#stucky comfort

[seb-and-evans-girl]

Steve: Why are you burning our marriage certificate?

Bucky: Good luck returning me without a receipt

Steve: That's not how- I was never going to-

Steve:

Bucky:

Steve: Fuck it, just don't hurt yourself

[themadknightuniverse]

Sun and Moon

[martianbugsbunny]

We're not feral enough about the fact that Bucky's last word when the Snap happened was literally just Steve's name

[pararave]

i love them sm

bonus old photo edit ↴

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*To anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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@anyfandomdarkbingo

Card: sarahyellow / sarah-writes-stucky

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[fandomfluffandfuck]

Hiya, S! Not sure if you're still taking requests but, I had a little idea-

Steve has been working himself too hard, both physically and mentally for weeks now and Bucky has finally had enough and has to go pry him from the gym and sort of force him to relax.. the method he uses exactly is completely up to you.. fluffy or smutty, It doesn't matter. But Steve is kind of denying it all, I haven't been overworking, I haven't been tired at all yada yada, his whole 'I don't need help' shtick so Bucky has to be a little more assertive.

Luv ya! Stay awesome <3

I am still taking requests for right now! And I've been doing a lot, lot of smut recently so I'll take the opportunity to go in the other direction for this if you don't mind.

And thanks!!

So... this is basically the angsty, then fluffy version of this scene 👇🏻 that I wish we got

Warning for Steve being self-destructive, actively self-harming, and, just, in a downward spiral that Bucky helps coax him out of. This sounds super angsty but it ends with fluff, I promise!

Bucky knows when he wakes up alone, just a scant few hours after the post-mission crash dropped them at home, finally back in their very own bed, that he will be able to find Steve down the Tower's gym. Bucky knows this, feeling it down to his bones. Sometimes, he thinks he knows Steve better than he knows himself, and he isn't sure if he should be prideful of knowing his best guy so well, or, if he should be concerned with his knowledge and memory of himself. Either way, even though he knows Steve is down in the gym--beating the shit out of his knuckles with an unrested, already battered body, beating that body in favorite of lying still and letting his mind run in exhausted circles like a snake looping back on itself to swallow it's own tail--Bucky makes sure to check everywhere else first.

He doesn't feel like riding the elevator all the way to the roof, so he asks JARVIS to assure him Steve isn't up there. JARVIS would've waken Bucky to let him know of Steve's whereabouts if he ended up there, regardless, but it can't hurt to double-check. Next, Bucky lifts his weary body from bed to dip his head into the bathroom. No Steve there. Then, he pads, as light on his feet as a cat, to their dark kitchen. No Steve there, either. Bucky sets his hands on the kitchen counter, looking into their open-plan living room. Steve also isn't there, sheltering on the couch, wrapped in blankets, quivering and pretending he isn't, thinking he can "protect" Bucky from witnessing another nightmare (really hiding away from Bucky because he, sometimes, somehow, still gets embarrassed even though Bucky has seen him in every state and never finds him lacking). No Steve anywhere in the apartment.

So, the gym it is.

Without stopping to dress himself any further or do anything at all, Bucky walks out of their apartment on their floor of the Tower into the elevator. He doesn't need to softly request the gym floor. JARVIS already knows. He always does.

"Thanks, J," Bucky murmurs tiredly, standing idle as the doors shut in front of him.

In no time whatsoever, Bucky can hear Steve--thank you Nazi fucks, you absolute monsters, for the super hearing--before he's even left the elevator. It's still descending. Barefoot and in nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs, Bucky leans his forehead against the mirrored wall of the lift, sighing to himself at its cool touch. He prepares himself, tapping his metal fingers against the glass, thinking.

Planning.

What, oh, what am I gonna do with you, Stevie?

He's not upset with Steve. Not really. He's upset with the part of Steve that can't stop. The part that insists he grit his teeth and bare the world's pain and injustice and suffer it all himself as if he has no choice but to do it alone. There's more to Steve than that part, but also, if he didn't have that part of himself, he wouldn't be himself, would he? And so... it's a twisted game. The lynx and rabbit. Chasing.

Forever and ever.

Bucky doesn't know if he's the rabbit or the lynx. He doesn't know if he's either at all. He may be the hunter observing from the outside, not yet sure if he wants to intervene, and certainly not sure who he's going to point his shotgun at. Maybe neither. It hurts to see nature run her cruel course. But what is the alternative? Disrupt? Distract? Should he shout and scare both creatures, leaving them to scurry off with racing hearts? What can he do? What should he do?

The sound of thin flesh and ill-protected bone--just knuckles--against firm, unforgiving leather--a heavy boxing bag--rings in his ears. Ding! A new sound enters his mind. He's here.

Bucky takes one last fortifying breath, not because he's exhausted, not because he doesn't want to deal with Steve, and not for any reason but the scene he knows he's about to walk in on--his best friend, his lover, his everything hurting himself.

Beating himself up. Literally.

Still, Bucky goes.

The pain of seeing it can not be worse than the pain of knowing it's happening and doing nothing to intervene. This is not how it has to be. This is not the natural order. Cruel and sacrificial. Bucky will do something to stop it.

And that something is interrupting Steve in the middle of a particularly brutal assault--on himself and the bag hanging from the ceiling. There's a pile of them waiting to be hung, a grim fate; there's a pile of already strangled bags punched across the gym, spreading deserts of sand between Steve and his own worst thoughts, represented by those bags he brutalized. Steve is slick with sweat like an oil spill, and the smell of grief is coming off of him in feet-sweeping waves. His bangs hang over his forehead, sticking to his skin, gritty and darkened by moisture.

And, God, beneath that bent halo of hair, despite the healthy pink flush covering his face from sweat-beaded hairline to the hem of his shirt, he looks... there is no kind way to say it, Bucky must just say it: Steve looks gaunt. His cheeks are sunken, as are his eyes. With all the sweat coating his weary skin, soaking into his clothes that shroud him, it's no wonder why. He's dehydrated as fuck. Running himself ragged from beyond the blood soaked into his boxing wraps.

