect, crisp rectangle.

“There,” He said, sliding it into the stack with a satisfied nod. “Proper.”

You stared at the neat pile he’d made. Every shirt was identical in size and shape, like they’d been pressed in a factory. “You do realize normal people don’t fold clothes with… combat-level precision, right?”

He glanced at you, deadpan. “Normal people also don’t break into Hydra facilities and dismantle weapons shipments. We all have our talents.”

“Your talent is… laundry?”

“And cooking and vacuuming in straight lines,” He added without irony. “But laundry’s important. If you fold it wrong, it doesn’t stack right. If it doesn’t stack right, it leans. If it leans, it falls. If it falls–”

“–the world ends?” You guessed.

He gave you a pointed look that suggested you weren’t entirely wrong.

By the time he was done, every piece of laundry looked like it belonged in a retail display. You, on the other hand, were banned, banned, from touching the folded stack.

“I’ll do the laundry from now on,” He said with finality, kissing the top of your head as if this was the most romantic vow he could make.

And honestly? Seeing him carry that basket like it was the most important job in the world made you love him a little more.

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @eeveedream @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake @hits-different-cause-its-you @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @mouseratface @mel-reads @itsmejen

[jbuckysbarn]

oh my god i am spamming so much, i am so sorry. BUTTT… hear me out: dad!bucky being jealous because his daughter says reader is her favorite parent. and she is mama’s girl and he is grumpy and pouting all day 😭🫶

take care and stay safe!! and hydrate!! xx mwah! 🤍💋

OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS. because in buckys mind he is the favorite righ?!? he's got the arm. he's strong. he's older than dinosaurs. he thinks he's got it locked in. bucky then here comes mama jr to make sure daddy stays humble😂

never stop spamming. i love this. i love it alllllllll xoxoxoox

-----------

Bucky liked to think of himself as the parent.

Not just “a” parent—no, the parent. The cool one. The one who sneaks in extra dessert after bedtime, builds blanket forts with working fairy lights, and says “sure” before asking what the question is.

Which is why, when it happened, it felt like a betrayal.

It was a sunny Saturday morning, and the three of you were in the kitchen—pancakes on the griddle, coffee brewing, his little girl perched on the counter with her chin in her hands. You were mixing up the second batch when she, with all the casual cruelty of a six-year-old, looked up at you and said,

“Mama’s my favorite.”

Just like that.

No hesitation. No preamble. No consideration for the way Bucky’s heart shattered into about twelve jagged pieces.

He froze mid-flip, the pancake on the spatula drooping dangerously to one side.

You, of course, only laughed. “Oh yeah? Why’s that, bug?”

Your daughter beamed at you, clearly delighted to be given the floor. “Because Mama makes the best pancakes, and she sings when she brushes my hair, and she lets me wear her chapstick. And…” she leaned forward conspiratorially, “Mama smells like cookies.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. Cookies? He smelled good! He smelled like aftershave and laundry detergent and sometimes—if she caught him right after a run—like victory.

“You smell like… metal,” she added thoughtfully, wrinkling her nose.

Bucky looked personally attacked.

“Metal?!” He dropped the pancake back onto the griddle and turned to face her fully. “I do not smell like metal. I smell—like a man who’s been working hard to provide for his family, thank you very much.”

She giggled, swinging her little legs. “You smell like your arm.”

That was it. That was the betrayal.

The rest of breakfast went on without incident—at least outwardly. But inside, Bucky was sulking. You could see it: the slight downturn of his mouth, the dramatic way he stabbed at his pancakes, the sigh he gave when you offered him more coffee like he was a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

After you sent your daughter to change out of her syrup-splattered pajamas, you leaned on the counter and raised a brow at him. “Are you seriously pouting?”

He scowled. “I’m not pouting.”

“You are,” you said, amused. “Your lip’s doing the thing.”

“My lip is fine,” he muttered. “And for the record, it’s not pouting—it’s called being deeply wounded.”

You bit back a smile. “Because she said I’m her favorite?”

“Because she said you’re her favorite and I smell like metal.” He gestured at himself like that explained everything. “I do everything for that kid. I braid her hair before school, I take her to gymnastics, I stayed up all night last month fixing that dollhouse she broke—”

You crossed your arms, pretending to think. “I mean… you are a little grumpy sometimes.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“You’re literally grumpy right now.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, clearly catching the teasing but refusing to let it go. “You wait,” he said darkly. “I’m winning her back. I’m gonna be the favorite by the end of the day.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that, Barnes.”

It started small.

First, Bucky appeared in the living room in full “fun dad” mode—hoodie swapped for a worn t-shirt, hair tied back, a determined gleam in his eyes. “Hey, kiddo,” he called. “Wanna go to the park? Just you and me?”

She looked up from where she was sprawled on the floor coloring. “Can Mama come?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Mama’s busy,” he lied. “She’s… reorganizing the pantry.”

You, in the kitchen with a coffee, called back, “No, I’m not.”

He shot you a look that promised revenge.

At the park, he pushed her on the swings until his legs burned, caught her at the bottom of the slide every time, and bought her a popsicle from the little cart. For a moment, he thought he had it in the bag—until she said, sticky-faced and happy,

“We should bring Mama next time. She’s really good at the monkey bars.”

Bucky’s eye twitched.

Back home, he upped the ante.

Board games. Hide-and-seek. Letting her paint his nails (a bold magenta with glitter). He even let her braid his hair, which resulted in about six tiny, lopsided plaits sticking out in every direction.

She giggled so hard she fell over. “You look so silly, Daddy!”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Cool silly, right?”

“Mmm…” She tilted her head, considering. “Mama’s funnier.”

By lunchtime, he was openly sulking again.

You found him at the table, staring into his sandwich like it had personally wronged him.

“Still not the favorite?” you asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

“She compared me to your monkey bar skills,” he said flatly. “Do you even have monkey bar skills?”

“I might.” You took a bite of your sandwich, hiding your grin. “Face it, Buck. She’s a mama’s girl.”

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “She’s supposed to be my little girl. We had a deal.”

“You never had a deal,” you said, laughing.

“We had an unspoken agreement!”

In the afternoon, he went all in.

Tea party? Absolutely. He wore the crown. He drank from the tiny pink teacup. He pretended to enjoy imaginary crumpets. Then, in a last desperate move, he brought out the big guns:

“Wanna see if Daddy can still do a backflip?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes!”

You poked your head in from the hall. “No!”

Bucky ignored you, went out to the yard, and immediately remembered that the last time he’d done a backflip without warming up had been about… a decade ago. He landed it, but the sound he made when his knees hit the grass was less “cool dad” and more “old man Barnes.”

His daughter clapped wildly. “Do it again!”

“Maybe later, sweetheart,” he wheezed.

By dinner, he was slouched at the table, hair still in crooked braids, glitter on his nails, posture saying defeat.

Your daughter was happily chattering away about her day—about the swings, and the popsicle, and the tea party. Then she added, with the same casual tone that had started this whole thing,

“Mama, you should’ve seen Daddy’s backflip. It was so cool.”

Bucky perked up instantly.

You smiled. “Oh yeah? Was it your favorite part of the day?”

She shook her head. “No. My favorite part was when Mama made pancakes.”

The light died in his eyes.

After bedtime, you found him in the living room, sprawled on the couch like a man in mourning.

You sat beside him, nudging his knee with yours. “You gonna survive?”