And those wraps, Jesus, they're sloppy. Careless. Obviously hurried and barely to be bothered with. They might've started tighter, but Bucky knows at no point were they neat and proper. Steve wouldn't've had the patience. It's a miracle, really, that he's got any on at all. Bucky's seen him go at it bare knuckle until he's ground down to his bones.

Loudly, Bucky clears his throat. But he doesn't make a noise until he's circled Steve so he's in his line of sight. Standing in front of him but just out of the possible path of another exploding punching bag. He doesn't want to stand in his blindspot at a time like this.

The sound of another person joining him jerks Steve into awareness rather than boiling rage and a million other nameless emotions. He comes up from the tempest that was fueling his flurry of devasting, full-weight-and-strength punches that may be enough to wrench his own arms out from their sockets. He freezes so suddenly, caught red-handed, metaphorically and literally, that it looks painful. Such explosive motion to none whatsoever. His chest won't even heave.

He is a grievous statue.

And, his audience, Bucky chooses to say nothing about what he's been caught doing. He won't demand that Steve stop. He won't try to sweet talk him and coax him out of it and back to bed. He won't plead with Steve to stop, hanging off of his shaking, lactic-acid-burning arms. None of those will work when he's so fucking worked up. Bucky can sense it even while he holds himself so perfectly still. He is not moving but he is still vibrating--trembling without trembling, poised to come crashing down sooner or later. The best Bucky knows, is to let him do this, and then be here to catch him.

So, the words that come are sleep-rusty and short, jerking his head to the pile of supplies next to Steve--he's going to wrap his own hands and Steve better re-wrap his while he does.

His bloody knuckles won't stop bleeding if they're going to go toe to toe, and it's not like his dirty bandages are going to do much, it'd take a hell of a lot more than that to penetrate the serum's defenced and give him an infection, but that isn't the point. The point is to hammer home that Steve's body needs to be protected. Still. Even like this. Big, broad, and strong. Especially like this. So fucking tense that he can only relinquish himself to brutal strength or no movement whatsoever. There is no in between. If he tries, he'll break. There can be no weakness.

Bucky will give him the space to find his weakness and then will welcome it with open arms.

So, they box. Knuckles to knuckles. Punch after punch is thrown. Each hit from Steve gets stronger until he's back to nearly damaging himself with the brutality of his own strength, his spirit more than his flesh and blood can take--the way it always has been.

At some point, sinking back into the raging sea of his mind, dropping out of reality itself, Steve's upper lip curls into an ugly snarl and he throws in a kick. Bucky dodges and fakes him out to lure him from the hardwood flooring of the gym where he was wailing on heavyweight bags to the squishy mats in the corner meant for partner sparring.

Once there, he can work through tiring Steve out. Grappling. Kicking. Sweeping his feet out from under him. Taking him to the floor. Pinning him. Punching him. Letting him squirm out of a headlock just to throw him back down. Twisting. Punching. Using everything he's got.

Knuckles to knuckles well past the point of Steve's blood soaking his fresh wraps. Steve's scarlet blood seeps into the white of his own wraps bit also Bucky's. Painting them both with his pain. Bucky will gladly shoulder some of it for him. Always. Forever.

Punch. Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick. Knock down. Grapple. Get up. Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick. Knock down. Grapple. Get up. Punch.Punch.KickPunchPunchKickKnockdowngrapplegetuppunchpunchkickpunchpunchkickgrapplepunchpunchkickpunchpunchkickgrapplepunch--

On and on, Steve goes like a wind up toy.

All action until he can't be anymore. It's sudden. And it's right fucking then when he has no more energy, no more effort left inside him, that he withers and wilts. No matter, Bucky can see it coming a mile away from how his combos get sloppy, slower and less offensive, more drawn in and defensive, to how his breathing stutters, going from disciplined and practiced to something of sobs barely reined in with a lash ditch bit of effort to hide how hard he's about to crash. He can't stay on edge forever, though. And when he crashes and burns, Bucky swoops in, not to bunny punch him, popping him with a flurry of hits, but to catch him before he can fall flat on his face.

Bucky won't even let his knees touch the ground, gathering him up with ease. Bucky is so fucking grateful for the few couple of hours he has on Steve, keeping him from being just as exhausted and muddy-headed.

Still, not just because he can think but because he knows this dance so well, it's awful. Awfully hard and heart-wrenching, the way Steve curls into him after collapsing to the floor without a sound of warning. No pleading for mercy. No bloody scream of never being able to do it all--to save them all. Nothing. Just a tight little ball of agony willing to go to the grave suffering before he admits he's struggling. A martyr like no other.

In his hold, Steve clenches his body so tight just the same way he had when he was first caught. Now, he's caught in a different way--caught between trying to fight back the shakes and wanting to shake so violently that he becomes nothing but dust. He's so fucking close to breaking entirely. Barely out of reach of giving way to body-wracking sobs, gasping for breath, tears pouring down his face, snot leaking from his body, and choking on guilt he doesn't deserve to harbor.

Oh, Steve.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky lowers his precious cargo of Steve to the floor, sinking them both into the squishy mats where he can wrap Steve up in his arms more fully and hold him together while he cries it out. Frustration. Rage. Sadness. Depression. Confusion as to why him. Why this? Liability. Bloodstained guilt. Every negative emotion, simple to overpowering and all of it bleeding out of him until he's limp and impossibly more dehydrated than he already was.

He is a husk, empty and thin, and Bucky still loves him. Overwhelmingly so, he loves him. He loves him bad.

Bucky pats and rubs and soothes his hand over his back, the other arm still slung tightly around him to keep him held, until his muscles actually start to get sore. Bucky doesn't care, it's a small thing to weather. There is worse. There will be worse. He will be there for him then, too.