“She didn’t even hesitate,” he said miserably. “Just—‘Mama’s my favorite.’ Like I’m chopped liver. Like I’m not the guy who fixed Mr. Teddy’s arm three times.”

You laughed softly, brushing his hair back from his face. “You know she adores you, right?”

“Not as much as she adores you.”

“She’s six, Buck. She’ll have phases. Some months she’s glued to you, some months to me. It doesn’t mean you’re any less important.”

He sighed, leaning into your touch. “Yeah. I know.”

“And,” you added, “you’re the one she asks for when she has nightmares. You’re the one she wants to walk her into school. You’re her safe place.”

That earned you a small, reluctant smile. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” You kissed his temple. “Now stop sulking, old man.”

He huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around you. “Fine. But next time, I’m making the pancakes.”

[jbuckysbarn]

Oh lord🥺😭 THE FLUFF, PEOPLE!!!

To the Point of Invention

A new Ficlet.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gn, I think)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: 

Trigger Warnings: Reader has a tremor in her hands, though I left it ambiguous as to why.

Author’s Note: There's a line attributed to the man who invented the latex glove for his nurse wife: "I loved her to the point of invention." This is inspired by the devotion of that line.

Masterlist

The case was sitting on your bench like it had always belonged there.

You hadn’t seen it yesterday. There was no note, just a matte black shell with gold trim so deliberate it pulled your breath in. Subtle, clean, almost warm, like the lines etched through the metal of his arm.

You stared at it for a full minute, hands still smudged with graphite from the scope calibration you’d been repairing. There was no label, no SHIELD barcode, no identifying signature. But you already knew who it came from.

The case unlatched with a quiet hiss.

Inside was a full set of miniature precision tools, black and steel with gold-banded collars, each one tucked neatly into foam-cut recesses. Sleek, ergonomic, and slightly heavier than they looked. Each tool’s handle was shaped to fit the curve of your grip. Not bulky, not clumsy, and perfectly balanced.

Below them, in the second fold of the case, was a folded pair of fingerless gloves, black mesh with tiny copper threading stitched into the fabric, almost invisible until the light caught them. The pads of the thumb and index finger were full-coverage, soft and pliable. The copper would give it high conductivity, though you weren’t sure what for.

You picked one up and turned it over. The palm had a gentle magnetic charge, not strong enough to yank, just enough to guide. You felt it as it passed over the tools.

*****

You found him in the library, where he always went when he wanted to be left alone but hoped someone might find him.

The door creaked behind you and his shoulders tensed, not startled but braced.

He didn’t look up, but he knew it was you. 

You held the case loosely in one hand and set it down beside him without speaking.

He glanced at it once, then away, like he didn’t recognize it. As though it wasn’t a heavy weight in the dark between you both.

You gave him a moment before you broke the silence.

“The gloves fit perfectly.”

His jaw tightened, not a single other muscle moved.

“The thread work is insane. Magnetics are smooth. Tools are better than anything they’ve given me upstairs.”

No reaction.

You turned your head, not pushing, just waiting.

“Want to tell me how you knew exactly how far my tremor drifts left when I solder?”

Still nothing.

“How long have you been watching?”

His eyes finally flicked toward you, quick, like a cornered dog afraid to be approached. Then his eyes shot back down and away.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped.

You didn’t interrupt. When he spoke again, his voice was low and rough, like it scraped its way out of him.

“I just… noticed things.”

“Noticed me?”

That earned you a look, slower this time. His eyes held yours longer than they’d ever had.

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed you.” He paused, like the next part was going to cost him everything he had. “The way you brace your elbow. How you hold your breath when you’re trying to thread a line. The way your hand tightens when you’re getting tired, but you still don’t stop. I’ve… seen it.”

You swallowed. He looked away again, jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to make a thing out of it. I just thought—maybe you’d use them. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.” Your voice was soft and kind. “This took time. Detail. Intention. The gloves alone—this is high-level gear. You don’t just ‘notice’ someone’s hand anatomy and build something this precise.”

His mouth twitched, almost a wince.

“I had help,” he admitted. “Not much. Just—on the tech side. But I did the design. And the materials. The build.”

You looked down at the case.

“It’s the same finish as your arm, but you didn’t sign it proper.”

He didn’t answer.

“Did you not want me to know it was you?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I think I wanted you to know.” A breath. “I just didn’t want to see your face when you found out. In case you didn’t…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, so you did it for him, “In case I didn’t feel the same?”

He didn’t even nod, just looked down, as if he didn’t have strength to even raise his head, waiting for the blow that would finish him. 

You looked at him for a long time then, seeing as much of himself as he’d let you.

You saw the roughness, the effort, the way his fingers curled tight in his lap like he was preparing to be hit with something.

You opened the case again and slipped the gloves back on.

When you flexed your fingers they moved more fluidly than they had in years. It was as if the gloves gave you back a part of yourself that you’d lost. 

You turned to him.

“Bucky.” You said. He looked up. “Just tell me why.”

His throat moved when he swallowed.

And then, so quietly it barely reached you over the wind, “I love you to the point of invention.”

It wasn’t practiced, but it rang with truth. And it knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

You crossed the space between you and sat beside him on the window seat, your knees brushing.

You didn’t say anything.

You just slipped your gloved hand into his, and felt the slight magnetic pull where the copper thread met the gold in his palm.

And he let you hold him there. 

Tag list:

@lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd @kitasownworld @sensuouscactus @cyacola @justalittle47 @bunniotomia @mayal0pez

[jbuckysbarn]

The First Time, The Last Time

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Pregnancy loss, medical procedures, infertility, emotional grief

----------

i. the first time

It’s not supposed to be this easy—not the dreaming part, anyway.

You’re lying flat on your back in the sterile, humming quiet of the clinic, Bucky’s warm hand wrapped tightly around yours as the doctor leans over you and says something you barely hear. It’s happening. Your first IVF transfer.

Your eyes dart to the screen as the embryo flickers into place.

Bucky squeezes your hand three times. I love you.

He’s beaming. You’re trembling.

And for a moment, you both let yourselves imagine: nursery colors, baby names, how soft their hair will be, if they’ll inherit Bucky’s ocean eyes or your crinkly smile.

You wait the two-week window with aching, nervous hope. You decorate a tiny onesie and hide it in the closet. You even start walking past the baby aisle in Target on purpose.

But the test is negative. Your body never even tried to hold on.

You don’t cry until three days later, when Bucky comes home with groceries and finds you sitting in the middle of the hallway with the onesie in your lap.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sinks down beside you and lets you sob into his chest until your throat burns and the fabric of his shirt is soaked through.

“Try again?” you whisper into the space between his heartbeat.

He nods without hesitation. “As many times as it takes.”

ii. the second time

This time, you're cautious.

No nursery window shopping. No Pinterest boards. You barely let yourself speak above a whisper in the clinic, and you don’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he brushes your cheek with a kiss before the transfer.

You’ve read all the research. The success rate is still low. The hormones are hell. You’ve learned to dull your expectations into something small and manageable.

But Bucky—he still hopes like it's his job.

He starts reading aloud to your belly at night, lying beside you in bed, whispering tiny stories to cells that may not even be there. You pretend not to listen. Pretend you’re asleep.

Then comes the morning.

You take the test. You don’t breathe. You press your hand to your chest and count seconds.

Two lines.

You stare for so long you forget how to count.