He's stopped counting Steve's heaving, stuttering breaths, but after a handful more, he aches to yawn. He won't. Instead, he swallows the involuntary, nonverbal language of his body down, taking it deep into his chest and tucking it away for later. He'll never be too tired to take care of Steve.

Steve.

Steve with his head is in his lap, his face pressed tightly up against his stomach. He's out of tears. Bled dry. His lungs don't even have it in them to suck in huge, unsteady breaths. His whiffling breaths feel like they're painting Bucky's skin with condensation, humid and heavy with emotion.

"Ready for bed?" Bucky whispers when Steve's hands go limp around his waist, so drained not only can he not cry, not hyperventilate, but he also can't cling on. He combs a hand through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. They both smell like shit; they look like shit, too.

Steve tries to answer him, but his voice is shot to shit from all the crying, and all that will some out is a creaky little rasp that doesn't sound like anything. So, he nods, the motion tiny and admitting of how exhaustion tugs at his bones. There is no fight left in him.

"Okay, then, honey bee, let's get you to bed," Bucky murmurs, not thinking about anything but getting Steve home. He doesn't let the ache in his muscles mean anything as he lifts him up bridal style and starts determinedly toward the elevator. He's careful with him. He's still made of muscle and bone, but Bucky knows he's eggshell fragile beneath thick, unblemished skin. He's an illusion and everyone else is fooled, but Bucky refuses to be. "Bet you're tired, huh? Long day." Bucky is saying it to say it. He's talking. He knows Steve finds comfort in his voice. Sometimes, that's the only thing he can do for Steve, not chase him around and tire him out, but talk to him until he comes down.

So, really, he's not expecting Steve to nod again, but, Lord in heaven above, he does.

Small victories in a war, or, really, a miracle.

Bucky smiles as they step into the elevator, "yeah, baby, I know, I know. You gotta be tired. Anyone would be. I don't really know how you were still on your feet, dollface. You were running on fumes. You deserve a good, long sleep with sweet dreams, Stevie."

"Yeah?" Steve's voice is rust and nails, painful to hear but risking talking because he has to. He sounds so urgently in need of reassurance that Bucky can't take it.

"'Course, honey," he warms, squeezing him tighter in his arms, "and if the dreams don't come, I'll sing to you until they do, 'kay? Like I used to."

"M'kay," Steve says, somewhere between miserably and totally relieved, wrapped around him with both fists curled over his shoulders and that blonde head buried in his chest.

Bucky will hold him; Bucky will sing to him; Bucky will be his--Steve Rogers, not Captain America's--shield.

[youre-amazing-say-it]

Night Sky

\Pairing: Steve Rogers x teen!reader, Bucky Barnes x teen!reader

Warning: hints of depression, anxiety, not being able to sleep, fear of the future, life going too good and knowing it might crash on you fear

A/N: Self-indulgent fic, going to write two fics tomorrow. just going through something right now.

You couldn't describe what you were feeling.

Righ now, you were sitting on the window sill, looking at the night sky in the Avengers Compound. This was your favorite spot in the whole world. Your feet were hanging out of the building, and it had enough room for more people to join. It made you feel free. 

You should be asleep, but you spent all day sleeping, not really wanting to do anything else. So now it was 3am, and you were wide awake. 

As you sat quietly, you heard the elevator ding behind and you heard the pair of combat boots walking behind you. “I’ll work on the mission report tomorrow, just tired and want to head to bed.” You heard Steve say as the second voice responded. “I feel you man, happy to be home,” Bucky spoke. as he was about to turn down his hallway, he noticed you sitting and tapped on Steve’s shoulder. “hey,” he quietly whispered as his head moved in your direction. Steve furrowed his eyebrows as he realized it was you that was up. The two men had a silent conversation with their eyes before sighing and walking towards you.

“Hey Y/n, you okay?” Steve spoke as you heard them get closer. You turned your head to face the two soldiers. “I'm fine, just enjoying the night sky,” you spoke with a slight smile. “Scoot over,” Bucky said with a smile. You obliged as they got situated on either side of you. 

“How was the mission?” you asked looking at steve. He ran his hand over his face and he let out a breath. “Tiring, but it went well. No casualties,” he spoke. “That’s good,” you replied. Bucky was focusing on your face, trying to read what you were thinking and going through. but he couldn’t tell. “what's going through your mind, doll?” 

“Nothing,” you whispered. Steve looked at you confused, “nothing?” he asked. “Yeah, absolutely nothing.” you sighed as you pushed some hair back. “And it’s kinda scary,” you said, “I feel.. peaceful. And I don't want it to go away.” 

“Well,” Bucky started to speak, “what makes you think it will go away? Maybe everything is finally going right for you, and you deserve that,” he commented. “This feeling of ‘peace’ is what I was feeling before everything changed for me,” you explained. “I went through months of severe depression and anxiety, I felt everyone I love start to move away from me. Not to mention getting a whole new group of people to learn about and powers. And it was so,” you shared with them as you felt the tears well up in your eyes, “so hard to go through.”

“We know kid, And we are proud of you,” Steve chimed in as we wrapped his arm around you and gave you a gentle squeeze. “You were dealt a bad set of cards, but you pushed through and came out stronger than ever.” Steve and Bucky were proud of how far you have come since moving in. They were there to help you through the rough depression patches and really supported you.

“But what if,” you mumble, “what if it gets bad again. What if everything comes crashing down and I lose this peaceful feeling that I have been looking for. I can’t go through that again,” you rambled out. The men exchanged glances before Steve nodded to Bucky, who lead the conversation. 

“You can’t control the future kid. You can do whatever you can to help shape it, but you can’t lock it in place. Trust me, we can definitely attest to that.” Bucky chuckled as he motioned to Steve. “But you can be prepared. You can get a good base to fall back on if you need it.” You nodded towards Bucky, “okay,” you whispered. “Will you guys be there for me?”

Steve kissed the top of your head. “Every step of the way,” he said as you shifted more into his side. You took your free hand and intertwined it with Bucky’s metal hand as you all looked at the night sky. 

[luviebuuggie]

Bath Time <3

this is the first fic I'm posting, like ever O_O, so I hope you all enjoy! If you would like to send me prompts, ideas, ANYTHING hahaa, feel free to, and ill try to write out a story for it !! <33

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ｡:･ﾟ☆*

Warnings: DDLG, bath time, washing your hair, cute nicknames, idk 🤷‍♀️

Pairings: Daddies!Stucky ; Daddy!Bucky x Papa!Steve x Little!Reader

Summary: Bath time with your favorite bath toys, and your Daddies!

Word Count: 1,842

*･༓☾:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:

“Lovebug,” Bucky spoke as he entered the playroom. "It's bath time, bubs." Catching your attention from your coloring book on the carpeted floor and glance up at him.

“But Daddy,” drawing the word out for more exaggeration. “I haven’t finished my blue unicorn yet…” you sigh with a slight frown.

Bucky kneels down next to you, resting his large hand against the back of your head reassuringly, and gives you a slight smile. “I know, bubs, but you can continue working on it in the morning, okay?” he says as he rubs his hand over your hair.

Still with a slight frown but hope now gleaming in your eyes, you reply, “Promise Daddy?” While staring into Bucky's big eyes. You study his face to make sure his next reply is truthful.

Bucky stares down at you, a loving smile overtaking his face because of how precious his little baby is. “Of course, I promise, Angel. Now, how about we get cleaned up and ready for bedtime?” You nod as he picks you up and sets you down on his hip, walking out of your playroom and towards the bathroom.

Leaning your head down on his relatively comfortable shoulder, you ask, “Could I have a snack after my bath Daddy?” 

This question receiving a humorous laugh from Bucky. “Sure, Doll.”

♡༓☾ ｡:･ﾟ☆*

Bucky lifts you into the now full bathtub, steam seeping into the room nicely. Sitting down in hot water, your body immediately relaxes as you let out a sigh. 

Bucky slowly sits down beside the tub, reaching over to grab something. “You want toys, baby?” He says, holding up a basket of all your toys explicitly designed for the tub.

Your eyes lit up, gaze catching on the rubber ducks and the bath crayons. “Duckies ‘and crayons, Daddy!” Excitement laces every word.

Bucky knew how much you loved your bath toys. Your cute reaction never failed to make him laugh. As much as Bucky loves your adorable little reactions, he still wants you to remember your manners. Pulling the basket away momentarily, he asks, “What do we say, Doll?”

You grin up at Bucky. “Please, Daddy?” Your hands softly splash around in the water as you squirm. 

Bucky’s eyes squint at you, pleased at your answer. He hands over the basket. Left hand grabbing onto the side, you peer into the basket full of toys and spot all your favorites. You grab all the duckies and start placing them into the water. Then you spot the bath crayons you love to draw with and hurriedly grab every color and set them on the edge of the tub with the biggest smile imaginable on your face. 

“Got yourself a whole collection, don't you, Doll?” Bucky says with a chuckle, putting the basket back down on the floor. With his legs spread out before him, he leans back on his hands to watch you play for a while. 

You stare at all the toys now in the bathtub and try to decide what to start with first. Do I play with the duckies first? Or the markers first? You wonder to yourself. You choose to start with the markers and draw them a home! You grab the blue marker and get to work on drawing a house for your duckies as Bucky sits quietly to watch you work with a smile on his face.

♡༓☾ ｡:･ﾟ☆*

“Is that your drawing, LoveBug?” Steve asks as he walks into the large bathroom. Bucky gazed up at his husband. Steve walks forward and sits on the bathtub's edge to see your work closer. 

Peering up at him, you smile and reply, “Yeah, Dada! For my duckies!” Steve gently places his hand on your back, slowly moving in up and down. You continue to look up at him, waiting for a reply. As Steve began to open his mouth to say something, your impatience got the better of you as you interrupted him before he could speak. “It's a house, Dada. For my duckies.” You remark, as though you have to state the obvious.

This causes laughter to erupt from both Bucky and Steve. Both men can hardly contain their laughter at how you stated your sentence. You weren't quite sure why they were laughing. Steve knows what a house is, right? You think to yourself as confusion flows through your little-space mind. You ignore the quiet laughter and continue drawing, adding little flowers to the windowsill. 

Steve, still quietly laughing and failing at his attempts to stop, says, “I know it’s a house, LoveBug. It looks very good too. You did such a good job, Baby!” He gives you a small pat on the head. 

“Thank you, Dada.” You smile at the rewarding words, feeling pleased with yourself.

“Okay, I’m gonna go prepare Doll a snack for after her bath.” Bucky stood up, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Could you wash her hair?” Bucky asked, directing his question toward Steve. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.” Steve replied, moving over to grab the shampoo bottle. “It shouldn't take long.” Turning his head around to face his husband, he gave Bucky a quick, intimate smile. 

Bucky nodded, smiling back at his husband and exiting the bathroom.

Turning back to you, Steve grabbed a cup and filled it with water. “You ready to wash your hair, Doll?” 

Facing away from Steve, you squeal your approval and cover your eyes. The water swooshes down your long hair. Steve repeats the action, fully drenching your hair to prepare for the shampoo. He sets the cup down and grabs the shampoo, squeezing out just enough to massage your roots. 

As Steve starts rubbing the shampoo into your hair, all you can think about is how lovely the feeling of his big, warm hands massaging your head is. You cherish every moment, the way you can feel his fingertips gliding through your hair, and the perfect hot bath water warming you up. You could stay here in this moment forever. 

Steve pulls his hands from your hair and grabs the cup, filling it up with water once more. “You ready, Doll?”