“Bucky,” you call, voice cracking in disbelief. “Buck…”

He’s already sprinting from the kitchen. Sees the test. Drops to his knees like his whole world just crashed back into orbit.

And for one week, you’re parents.

Until you’re not.

The bleeding starts on a Thursday.

You lose them on a Friday.

You lose something else, too.

Hope, maybe.

Or whatever was left of your trust in your own body.

iii. the third time

You scream into a pillow after the third round.

Not because of the negative result. But because you never even made it to transfer this time. Your body didn’t respond. Your hormone levels were all wrong. The eggs didn’t fertilize.

Bucky tries to stay strong for you. He offers soft encouragement, gentle words, firm touches that feel like they’re meant to anchor you to the earth.

But then you hear him cry in the shower.

Not loud. Not long.

Just one stifled sob.

And it crushes you.

Because this was supposed to be his redemption arc, too. A life after war, after loss, after blood and pain and metal and ghosts. He wanted this as much as you did. Not just to be a father—but to build something good.

You knock on the bathroom door before letting yourself in.

He startles.

You wrap your arms around his wet body, clothes soaking instantly, and rest your forehead against the seam of his shoulder.

“I can’t keep doing this if it’s breaking you.”

“Then let it break me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just don’t do it alone.”

iv. the fourth time

This one’s a chemical pregnancy.

Which sounds sterile. Clinical. Distant.

But it still feels like death.

The embryo implants, hormone levels rise, the doctor congratulates you.

You and Bucky sit in the car afterward, holding hands and smiling quietly. You eat pickles and ice cream at midnight even though it’s ridiculous, even though you know it’s superstition and not science.

Then your hormone levels plummet.

Too fast. Too soon.

You bleed it out in a haze of cramps and tears and guilt.

“It was real,” you whisper into the pillow one night. “Even if it was only for a second.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “It was ours.”

You can’t explain how much it helps to hear that. To know someone else saw them. Even for a second.

v. the fifth time

The fifth round leaves you wrecked.

You’ve memorized the routine by now: shots, meds, early mornings, hope, fear, silence.

You’ve started to resent your own body—your tired veins, your battered womb, your broken systems. You start thinking of yourself as a failure. A factory with the lights flickering and machinery rusted.

Bucky sees it before you do.

He watches you in the mirror as you jab a needle into your thigh with mechanical disinterest. He sees the way you recoil from touch now. The way your hand hovers over your stomach like you're afraid to try again.

So he makes you laugh.

Every day.

Even when the test is negative again. Even when your chart reads like a line of disappointments.

He tapes up drawings on the fridge—tiny stick-figure babies in sunglasses, Bucky drawn with a massive arm holding a diaper bag.

He books you a weekend away. Just the two of you.

There’s no talk of clinics. No mention of shots. Just the ocean and your bodies and the fragile joy of breathing beside someone who still loves you like you’re whole.

That’s when you ask him.

“Do you want to stop?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just cups your face in both hands.

“I want you. Always. Baby or not.”

But he doesn’t say no.

And neither do you.

+ i. the sixth time

You almost don’t tell him.

You take the test in silence, heart in your throat, because you’ve convinced yourself this time won’t work either and you're tired of letting him watch you shatter.

You squint at the test.

You blink.

You sit down on the bathroom floor, suddenly unsure if you're awake or dreaming.

Then you hear footsteps.

You look up, and Bucky is already there, still wiping his hands on a dishtowel, head tilted in concern.

“What is it?”

You hold up the test with shaking fingers.

Tears brim before either of you speaks.

“Bucky—”

He crosses the room and drops to his knees in front of you, just like he did the first time. But this time he’s quiet. Eyes glassy. Almost scared.

“How sure are you?” he asks.

You nod. “I took three.”

The doctor confirms it the next day.

Viable. Strong heartbeat. Levels climbing steadily.

The clinic staff who’ve known you for years cry with you in the exam room.

You hold Bucky’s hand like it’s your lifeline. His thumb brushes yours in a rhythm. Three times.

I love you.

You spend the next nine months terrified.

Every symptom is a warning. Every silence is a siren.

You whisper affirmations to your belly like prayers. You keep your hospital bag packed from week twenty.

You and Bucky argue once—over how tightly he watches you, how often you disappear into fear.

But he softens when he finds you crying over baby socks at two in the morning, holding your belly and begging the universe not to take this one, too.

He holds you in the middle of the nursery, surrounded by soft things and hopes you can’t bring yourself to name.

“You’re not broken,” he says into your hair. “You never were.”

Labor is chaos.

Early. Painful. Scary.

But you’re not alone.

Bucky grips your hand, forehead to yours, whispering your name like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart. You’ve always had this.”

And then—

There’s a cry.

A real one.

Wet and loud and angry.

You see your baby—your actual baby—for the first time and the world shifts on its axis.

Tiny fingers. A scrunched face. A sound that splits your ribs open in the best way.

You’re sobbing. Bucky’s sobbing.

They lay your baby on your chest and everything hurts and heals at once.

You look at Bucky.

You’ve never seen that look on his face before.

Awe. Wonder. Absolute, bone-deep love.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

You name her Hope.

Because it almost left you.

But she brought it back.

[jbuckysbarn]

bucky barnes is the kind of man to get his woman flowers every week. anyone who disagrees can argue with the door!

SHUT UP

----------

Every Saturday, without fail, there was a new bouquet waiting on the kitchen table. No wrapping. No price tag. No store label.

Just Bucky’s big hands and his ridiculous heart, arranging blooms he picked himself—sometimes from the farmers’ market, sometimes from the green patch beside your building, and once, infamously, from the abandoned lot two blocks over (“They were just growing there, doll, no one was using them”).

You never asked for it. You never expected it.

But God, you loved it.

Because every bouquet was different.

And every bouquet said something he didn’t always know how to put into words.

— Week 1: Daisies and hydrangeas. You smiled at them like they were a puppy and kissed his nose. He saved it in his phone:

☀️ Week 1: Hydrangeas = good. Nose kiss = level 8 excitement. Daisies = “cutest ever.”

Week 4: Lavender, rosemary, and tiny wild roses. You put your face in the bundle and sighed. “I want to live inside this smell.” He wrote:

💜 Week 4: Lavender = maybe top tier. Rosemary = earthy = “like the smell of your hoodie.” Wild roses = tiny love explosions.

— Week 7: Snapdragons and Queen Anne’s lace. You stared at them, confused, then said, “It’s giving haunted Victorian attic.” He deleted them from the running:

🥀 Week 7: Never again. We don’t haunt. We flourish.

—

Bucky never told you he was keeping track.

He didn’t need to, really. Watching your face when you spotted the bouquet was the highlight of his week. It was soft, domestic magic. The kind he never thought he’d deserve. And he built it one stem at a time.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him every Saturday, smiling so hard it made your cheeks hurt.

“Maybe,” he’d shrug, stealing a kiss. “But you’re mine. So.”

— It was just something he did.

Like leaving the porch light on if you were out late. Like tying the grocery bags twice so they didn’t break. Like reaching for your hand when he’s half-asleep on the couch.

It was love—unassuming and intentional. Bucky-style.

Which is why you weren’t expecting to find anything.

But one lazy Tuesday, when your phone died mid-zoom and you grabbed his to check your calendar, it happened. You opened his notes app. Thought nothing of it. Just looking for the shared passwords note at the top.

Until your eyes caught a folder labeled:

Doll’s Bloom Report 💐

Curious, you clicked.