You give him a little thumbs up with your right hand. “Yes, Dada.” You say as quietly as a whisper, knowing Steve would hear you no matter how quiet you were. You quickly, but carefully as to not hurt yourself, slap your hands over your eyes, causing a calm giggle from Steve. 

Steve pours the water down your long hair, using his left hand to guide his fingertips through the strands and help the water remove all the shampoo. He repeats this action a few times until he’s satisfied. “Now we’ve just gotta do the conditioner and you'll be ready to go, Baby.” Steve remarks, attempting to convey a bit of enthusiasm in his voice to help encourage you. 

“Can I play with my duckies while you put in the conditioner?” You ask him, rotating around to face him better. 

“Of course, you can, Doll.” He says and begins to condition your hair.

You grab your yellow duckie, deciding his name is Albert, while Steve strokes your hair gently. You determine that your duckies will live together in the house you drew, not including Donald because he’s in time out. You set Donald on the edge of the tub farthest away from you, causing Steve's hands to falter as you move.

“What are you doing, Doll? Why is that duckie going all the way over there?” Steve asks, resuming his massage on your hair. 

“That’s Donald, Dada. He’s in time out.” You say nonchalantly. 

Your reply has Steve raising his eyebrows and halting his hands. “Donald the duck is in time out?” He questioned, beginning to laugh.

You simply hum in the affirmative to his question, too focused on playing with your duckies to notice his laughter. 

Trying to contain himself, he ask’s, “What’s he in timeout for, baby?” 

You turn around to face Steve, slightly amused by his laughter but keeping your pure look of seriousness etched on your face. “Because Donald stole Puddle's car keys, then burned down all of Daisy’s daffodils! It was so mean of him, Dada!” You exclaim.

Steve bursts out in laughter, unable to contain himself any longer. He doubled down, causing you to quietly giggle at his bizarre reaction.

“Dada, it’s not funny!” You declare even as giggles are escaping your mouth while you speak. 

“I'm sorry, Doll.” Steve says, his laughter slowly starting to fade as he calms down. 

You and Steve make eye contact, and Steve can't help the chuckles that leave his mouth while he covers it with his hand. 

Once Steve finally settles after his fit of laughter, he says, “Okay, Doll. Let’s wash this conditioner out of your hair.”

You turn back around, facing away from Steve, and get into your position to cover your eye’s with your hands.

Steve takes his time rinsing out your hair, careful as to not pour any of the water down your face. Once he’s content with your hair, he tells you, “You can move your hands now, Doll. I just need to clean your body then you'll be good to go, Okay?” 

You nod and proceed to play with your duckies again as Steve grabs a washcloth. Steve carefully clean’s you, thoroughly washing every bit of you possible. Once he feels that he has cleaned all up, he stands and grabs a towel. Steve grasp’s your favorite towel, a fluffy small towel in your favorite color, long enough to keep your entire body warm and cozy. The best part? It has a small hood with bunny ears! 

“Stand up, Baby.” Steve says as he holds the towel up for you. 

Your ear’s perk up at your Dada’s words, and you quickly stand up and face him. Steve gives you a small smile and wraps you up in the fluffy towel, picking you up from the tub and setting your feet on the floor. He starts rubbing his hands over your towel-wrapped body to help you dry off, doing so quickly causing a few giggles to escape you. 

Steve, smiling ear to ear due to your giggles, kneel’s down a bit closer to you. “You ready to go get jammies on, Baby?” He says with excitement lacing his voice. 

“Yeah!” You exclaim. 

Steve gleams at you, picking you up and setting you on his hip as he exits the bathroom. You cuddle your head into his chest, feeling more content and sleepy than ever in your Dada’s arms. Right as you begin to close your eyes, you feel Steve handing you over to Bucky, causing you to peek your eyes open and squeak in excitement over seeing your Daddy. Both your Daddies chuckle, smiling at their little baby. You cuddle into Bucky’s chest, closing your eyes while Bucky gently sways you side to side. 

All you feel is content happiness knowing that you're safe in your Daddy’s arms, and will soon be cuddled between the two super soldiers in bed. 

༓☾ ｡:･ﾟ☆*

The end! <3

[stucky-headcanon-bot]

💕

[seb-and-evans-girl]

Steve: Buck, whats wrong?

Bucky: its nothing

Steve: Just tell me

Bucky: Why do you need to know so bad?

Steve: So I can cheer you up

Bucky: Its not your job to cheer me up

Steve: Yes, yes it is, cheering you up is my job

Bucky: Well then your fired

Steve: you can't fire me, Im union bitch

[heyitsme1040]

Sassy Soup [stucky]

summary : Steve and Bucky come home while you’re making soup. While the boys are causing chaos, you try to remind them that you’re cooking. It doesn’t work out, and now Steve is picking up dinner for the three of you. But that’s fine, you can always make soup tomorrow. 

pairings : Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Reader

warnings : None (if I missed anything let me know!)

word count : 550

AO3 (x)

a/n : Day twenty-seven of Comfortember is here! The prompt was ‘soup’.  

“It’s way too cold,” Bucky’s voice came from the entryway. 

“I told you to put on more than just a shirt and your leather jacket,” Steve replied. 

You shook your head, chuckling at their antics. You heard some loud thumps from the hallway. Before you could ask what was happening, Bucky was briskly moving through the kitchen with Steve hot on his heels. Bucky stood behind you with his arms around your waist, gently guiding the two of you so he stood in the corner with you securely against his front. Steve stood directly in front of you, playfully glaring at the brunette behind you. 

“Careful of the lady, punk,” Bucky’s voice taunted. 

You slightly raised your hand, about to interject between their dispute, “Um, I need to–”

Steve scoffed in response to Bucky’s taunt, “Really? ‘Careful of the lady’ when you’re the jerk that pulled her into this.”

“I really should–” you pointed to the pot on the stove. 

“I can’t help that she’s so irresistible. I couldn’t stand not being around her any longer,” Bucky tried to sweet talk. 

“The stove–” you spoke up, looking at the pot you heard boiling. 

“So you just wanted to hug her, then? This has nothing to do with–” Steve cut himself off, startled. 

The pot on the stove had boiled over. Bucky pulled you to stand behind him, standing in a way to shield you while still being alert. You pouted, upset the soup you had been making for dinner was no longer going how you’d hoped. You stepped around Bucky, past Steve, and turned off the burner. With your hands protected by oven mitts, you moved the pot off of the still-hot burner. No longer on the heat, the soup quickly stopped boiling. You looked at the separated soup, disappointed it wasn’t salvageable. 

“There goes dinner,” you murmur, stirring the pot one last time. When the burned chicken that was stuck to the bottom reached the surface of the separated cream base, your shoulders sagged further. 

“I’m sorry doll,” Bucky spoke up, turning you to face him. He bent his knees to level his eyes with yours, “I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”

“Yeah,” Steve kissed your temple while placing his arm across your shoulders, “We were just joking around. And it went too far. We’re sorry.”

Bucky nodded, keeping his gaze on your face. 

“I know,” you tell them, “and it’s okay. I was just looking forward to trying a new recipe. I can always try again,” you smiled slightly. 

“Tomorrow,” Steve suggested. “Buck and I will go with you to the store and get everything for the soup.”

“And we’ll help with whatever you need to make it,” Bucky chimed in. “That way it won’t take as long.”

“Thanks you two,” you kissed each of them on the cheek in turn. 

Steve picked you up and carried you to the living room. Bucky sat on the couch before Steve set you on the cushion. Bucky guided you to lay down with your head in his lap, running his fingers through your hair. 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said as he walked back toward the entryway. “I’m gonna go pick us up some of that Thai food up the road.”

“That sounds great,” you call out to him. 

Author's Note : Reblogs are appreciated, likes are welcome, and if you want to read more of my fics then maybe follow.

©heyitsme1040 If you find this post on any platform under a username different than heyitsme1040 it is not their work.

[bamboobooshark]

ssstttuuuuckyyyyyyuuuuyyyy.............. 🥰

BUCKY BARNES X STEVE ROGERS

⊹₊⟡⋆🌀 STUCKY HEADCANONS : 550 WRDS

<RATING: PG, KISSING DESCRIPTIONS>

A/N: HIIII I know who you are and you do too. I hope you like these headcanons MUCH LOVE!! <3 ALSO Please take into consideration that this is my first time writing two canon characters together so this might be ass; so sorry 💔

SLEEPING .

Steve has nightmares. Bucky has nightmares. There is not a single night that goes by where one of them doesn’t have some horrid nightmare about the other.

When Steve wakes up from a nightmare about Bucky, usually one of him being taken back by Hydra, he will try his best to gently wake Bucky up. “Bucky? Could you please wake up? I had another,” he mumbles to him. Bucky tries his best to wake up before proceeding to hold Steve to his chest. He lets him know that he’s not going anywhere and that no one is ever going to separate them again.

Bucky, on the other hand, is more discreet about his night terrors. When he wakes up from them, he’ll gently trace his fingers along Steve no matter how they’re cuddling. He’ll tighten his hold on him while being careful not to grab him too tight. If he’s facing Steve, he’ll press a few kisses to his cheek or forehead.

WORKING OUT.

You can’t tell me these two wouldn’t love working out together. C’mon. They’re super humans that are together. They are the only two they can equally compete with each other.

They have their own little tournaments for different exercises and such—their personalized olympics in a way. They love to go out running together too, obviously. Considering their equal power, they keep up normal conversation while working out with each other.

CLOTHES .

When Steve and Bucky started dating, they’d occasionally steal clothes from each other. The longer they’ve been together, the more they steal from each other. At this point they just buy clothes for each other, wear them a couple of times, then just toss them into the other’s side of the closet.

Even when they’re out shopping, one of them will point out something they like; it’ll be bought and worn. “Steve, you see that tank top?” Bucky asks while pointing at the most generic-looking tank ever. Steve smiles softly and nods his head. “Yeah, but you’ve already got a whole collection of them. Same size, same color—some of them are even the same brand. You don’t need more,” he rants to Bucky. In response, he smirks and shrugs. “You might be right, but none of them have been yours yet. I need one of yours,” he says. Of course it ends up being bought.

AFFECTION .

They’re so affectionate with each other. Those two do not play when it comes to affection. Praises, physical affection, the whole package.

Bucky is more intimate in a way with his affection. When he kisses Steve, he likes to rest his hands on the small of his back, arms around his waist. Other times he’ll grab Steve’s biceps tightly and dig his fingers into his arms. When they cuddle, Bucky prefers to be facing Steve or have him pressed against his chest. His favorite forms of affection have to be skin caressing and back rubs.

Steve is a little less intimate but still enjoys being close with Bucky. When he kisses Bucky, he prefers to have their fingers intertwined or hold each other’s faces. As for cuddles, he likes to have Bucky’s head in his lap or on his stomach, or have Bucky lay directly on top of him. His favorite forms of affection are handholding and playing with each other's hair.

[heli0s-writes]

kiss each other clean

a/n: Another Pacific Rim crossover because it truly is the best. Reader/Steve/Bucky with a side of Clint/Nat. I am writing comic Clint bc I love him most. Everyone is hot and sad and potentially poly. I am assuming this because of Reasons. Prompt is panic attack, "if only we could hold on" 1.8k words.

moonchild masterlist

Circumventing the Apocalypse makes Atlases.

Clint jokes that your Jaeger—Atlas Ronin—must have sired every Ranger in the Dome. Her namesake, after all, is both a reminder of the weight you carry and the outcome if you’re too weak to lift. The world splitting in half. Monsters streaming out.

Many Rangers lift their weight with so much grace and poise they could be trying out for pageants.