And suddenly, you were face to face with a log that went back months.

Week 3 Poppies and chamomile = absolute hit. Called them “pocket sunshine.” Wore yellow dress next day.

Week 6 Peonies = huge win. Took 73 photos. “Soft like your heart.” (Note: she means mine.)

Week 8 Daffodils = tears. Not sure if happy or emotional but immediate hug. Try again near birthday?

Week 10 Dahlias = engagement vibes??? She whispered “I’d marry you with these.” Act cool. Don’t propose yet.

Your throat tightened as you kept scrolling. You couldn’t stop smiling. Or blinking. Or breathing properly.

Every flower. Every reaction. Every tiny murmur you hadn’t realized he heard—he had remembered it. Written it down like it was gospel.

Like you were gospel.

“Doll?” His voice carried from the kitchen. “You seen my—oh.”

He stopped in the doorway.

You were still holding his phone. Still staring at the screen. Tears pooling in your eyes.

Busted.

“…Shit,” Bucky whispered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh—I can explain.”

You looked up at him.

“You have a bloom report, James Buchanan Barnes?”

He winced. “It sounds weird when you say it out loud.”

You stood slowly, crossing to him with the phone still in hand.

“I thought you just liked flowers.”

“I do,” he said defensively. “But I like you more.”

You blinked up at him, heart thudding.

“I wanted to remember what makes you smile the longest. Which ones you stare at without knowing. Which ones you keep by the bed instead of the table.” He hesitated, then added, “I just wanted to keep getting it right.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest.

And then—you started laughing.

Not because it was funny. But because it was so Bucky. Sweet in ways no one ever saw coming. Devoted in the quietest, loudest ways.

“I was gonna delete it before the wedding,” he said, sheepish. “Start fresh for marriage.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re not deleting it.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re expanding it. Every week. Forever.”

He smiled, bashful and brilliant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Because I plan on giving you a lot of reactions to log.”

He leaned down to kiss you, slow and soft.

And just before your lips touched, he whispered, “Week twenty-two: Found out she knows. Reaction: full-body tackle hug. Possible tears. Will require new folder: Married Blooms.”

You laughed into his mouth, arms tight around him.

—

That Saturday, the bouquet waiting for you on the table was made of white tulips and forget-me-nots. He’d added a handwritten card this time. It read:

I still don’t know all your favorite flowers yet. But I know how you light up when you love something. And that’s enough. —Bucky Week 23 💙

And yeah—maybe you tackled him all over again.

Maybe the vase nearly tipped.

Maybe the neighbors heard your laughter through the walls.

But Bucky just kissed your nose, tugged you onto his lap, and added another note to the list:

Week 23: Forget-me-nots = peak softness. “You are my favorite flower, Barnes.” I’m so gone for her.

And he was.

Happily, hopelessly, permanently gone.

For you.

For every bouquet.

For every Saturday yet to come.

Forever.

[jbuckysbarn]

a soft place to land

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader synopsis: bucky stays the night for the first time, and it reveals something hidden about his past. warnings: hurt/comfort, implied ptsd, soft!bucky, vulnerable!bucky, reader is a safe space, no use of y/n, established relationship w/c: 2.7K

bucky barnes masterlist

You’d lost track of time somewhere around the third act.

The movie was still playing, but your eyes were heavier now, blinking slower, the weight of sleep settling behind them like a quiet tide. Bucky’s metal arm was draped around your shoulders, his fingers resting in a lazy curl against your upper arm, stroking gently every so often like he needed to remind himself you were real.

The two of you had spent the whole evening wrapped in each other—discarded pizza on the coffee table, legs tangled under a shared blanket, his rare, warm laughter slipping out when you teased the movie's plot holes. He’d stayed late before. Later than this, even. But tonight was different.

Tonight, he didn’t check the time.

Your head was tucked against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath his blue Henley. You could tell he wasn’t watching anymore either. His breathing had slowed. But he wasn’t relaxed.

“You’re not sleeping on me, are you?” you murmured without lifting your head.

Bucky chuckled softly. “Not yet. You?”

“Close.” You yawned and finally peeled your face away from his warmth, stretching your arms over your head. “Alright, bedtime.”

You untangled from the blanket, standing with a wobble as your knees protested. Bucky didn’t move.

He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly. “Bedtime?”

You smiled at his confusion, misreading it. “Yeah. You’re staying the night, right?” You said it like it was nothing—because to you, it was. He’d been staying longer and longer, had a drawer of his things now, a toothbrush beside yours. Tonight just felt like the next natural step.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I mean... if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” you said gently, offering him your hand.

He took it, rising to his feet, towering over you in that unfairly pretty way. His hand was warm in yours. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

You didn’t miss the shift in his voice. That careful tone he used when he was guarding something. But you didn’t push. Instead, you led him toward the bathroom, yawning again as you clicked the light on.

The overhead brightness made you both blink like moles emerging into sunlight. Bucky’s toothbrush sat in the holder beside yours, a subtle sign of how far you’d come. You reached for your toothpaste, and he followed suit, quiet, brushing side-by-side in the mirror like a couple years into marriage.

He had toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.

You giggled.

“What?” he said around a mouthful of foam.

You reached over and wiped it with your thumb. “Messy.”

He smiled with his eyes, gaze soft. But behind it—something else. You caught it in the moment his reflection dropped his eyes. In the way his jaw clenched when you touched his face.

Still, when you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, he sighed, almost like he was trying to hold onto the moment.

“I’ll meet you in there,” you murmured, heading to the bedroom first.

You were halfway across the room when you realised he wasn’t following.

You stopped by the linen cupboard and turned. Bucky stood in the doorway of your bathroom, hunched slightly forward like the weight of standing there alone had started to press into his spine. He wasn’t looking at you, but rather past you, into the darkness of your bedroom, like there was something unknown ahead.

You stepped back toward him, your voice soft. “Bucky?”

His eyes lifted slowly. He didn’t flinch when you reached out this time, didn’t shy away from your fingers as they slid along his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He exhaled and followed you into your bedroom. 

You climbed into bed first, sliding beneath the covers with a sleepy sigh. You patted the space beside you, smiling. “C’mon, soldier. You’ve earned a good night’s sleep.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, motionless, fingers curling at his sides.

You tilted your head. “Bucky?”

He took a hesitant step forward, then sat down on the very edge of the mattress, his back rigid, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t peel off his shirt. Didn’t take off his jeans. Didn’t pull back the blanket. Just... perched there like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to stay.

You sat up slowly, watching him.

“Hey... what’s going on?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just stared straight ahead, as if answering might make something crack open.

“I’m fine,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped between his knees, the metal one flexing slightly like it couldn’t get comfortable.

You reached over, resting your hand lightly on his back. “You’re acting weird.”

He let out a soft, humourless breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You waited. Gave him the space.

Then—finally—his voice came, low and quiet.

“I just... haven’t slept in a bed in a long time.”

You didn’t rush him. Just let the silence stretch while your hand stayed warm on his skin.

“In the war,” he said eventually, voice low, “we had trenches. Mud. Rain. Sometimes wood slats, if we were lucky. You didn’t... lie down. You curled in on yourself. Tried not to freeze.”

You nodded slowly, watching his face, his faraway gaze. You shifted to sit beside him on the mattress, facing him now.

“And after,” he went on, “Hydra didn’t exactly care about comfort. Metal slabs, cold floors, cells. Sleep wasn’t something I was allowed to... do. Not properly.”

Your heart twisted at the edge in his voice. He wasn’t trying to make you feel sorry for him—he was just explaining, like it was a fact, history, not trauma.

“Even when I was on my own in Romania. I had this mattress I found—left behind by the last tenant. No bedframe. No sheets. Just... whatever it was.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “There was a spring that used to poke my ribs if I rolled too far left.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers curling around his hand. “That sounds awful.”

“It wasn’t,” he said quickly. “It was fine. It was what I was used to.”

“In Wakanda, it was different,” he said, softer now. “They gave me a hut. Quiet. No noise. No people. I liked it. But even then... I didn’t use the bed they made. I just… laid out a mat. Slept on the floor.”

You watched his fingers flex in his lap. “It felt familiar?”

He nodded. “It felt like mine.”

You let the quiet settle again. Your voice was careful when you asked, “Did it ever change? After Wakanda?”

He shrugged. “I guess I figured I didn’t need a bed. Didn’t deserve one.” He glanced at you, but his eyes were guarded again. 

You watched him for a moment and then gently pressed your forehead to his.

“I know you’re used to it,” you whispered. “But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Bucky closed his eyes. You felt his breath catch. Just once.

“This isn’t about making you sleep in the bed,” you said, still holding his hands. “It’s not about changing you. It’s about loving you. And part of that is making sure you know you deserve comfort. That you deserve good things. A soft place to land.”

His jaw clenched again, but his grip on your hand tightened.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he murmured. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “This isn’t weird, Bucky. It’s human. It’s you. And I want all of you, even the parts that sleep on floors.”

That pulled a quiet, surprised breath out of him.

“You’re not broken,” you added, kissing his knuckles. “And you don’t have to force yourself into softness just because you think it’s what I want.”

He opened his eyes, looked at you—really looked. Something shifted in his expression then. Less shame. More warmth. Still guarded, still uncertain, but touched.

“I’m not ready,” he said finally. “Not for a bed. Not yet.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You leaned forward and kissed him—just a press of lips, slow and sure. He kissed you back, this time with a hand sliding up to rest gently on the back of your neck. You stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing together.

Then you smiled against his lips. “But I am making us a nest.”

He pulled back just enough to blink at you. “A nest?”

“Floor sleeping, deluxe edition,” you said, standing and offering your hand again. “Help me build it?”

He hesitated, but something in your voice—your smile, your warmth—made the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“This gonna involve furniture rearranging?”

“This is going to involve blanket fort levels of commitment.”

He groaned softly but stood, letting you tug him down the hallway. “God help me.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the way he rolled up his sleeves or the quiet amusement in his eyes—but watching Bucky Barnes methodically drag your coffee table aside like it weighed nothing did something to you.

“Okay, show-off,” you teased as he shifted your couch a full six inches with one hand. “This is not an Avengers-level op.”

He gave a modest shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You said we were committing.”

“I did say that.”

“And I take commitment seriously,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder.

You nearly dropped the armful of cushions you were carrying.

By the time you returned from raiding your linen closet again, he’d already arranged the dining chairs in a loose circle and secured your tallest lamp in the corner, angling it like a makeshift support beam. He looked like he was planning a mission—scanning height differences, assessing tension points, folding and re-folding the edges of blankets until they draped just right.

He caught your stare and raised a brow. “What?”

You blinked, shaking yourself out of it. “Nothing. Just... didn’t expect you to be so good at blanket fort engineering.”

He smirked slightly. “Well. When you’ve had to camp out in supply closets and train cars for decades, you pick up a few tricks.”

You watched as he lifted your heaviest duvet with one arm and draped it effortlessly over the chairs, creating a tent-like roof. He took your curtain twine from the junk drawer and tied a tight, elegant knot around the chair leg to hold it in place.

“Is this what you do on mission downtime?” you asked, grinning. “Build forts and hang fairy lights?”

“Only the elite ops.”

You laughed, throwing a pillow at his chest. He caught it one-handed and tossed it behind him, into the growing nest of blankets and cushions on the floor.

You dropped to your knees beside the fort and began fluffing up your softest pillows, arranging them against the couch base and layering folded quilts like flooring. You even brought in your faux-fur throw from the bedroom and laid it down at the center—extra softness, extra warmth.

Bucky ducked under the edge of the fort and knelt beside you, helping smooth out the layers. Your shoulders brushed, your thighs pressed side by side, and you let your head rest against his arm for a moment.

He stilled.

Then: he leaned into it.

“This is cozy,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, it is.”

When the base was ready, you sat back to admire it. Blankets hung down on all sides like soft walls. The fairy lights you’d strung across the tops twinkled like stars, giving everything a golden, dreamlike glow. Inside, it was warm and still—cushioned from the world.

You crawled inside and turned, holding your hands out toward him like a kid inviting someone into their secret hideout.

Bucky hesitated. Just a second.

Then he smiled.

He ducked in beside you, and the space instantly felt smaller, closer. His knees bumped yours as he settled in, crossing his legs, his metal hand resting lightly on his ankle. You were both sitting in the middle of a fortress made of softness and home.

You scooted closer and leaned into his side. “Is this better?”

He exhaled. You felt it more than heard it—a slow, deep breath as his body finally began to relax.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

You pulled the throw blanket up over both your laps and tucked your feet under it. “See? Floor sleeping and luxury.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t think I could have both.”

“Well,” you said, turning toward him and taking his hand in yours, “you can. You do.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You really did all this... for me?”

You smiled. “Of course I did.”

He stared down at your joined hands, like the simplicity of that answer was almost hard to believe. Then he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his cheek. “Always.”

He let his head fall to your shoulder then, heavy and warm. You wrapped your arms around him without a word, holding him like a shelter. His body curled slightly into yours, and you could feel him breathing deeper now—like this was the first time he’d let his lungs fill all the way in years.

There was something sacred about it. The way his forehead rested against your collarbone. The way your hand found the nape of his neck and just stayed there, fingertips tracing the soft ends of his hair. No rush. No urgency. Just stillness. Just closeness.

“This is the safest I’ve felt in a long time,” he murmured against your skin.

Your chest tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “Good. You’re safe here.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think... it’ll ever feel normal? A bed. A home.”

You tilted his face toward you, guiding him to look at you. “Maybe not all at once. But little by little? Yeah. I think so. I think healing sneaks up on you when you least expect it.”

He nodded, eyes glassy now—not crying, just full. With everything.

You kissed him gently, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just start here.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapped around your waist, and laid back into the nest of cushions, guiding you down with him. Your head found his chest, your hand resting over his heart.

“You’re really sleeping here?” he asked softly, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I go where you go,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. He tightened his grip around you, burying his face in your hair.

And finally—finally—you felt it.

His body gave in to the warmth. His chest rising and falling, slow and steady. The kind of breathing that meant his guard was down. That meant his nightmares were kept at bay tonight. That meant rest.

When you glanced up a few minutes later, his eyes were closed. His mouth slightly parted.

Bucky Barnes was asleep.

In your arms.

Wrapped in softness, surrounded by warmth, on the floor—but not cold, not alone. And not because he didn’t think he deserved better.

Because this time, he did deserve it.

Because this time, someone built it just for him.

And for the first time in longer than you could know, Bucky didn’t have to wake up fighting.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes @torntaltos @risingwolf97 @overwintering-soldier @doilooklikeagiveafrack @brelione

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[jbuckysbarn]

Hey! Can you imagine Bucky with someone soft?