Not you, though. You’re a real crapbag when it comes to keeping your cool. You say that if you’re ever graceful about someone’s knife to your throat, you might as well be eating it. You’ve never tried to be any other way because it keeps you fighting, keeps you alive.

So when Ronin touches back down in the hangar with so much damage that you can hear her joints screech, hear Clint gurgling blood in your head, you’re worse than ever.

The medical staff refuse it when you limp alongside the gurney. They want you in a bed, hooked up to an IV and not plodding after Clint—not threatening to amputate a doctor if they touch him wrong.

But you tell them to fuck off, bursting through the swinging doors of the ICU unit, barely another word out before Barnes is wrestling you back, Rogers on his other side with his brow scrunched.

“Quit it,” Barnes hisses. “You’re making a goddamn scene.”

“Did you see him?” You jerk against them, your shoulder threatening to dislocate. “He’s got brain damage— he seized!” You swipe at Barnes, knee Rogers the side, but they’ve had enough experience handling you that they just take it in silence.

You’re a terror, according to Bucky, but you’re the only one who can make any sense of Clint when he’s drifting. And when Atlas is in play, she’s so close to unstoppable, Pentecost would personally punch out a senator before they shut your Jaeger down.

They need you. And maybe you abuse that power too much as you thrash around again, take your teeth to Bucky’s shoulder. Sometimes when you return to the hangar you’re still too worked up, can’t quite figure out how to leave the fight behind.

It’s much worse when Clint’s been hurt because you defend him how Steve defends Bucky— but Steve’s got some sense out of the field and you can only see red after drops.

They’ve never tried to make you be otherwise, though. It’s easy to see that 6’4” Clint Barton—who can shoot with immaculate precision, who’s more clever than anyone gives him credit for—has been beaten down so badly by something that he walks with a perpetual slump, makes jokes at his own expense like it’s the only way people will find him deserving of their effort. If they can punch him, at least he’s useful.

Steve had to coach that out of Bucky. After the war, he was always shrinking himself, and it killed Steve to witness.

Clint’s harder to reach. You’re soft on him, hard on him, begged and pleaded and threatened him, but he’s mulish and self-loathing. And in the end, all you could do was hold on, drift alongside him, keep him going one step into the future at a time.

You slacken, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving you a boneless mess. Your face is puffy, eyes hot and wet with tears, gasping for air and digging your nails into your fists.

Steve keeps propping you up, holding you tight by the waist and leading you down the hall. “Come on,” he urges, “that’s enough.”

They take you back to your room, give you water and space and stick to the walls. Bucky crosses his arms, frowning. “You got me good.” He touches his chin to his shoulder where the indents of your teeth still remain on the cotton shirt.

You cover your eyes, the light too bright, the room too much, and manage, “You were in my way.”

“What’s not in your way?”

You shoot Bucky a hateful look and he only rolls his eyes.

“Clint Barton’s not the only person in the world. And he’s not a kid, either. Give him more credit.”

Your chin trembles. “If he dies, he’ll get what he wants.” You glare, bitterly disclaiming, “We’re all gonna fucking die, but if he dies—”

“Stop,” Steve says firmly.

You look away.

You’re not a dog, but you’ve been trained to follow commands for longer than you’d like to admit. And for as much honor as carrying the world can get you, you’re still following orders one way or another.

If you’re the only one who can make a lick of sense out of Clint, Steve’s the only one who can pull you in when you’re spinning off course. Bucky’s the only one who can keep Steve grounded when he’s tearing through the Shatterdome on a warpath to dismantle the Corps one dignitary at a time.

And the strings animating all of you are Pentecost, who owns some part of everyone for better or for worse.

“Natasha will be there when he wakes up.” He raises one eyebrow as if asking you to really make him explain the situation anymore. “He’s more than fine.”

You begin to argue, but Steve cuts his eyes to yours and you resign to rest your elbows on your knees, leaned over in a pathetic lump at the edge of the bed.

You feel sick to your stomach, sick to your bones. You love Natasha for being able to complete the facet of Clint you can’t and don’t want to— and yet still— want to.

“If you could be,” you start, swallowing the same lump that forms in your throat every time, “enough—” and the hiccups that threaten—the gasping fit that always takes over, whites out your vision--

“Get rid of that,” Steve says.

You put your face in your hands. You can kill a primordial beast. You can tear it to shreds and this is the thing that takes you apart.

Steve understands your pain. He used to want to be enough. Used to want to be the only person Bucky ever needed because didn’t that just make perfect sense? They were each other’s brains. Past and present and future and why would Steve let anyone else mishandle Buck? Get too close to him, trigger him into self-immolation? Steve knew all of Bucky’s haunted foxholes, all of his deepest secrets. Anytime Bucky wanted or needed, he could excavate or ignore with Steve. Why entrust him to anyone else?

But Steve learned that asking why he wasn’t enough was as helpful as decrypting alien speech. There was no language for it that he understood. He just didn’t know. But others could do it, and others could pick up what he couldn’t. And in the end, if Bucky needed another shitshow to love more than himself because it’s just wired in him or something, Steve wasn’t going to keep him from that.

Steve felt lucky enough that Bucky could love one shitshow in the first place.

Bucky pats his thighs and you grudgingly crawl into him, wilting on his chest. And this is where everything slots into place, all the things Steve can’t do, all the things Bucky is naturally good at. He can be terse and serious, make his impact known in a couple of phrases, but Bucky could just open his arms and handle the rest.

The three of you quiet, settling in.

“Sorry,” you offer.

Bucky gives Steve a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whatd’ya think Tasha’ll do when Barton tries to run outta the med bay? Punch him back down?”

Steve hums, “You got the wrong person.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “Guess that’s you, huh?”

You put your hand over his face in a weak slap.

“She’ll be peeling an apple,” Steve says, “And he’ll start getting squirrely.”

“And she’ll just point it at him.”