Like, his girl is probably the least dangerous person in the world: she’s a teacher and she stress-bakes. He goes to work smelling of sugar and her perfume and he brings cinnamon rolls because she had to exorcise a bad day. She works in a tough district which worried him at first, but he knows she loves it.

(There’s absolutely no pressure in writing this, I’m just getting the idea out of my brain! I hope you have a great day.)

this is everything to me. I love the idea of dangerous man × soft woman — especially when she’s not soft because she’s weak, but because she chooses to be. This turned into a big pile of warm fluff, domestic comfort, and protective love. No warnings here except that Bucky Barnes is down bad for his sweet girl.

----------

There’s cinnamon in his hair again.

Sam catches the scent before Bucky even walks into the room, because of course he does. It’s sweet and warm and unmistakable — sugar and spice and that damn vanilla perfume that always clings to Bucky’s collar like a secret.

“Did she bake last night?” Sam asks, not even looking up.

Bucky grunts in response, setting a Tupperware container on the table with one hand while rubbing at the back of his neck with the other. He doesn’t need to answer. The rolls speak for themselves — spiraled with brown sugar, flecked with pecans, and frosted within an inch of their lives.

She always overdoes it when she’s had a hard day.

“Let me guess,” Sam adds, peeling the lid off, “middle school girl fight in her classroom again?”

“Eighth grade,” Bucky mutters. “Someone called someone else a backstabbing cow and then apparently someone’s mother got involved. I dunno. She was icing these while venting about it for like... two hours.”

“Did you offer to help?”

“I offered to break the principal’s kneecaps.”

Sam hums, like that answer is expected. “And she said?”

Bucky exhales, slumping into a chair. “She said that’d be a misuse of my tactical training and I needed to ‘go sit down and not touch the good Tupperware.’”

He doesn’t sound bitter. He sounds in love.

And it’s kind of a thing now — the cinnamon rolls. Or cookies. Or banana bread. Or some new Pinterest recipe she stress-tested because her kids were testing boundaries again or because funding got cut or because someone cried during reading comprehension. There’s always something.

She bakes to cope. He shows up to work smelling like frosting.

Once, Natasha lifted his collar and sniffed. “You smell like a Bath & Body Works exploded.”

Bucky shrugged. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Truth is, he loves it. He lives for it. The way his sweaters carry the faintest trace of her perfume, like a whisper of home. The way her soft, flour-dusted hands always tug him closer when he gets back from a mission. The way her hair always smells like brown sugar and apples when she hugs him goodnight.

She’s warm, like a candle left burning.

She’s safe, even when the world isn’t.

And she is, without question, the least dangerous person Bucky has ever loved.

She teaches reading in a district no one wants to teach in. She drives a beat-up sedan with a cracked bumper and keeps a bat in the backseat, just in case. She drinks coffee out of mugs with literary quotes and keeps Band-Aids in her wallet. Once, she told a kid who threw a desk that she still believed in him.

Bucky doesn’t understand her softness. He doesn’t get how someone can be so gentle and still be so damn strong.

But he respects the hell out of it.

He used to worry. At first, he worried constantly. What if someone found out where she worked? What if a Hydra remnant tried something? What if some pissed-off teenager started something they couldn’t undo?

But he knows her now.

She keeps her head down, heart open, and eyes wide. She’s got her boundaries, her rules, her quiet fire. She’ll spend her last twenty bucks on glue sticks and go to war over classroom libraries, but she won’t let him walk her to work anymore — “Bucky, you’ll scare the kids—”

So he walks her to the corner and watches her disappear through the doors with a thermos in her hand and a little wiggle of her fingers.

And then he goes home and bakes with her on Fridays.

Bad day? Snickerdoodles.

Good day? Lemon pound cake.

PMS week? Chocolate chunk anything, and a foot rub.

He’s learned the pattern. Memorized it like he’s memorized her favorite pajama pants, the way she pulls her sleeves over her fingers, the soft little hum she makes when she’s reading a book she likes.

“You’re smiling again,” Sam notes, elbow-deep in frosting. “You got it bad.”

“I do not smile.”

“You do when she texts you pictures of her cat in a bow tie.”

Bucky flushes. “He looks dashing.”

“Uh huh.”

He has a folder on his phone called Miss Sugar’s Chaos and it’s filled with blurry selfies, photos of sloppily written student essays, snapshots of half-eaten cupcakes, cat memes, screenshots of her trying to decode eighth-grade slang, and—yes—pictures of her cat in tiny, handmade outfits.

The last image she sent was a photo of a handwritten note:

“Miss S, you my favorite techer even if you be giving homework. You have pretty hair and you smell like cinnamon. Plz don’t quit when we be loud. We love you.”

Bucky stared at that one for a long time.

Sometimes, when the noise in his head gets too loud, when his nightmares pull him under, when he doubts whether he deserves any of this softness, she holds him in the kitchen and lets him fall apart.

“I made blueberry muffins,” she’ll whisper against his neck. “You wanna eat one on the floor?”

And so they do.

They sit there in the middle of their tiny kitchen at 2 a.m. eating warm muffins and breathing through it. She never pushes. She never runs. She never treats his damage like something that needs to be fixed.

She just loves him anyway.

He once asked her why she picked teaching — especially where she teaches.

“Because I believe in second chances,” she said, curling into his side like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And third chances. And fourth. Because someone once gave one to me.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He just kissed her hand and made a silent vow to be worthy of that softness. To protect it without ever trying to harden it.

He thinks about that now, listening to the guys tear into her cinnamon rolls like wolves. He doesn’t stop them. She’d want him to share.

“Think she’ll make those pecan bars again soon?” Sam asks, mouth full.

Bucky leans back, his metal hand flexing slightly at the thought of her — apron tied crooked, hair in a messy bun, music playing in the background as she dances across their flour-dusted tile.

“Probably,” he murmurs.

And when he goes home, she’ll be there — curled on the couch with a book, probably asleep under a blanket she crocheted herself, smelling like vanilla and kindness.

And when he wakes up the next day, he’ll go to work with sugar on his fingers and love in his bones.

Because she’s the softest part of him.

And he wouldn’t change that for anything.

[jbuckysbarn]

new 🐛 anon here!! okay but imagine bucky holding your baby for the first time. like, full-on crying, whispering promises to this tiny human he never thought he deserved. i need it. please.

🐛, way to start off with a bang babe. welcome to the madness💝

----------

The hospital room is quiet now.

The chaos of delivery has faded into a hum—monitors beeping steadily, nurses retreating behind the soft click of the door, the moon rising slow and silver beyond the wide window. You’re tired. Bone-deep. But you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.

Especially not the sight in front of you.

Bucky Barnes, your husband, is cradling your daughter like she’s the last piece of light in a broken world. And maybe she is.

Amelia.

Her name sits on your lips like a prayer.

He hasn’t said a word in over five minutes. Just stares at her in stunned, shattered awe. You could cry again just watching him.

She’s swaddled tight, warm in her soft hospital blanket, that fuzzy pink-and-blue striped cap crooked on her head. So tiny in his arms. Her cheek rests against the curve of his bicep—his metal arm—and his real hand cups the back of her head like he was born to do it.

His thumb trembles.

“Buck,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

But he doesn’t look away from her.

His eyes are glassy, lashes damp. “She’s real,” he murmurs.

You nod. “She is.”

“I thought—I wasn’t sure I’d ever…” He swallows hard. “I didn’t think this was something I could have.”

You reach for his arm, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “You do have her. We do.”

He looks at you then, and it nearly knocks the breath from your chest. That face—so strong and scarred and beautiful—cracks open in front of you.

“I’m so scared I’m gonna break her,” he admits, voice cracking. “That I’ll mess this up somehow. That something in me… won’t be enough.”

You sit up slowly, ignoring the soreness in your body, and lace your fingers through his. “Bucky,” you whisper, “look at her. Look how calm she is with you. She already knows you.”

He looks down at her again, and something shifts in his posture. He brings her closer. One gentle kiss to her forehead.

And then—

Then he starts to cry.

Silent at first, just tears slipping down his cheeks, catching in his scruff. But when he opens his mouth to speak again, his voice is wrecked with it.

“I didn’t think I deserved this. Her. You. Any of it.”

You reach up and brush his tears away.

But he’s already speaking to her now. Quiet. Soft. Words not meant for you, but ones you know you’ll remember forever.

“Hi, baby girl,” he breathes, resting his cheek against her cap. “I’m your dad. I’m the lucky one who gets to love you.”

His hand shakes as he strokes her back. “I never thought I’d get to hold something this good. This innocent. But I promise I’ll protect you. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m tired. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I swear it.”

His voice cracks again, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispers, “but I’m yours. I’m your dad. And I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in this world. I’ll learn. I’ll get better. For you. Because you deserve the kind of love that never makes you doubt it’s there.”

You press your hand to your mouth, trying not to sob. Because there’s something holy in the way he holds her. Like she’s cleansing a century of blood off his hands with every breath.

She sighs in her sleep, her tiny fingers twitching near the edge of the blanket.

Bucky chuckles through the tears. “She’s got your nose,” he murmurs.

You smile. “She has your mouth.”

He leans down and presses another kiss to her forehead, lingering this time. “Amelia Barnes,” he says, like it’s gospel. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And then he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You blink at him. “For what?”

“For believing I could be a dad. For trusting me with her. With this life. With yours.”

You reach out again, needing to touch him, to hold him the way he’s holding her. Your fingers curl into his wrist, thumb brushing the edge of metal. “You are already her dad, Bucky. You didn’t have to earn it. You just… are. And she’s so lucky to have you.”

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, rocking her gently. “I used to dream about this,” he admits. “Back in the '40s. A family. A little girl I could carry on my shoulders. Someone to call me Daddy. I lost that version of me for a long time. Thought he was gone.”

You let the silence stretch.

“But he’s not,” you finally whisper.

Bucky’s eyes open.

“He’s right here,” you say, voice thick. “He’s holding our daughter.”

He breaks again at that.

Not with a sob this time—but with a look so full of raw, unfiltered hope it steals every ounce of oxygen from the room.

You scoot over, make space for him on the hospital bed. He hesitates, then carefully climbs beside you, still holding Amelia like she’s made of gold leaf. He sits with his back against the headboard, and you lean into him, wrapping your arm around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.

Amelia stays tucked between you. Warm. Safe. Home.

Her tiny hand slips free from the blanket and rests against his chest.

His voice is barely audible when he speaks again.

“She’s gonna know how much she’s loved. Every day. Every second.”

“She already does,” you promise.

The three of you stay like that for a long time.

He never lets her go.

And she never stirs—because she knows exactly where she belongs.

Hours later, when a nurse peeks in to check vitals, she finds the three of you asleep:

You curled against Bucky’s side.

Bucky holding Amelia to his heart like she’s keeping it beating.

And Amelia?

Still wearing that crooked little cap.

Still cradled in her father’s arms.

Still wrapped in the safest love there is.

[jbuckysbarn]

You'd be able to submit an ask as if actually talking to Bucky in any sfw genre: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, etc. with any degree of relationship you want (e.g. romantic, platonic, parental, siblings, etc.). The reply will be "from Bucky" responding straight to you

[jbuckysbarn]

You'd be able to submit an ask as if actually talking to Bucky in any sfw genre: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, etc. with any degree of relationship you want (e.g. romantic, platonic, parental, siblings, etc.). The reply will be "from Bucky" responding straight to you

[jbuckysbarn]

Thinking about Bucky with a reader who's never been in a relationship, not because she has never had someone interested in her. She's just never been interested enough to actually sacrifice her comfort and independence (and maybe she's a little scared of intimacy underneath it all). In comes Bucky, also emotionally constipated, and somehow, the two become sort of friends and then they get closer and the reader realizes he could be worth facing her fears for. And Bucky? He's so so understanding. He's scared too. Shitless.

Might write if I get the time🫠

[jbuckysbarn]

The Domestic Clause (#1)

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Word Count: About 5.3k.

He didn't want the cleaning service at first.

Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.

The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.

Didn’t think he needed it.

And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.

And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.

He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.

Found himself breathing deeper.

And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.

He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.

But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.

----

It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.

Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.

That was four years ago.

The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.

So she cleaned.

Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.

Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.

When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.

“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”

She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.

It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.

The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.

A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.

Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.

It wasn’t a dream job.

But it was good enough.

And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.

----

She hadn’t meant to snoop.

It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.

But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.

Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.

Barnes, James B.

Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.

Her stomach gave a weird little flip.

She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

James Barnes.

It couldn’t be-

But it was.

She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.

And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.

And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.

Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.

So he was her boss.

It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."

She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.

She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.

He was just a man.

A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.

----

She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.

Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.

She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.

A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.

And the food.

She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.

No complaints.

So she kept going.

On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.

A small cake.

A batch of oatmeal cookies.

A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.

Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.

----

It started with the pie.

He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.

The apartment smelled like something sweet.

Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.

He set his keys down and found it on the counter.

Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.

He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.

But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.

And it was good.

He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?

But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.

By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.

And it did.

Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.

He found himself trying to imagine her.

Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?

He started looking forward to Thursdays.

Started coming home earlier, if he could.

And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.

----

He nearly stepped on it.

The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.

But it was a chain.

Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.

He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.

Definitely not his. No one else had been here.

His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.

She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.

The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.

He found himself thinking: She must be older.

The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.

He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.

He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.

Just until Thursday.

----

She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.

Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.

She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.

Her throat closed.

The pendant.

A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.

The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.

She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.

It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.

Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?

The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.

We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.

That was it.

She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.

She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.

It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.

It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.

Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.

Almost poetic, really.

The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.

----

He looked a it longer than he meant to.

He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.

When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.

He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.

The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.

It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.

He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.

The necklace, and beside it, the flower.

No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.

For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.

For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.

For the food that tasted like memory.

For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.

----

She wasn’t expecting anything.

By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.

Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.

That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.

Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.

It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.

She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.

There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.

He’d found it.

She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.

She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.

----

The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.

It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.

Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.

He moved toward the kitchen.

And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.

He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.

He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.

They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.

He reached for a second slice.

And for the first time in days, he really smiled.

----

He should’ve checked the schedule.

The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.

No session.

A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.

James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.

He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.

Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.

She’s there today.

He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.

But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.

The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.

He reached the hallway.

He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.

Not what he had expected.

As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals

Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-

Maybe you think that you can hide

I can smell your scent for miles

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals-mals

It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.

A very suggestive prose, by the way.

He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.

But I get so high when I’m inside you-

She turned.

Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.

They stared at each other.

Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.

Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I-  I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.

He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”

The lie passed his lips smoothly.

She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.