“That’s it.”

Bucky taps the top of your head. “Let’s go talk to her. You forget you like someone if you don’t see them for a while. You need to remember that you like Nat.”

“I do remember.” 

“Kissing her on the mouth when you’re drunk doesn’t count.”

Steve sighs from inside of his bones. It truly is astonishing how you and Clint can be the most effective killers inside of a Jaeger but take you out of one and you’re two college fratboys at best.

“Why do you think she chose Banner? I mean, Clint, you know? She could have picked Clint.”

Bucky touches your chin, tilts your face up to his, quiet and serious. “Do you think Natasha wants Clint in her head? Do you think it would be good for him? Would it be good for you to be in mine? Ask yourself honestly if it would be your first choice to be in mine.”

And Steve, more straightforwardly, “Do you want war?”

No, you don’t.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “You’re always right, whatever.”

Bucky wipes a dried tear from the corner of your eye, “Don’t forget it.”

-

Clint’s unconscious when you knock. As predicted, Natasha’s by his bed, reading a book with two apples neatly peeled and sliced.

“Hi,” she says, looking up, smiling sweet and small, and sly.

“Hi,” you reply, staring at your shoes, “Thanks for being here.”

“Mhm. Sit?”

You don’t know why you clam up around her. Clint would cut off his own hands if Natasha needed a new pair, and it’s a funny little thing, the way you’re all connected. Clint can’t seem to do anything but annoy Bucky, yet fixes his collar and starts calling everyone ‘sir’ if he hears Steve down the hall.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” you say dumbly.

“I know.” She smiles again and looks at you, really looks, her eyes big and bright and you get a little lost in them. “He woke up earlier and said he can’t die yet because he didn’t want you to be mad at him. Or you might die out of spite so you can kill him ‘extra dead’. His words.”

And sometimes you're not sure with her—if she says things because they’re true, or if she says them because they’re true enough, and what matters more is you just need to hear them.

She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it, and it takes just about everything for you not to burst into tears again. You can feel her relaxing, ready to let go, but you hold on, and she smiles again. That beautiful, otherworldly smile that almost reads your mind, and suddenly you understand why Clint would cut off his hands for her.

“Thanks,” you say.

Natasha offers you an apple, glancing to the door where Steve and Bucky stand. They're connected, too. In a way you're not, in a way only they know, but you don't seem to mind it anymore.

“Yeah,” she says, and this time you know she means it. “Anytime.”

[steevbuckk]

FAVORITE STUCKY FICS | 58/100

You and a Test of Will by @sergeantscarlett

[Modern AU, 72 489 words, Explicit]

Summary:

Bucky Barnes suffered from depression before he joined the army, and when he came back, he suffered tenfold. Steve Rogers painted his nightmares and didn't talk about how he lost his leg. Natasha believed it was possible -- just maybe -- that broken people could help heal one another.

more fics

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖 "Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Tags: a/b/o, medical institutionalization, cognitive disability, made up kinky medical things, diapers, catheters, non-con medical procedures, restraints, forced wetting, hurt/comfort, humiliation, kind!Careworker Steve, bratty!Patient Bucky, alpha Steve, omega bucky, dub con everything due to a/b/o biology, dry humping, forced orgasm, masturbation, implied self harm, orgasm therapy, age difference (19/30), omorashi

Summary: Bucky is a troubled teen coping with the traumatic transformation of late-onset omega puberty.

Steve's been developing too much of an attachment, he knows he has. But he might not have the self control to remain detached anymore.

Chapter 1: A Weekend in the Pens

Chapter 2: Holding It in

Chapter 3: A Catalyst

Chapter 4: Release Therapy

Chapter 5: Excited Catatonia with Aggression

Chapter 6: Inflation Therapy

Chapter 7: Pheromonal Oil Massage

Chapter 8: Sensory Reset Therapy

Chapter 9: Persistent Genital Arousal

Epilogue I.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

I'm thinking about the progression of Bucky's memory journals (and so you all are going to have to suffer with me through these thoughts, too, because Pain)

I imagine the very first few journals Bucky gets his hands on--compelled to write by the desperate urge to cling to any of the memories, false or true, that crash into his head and shatter moments, leaving him chasing the fragments slipping through his hands like gains of sand--are incoherent. A word or two strung together. No sentences. Short. Choppy.

In these first journals, these single words are sometimes written so tiny, it's near impossible to discern what the word is. It may just be a charged scribble, not a word. Then, other times, the words are scrawled so large, across an entire page, even two pages, that despite the messy print caused by his shaking hands, it's clear what it reads. Ink may pool on the page, making the letters thick and pressed deep into the page, tearing through. Or the words may be light, as if he was afraid to write the word and give it existence. What would it make him if it's true? What will it do to him, though, if it remains in his head? Words come in English and Russian and words from languages he doesn't recognize.

As he sorts through and regains more memories, his entries stretch longer. He keeps tearing through journals. He has stacks of them. Entries become less single words, disjointed and incomplete, and more sentences. A few chucked together. Still clunky and confusing, but more.

Then, further, they stretch into paragraphs.

Paragraphs into pages.

Pages into hours and hours of nonstop writing until the serum can't even mend the ache in his shaking fingers. He can't see the page anymore, at that point. The memories are so vividly smeared across his vision, chopped together like reels of different films cut and taped together.

Suddenly, when he reads his entries back, the longer memories string together awkwardly but underscored by a relatively constant tone. He's scrambling his voice back together. Written, but still his voice.

The longer Bucky has his journals--stacks of them, they're hidden everywhere, always with at least one blank one on his person--and the longer he goes unpunished for admitting his remembrance, the more he spills. His honesty with himself grows, spreading until he's able to reach back and tug and pull and unravel memories that would've repulsed him in the beginning. He wouldn't've been able to admit it to himself, not even in the privacy of his journals, but now he can. He's learning about himself again. He's learning to be comfortable with himself again.