She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”

She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.

----

She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.

Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.

Not even close.

In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.

And now… this.

Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.

He didn’t seem mad. That was something.

Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.

But that didn’t mean anything.

People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.

Fuck.

She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.

The pendant. The flower.

Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.

But that was before this shitshow.

Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.

What if she got fired?

What the hell was she going to do?

The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.

She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.

And the thing that made it worse?

She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.

And now all she wanted to do was vanish.

----

He tried to read the bill.

The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.

Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.

His eyes scanned the same sentence again.

Still nothing stuck.

Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.

The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.

She hadn’t fled.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.

What if she requested a transfer?

What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?

He wouldn't complain.

He’d never say a word.

But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.

He looked at the time and did some quick math.

She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.

If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.

He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.

So he waited.

Just long enough.

Let the minutes tick by.

And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.

----

She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.

He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.

But she knew better.

She straightened her back and made herself speak.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.

He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”

A beat.

“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”

He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”

There it was. A quiet request.

Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.

The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.

“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”

He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.

“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”

There was a pause.

His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.

“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”

His voice was rougher now, gentler.

“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”

She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.

He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”

Her answer came gently, but sure.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you, too.”

Next Chapter

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[jbuckysbarn]

could you write something where reader finds an old hydra file on bucky and he has a full-blown shutdown? not because he thinks she’ll leave but because he thinks she should?? emotional damage please i’m begging

i'll be sitting in the corner crying if you guys need me!

Warnings: Emotional trauma, PTSD, past HYDRA brainwashing, Winter Soldier violence (implied), guilt, dissociation, emotional shutdown, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, partner discovering past.

----------

You don’t mean to find it.

Honestly, you're just organizing—sorting through old files on Bucky’s hard drive after a power surge fried your own laptop. He told you to use whatever you needed. Kissed your temple that morning with sleepy eyes and a warm smile, murmuring, “Help yourself, sweetheart.” And so you did.

You weren’t snooping. You weren’t looking for secrets.

But when you open a folder marked File-37B-W.S., everything else around you seems to vanish.

Your breath catches. You know that number. You’ve seen it etched into cold metal and old wounds. And yet, something compels you forward.

The first document is a kill list.

Names, dates, locations. A gallery of grief dressed in grayscale photos. You scroll down until your stomach twists.

The second file is medical documentation. Operation logs. Tables detailing physical modifications, neural reconditioning. Restraint schedules. It's clinical, detached—like they were cataloging a machine.

The third file is a video. You shouldn’t press play. But your fingers betray you.

The image is grainy, flickering like an old film reel. Bucky is strapped to a chair, blood trailing from his temple. His face is blank. His eyes are empty. There’s something horrifying about the stillness of him. Not rage. Not fear. Just nothing.

There are more clips. Missions. Footage. One of them shows him dragging a man’s body across a concrete floor, face stone-cold, blood soaking the front of his uniform.

You slam the laptop shut and nearly drop it.

Your whole body feels wrong—like something has lodged itself in your throat and won't let go.

You didn’t mean to see any of it. You weren’t ready to see him like that.

You’re still sitting on the floor when Bucky finds you.

He walks in holding two mugs of coffee—one for you—and freezes the moment he sees your face. There’s a beat of silence, and then, gently:

“You okay?”

His voice is soft, cautious.

You glance up, the laptop still shut beside you. It takes everything in you to find your voice.

“I… I found something on your drive,” you whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—”

He doesn’t ask which file. He already knows.

His entire body goes still, not with fear or anger��just a hollow kind of resignation. Like someone just rang a bell deep inside his chest, and he’s bracing for the collapse.

“Which one?” he asks anyway, like the formality matters.

“37B.”

And then he just says, “Oh.”

Not surprised. Not upset.

Just… Oh.

He sets the coffee down without another word, turns, and disappears down the hallway. You hear the bedroom door close.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t panic. He just shuts down.

You find him minutes later sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes blank. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t flinch when you call his name.

“Bucky…”

Still, no response.

You cross the room and kneel in front of him. He’s motionless, like he’s not really here. Like the version of him that existed a few hours ago—warm, soft-spoken, smiling over burnt toast—has been swallowed whole.

“I didn’t mean to find it,” you say quietly. “I wasn’t looking for anything. I swear.”

“I know.”

His voice is flat. Measured. And it’s the calmness that scares you most.

“I didn’t mean to see that version of you.”

He lifts his eyes. They’re empty, unreadable.

“But you did,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just fact. “You saw it.”

You reach for his hand, but he doesn’t move.

“Bucky—”

“It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t me,” he cuts in. “I wore that face. Held that knife. Pulled those triggers.”

You shake your head. “That wasn’t you. It was him. It was—”

He finally pulls away, gently, like he’s trying not to hurt you by doing it.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and something cracks in his voice, “don’t protect me from this. You don’t need to lie. Not now.”

“I’m not lying,” you whisper. “You didn’t choose that life. You didn’t choose what they did to you.”

His jaw tenses.

“But I still did it.”

He looks down at his hands—hands that have held your waist, your face, your heart. Hands he still sees as weapons.

“I was theirs,” he says. “They made me theirs. And I didn’t fight it.”

“You couldn’t fight it.”

He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you agree. “But it makes you human.”

He finally looks at you, and the sorrow in his eyes guts you.

“You saw it all,” he says softly. “And you’re still here.”

“I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

He’s not pushing you away because he’s angry. He’s not even afraid that you’ll leave.

He genuinely believes that you should.

That you deserve something better. Someone… cleaner.

“I’m not someone people are supposed to stay with,” he murmurs. “I’m someone they survive.”

You reach up and cup his face, feeling the way his skin tenses beneath your touch.

“I’m not staying because I feel sorry for you. I’m staying because I love you. And because I know who you are now.”

“But now you’ve seen who I was.”

“I’ve seen pieces,” you correct. “What they did to you. What they made you. But I also saw the way you helped that kid on the subway last week. I saw how you cried when you read your mom’s letters. I see you every morning when you pull me close and bury your face in my neck like I’m the only good thing left.”

His lips part slightly, like your words hurt. Or heal. Or both.

“I’m not looking away,” you tell him. “Even if you want me to.”

He exhales, ragged and low. “Do you think you could ever… look at me the same again?”

You brush your thumb across his cheek.

“No.”

His expression flickers.

“I don’t look at you the same,” you say. “I look at you more. Deeper. Because now I understand how hard you’ve fought to come back.”

His chest rises with a breath he doesn’t seem to know he’s taking. It sounds like the first breath after drowning.

“People don’t usually stay,” he murmurs.

“I’m not people.”

This time, when you reach for his hand, he lets you hold it. Grips it tightly. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not going anywhere.

You sit with him on the edge of the bed for a long time. No more files. No more ghosts. Just your hand in his. His head pressed gently against your shoulder. His body trembling under the weight of something that’s always been too heavy for him to carry alone.

And for the first time in hours, he speaks again. Quiet. Honest.

“I didn’t want you to see that version of me,” he says.

“I didn’t either.”

“But now that you have?”

You press a kiss to his temple.

“I still love you.”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. But when his arms wrap around you and he pulls you into his chest, you feel it. Not forgiveness—he’s not there yet—but hope. A tiny, trembling piece of it, lodged somewhere inside him like light through a cracked door.

Later that night, in the quiet, he whispers one more thing.

“You don’t have to stay.”

You press your lips to his shoulder and breathe him in.

“I already did."