𐙚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ───── 90s babydoll | fanfic writer | team cap bucky’s biceps connoisseur

[delicatebarness]

𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 | 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

𝑨 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓: Most of my work is intended for people 18+. Every piece of work will have a warning section. If you're reading a series, each chapter will include its own warning. Your mental health is important to me, and I trust that you are aware of your own triggers.

Follow @delicatebarnessrecs for my reading recommendations ♡

𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 | series paused

𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 | series paused

𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 | series paused

𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 | series paused

𝒄𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 | completed series

𝒄𝒚𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 | requested one-shot

𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 | standalone

𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆? | requested one-shot

𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 | requested one-shot

𝒊 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 | series paused

𝒊 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 | series paused

𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌 | standalone

𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕?! | requested one-shot

𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆 & 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 | series paused

𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 | requested one shot

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔-𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 | paused one-shot series

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 | series paused

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏 | series paused

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 | series paused

𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒊 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 | standalone

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉 | series paused

𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒘 | ongoing series

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘? | ongoing series

𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 | a dark standalone

𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒓

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚'𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 | series paused

𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔: 𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 | ongoing series

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔-𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 | paused one-shot series

𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓

𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎 | standalone

[wintersthighs]

i won’t even pretend that i didn’t make this for entirely gross reasons

[delicatebarness]

hey yo this fish is fresh

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Happy December 16 to all who celebrate

[valmoxium]

[graymoon2-deactivated20241009]

i will never not reblog this

i cannot stress how much it does for us

a while ago, one of my mutuals was considering quitting writing. her fics weren’t doing as well, and the algorithm wasn’t favoring her writing like it used to.

so as a collective 10-15 writers, we all reblogged her fic once each. that alone put her writing at the top of the tag.

it makes a difference. way more than you think. it doesn’t matter if people see it because of you, it still gets promoted by the algorithm.

please, reblog fics

[delicatebarness]

Not season 5 making me want to start writing Steve Harrington x Byers!Reader fan fic again

[delicatebarness]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

Summary: Making your way towards the Workshop, you clutch an invitation to your birthday ball close to your chest. The name embossed on the front is his. But when you arrive, you find the Workshop in chaos.

Warnings: Familial Illness | Emotional Distress and Environment Chaos | Angst | Miscommunication | Holiday Spirit | Bucky Barnes' bicep touching | If I've missed anything, please let me know

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

A/N: I have been obsessed with this idea since it randomly came out of nowhere one evening while taking a bath. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

Soldier for Christmas: Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The North Pole felt different this early evening. It was busier, noisier. Snow floated down in lazy twirls around your boots, and as you exhaled, glittering puffs of your breath caught in the twinkle lights lining the path toward the Workshop.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that there are only six weeks left until the big night. 

But then, that means… There are only six weeks and a day until your big night. 

And you still have one question, one bold question, to ask. The name carved in silver writing caused your heart to flutter with nerves as you clutched the wisteria blue envelope in your gloved hands.

You paused when reaching the doors of the Workshop. 

The air around it felt wrong. As if someone had turned down the lights, muted the music. Has someone shaken the snow globe that it sat in? The silhouette remained the same: beams made from candy-cane, frost covering the windows. 

“Are you kidding me?” An unmistakable, irritated voice bellowed from the opposite side of the door. “No! Don’t—”

Suddenly, it sounded like it had all erupted into chaos with elves shouting over tool clattering. 

“Why would you—okay—for Krampus' sake.” 

You curled your fingers around the carved wooden handle, and when you pushed the door open, your suspicions were right. A storm of panic. But why? There were still six weeks left. 

Toys were sparking and sputtering. A wooden horse galloped past you on one leg. Something told you to look up, and when you did, you were greeted by an elf dangling from the ceiling, tinsel wrapped around their ankle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you whispered as they spun slowly, calling out for someone to cut them down. You rushed up the step ladder to reach them as another elf cried underneath into a pile of crumbled gingerbread houses.

From the height of the ladder, you could oversee the entire Workshop. And in the eye of the hurricane, there he stood. 

Bucky Barnes. 

His back and, by far, the most important part, broad shoulders were to you. His muscles tense beneath the thick navy knitted tactical uniform of all the winter’s soldiers. His, however, was graced with a shimmering silver sergeant’s star.

Long dark brunette hair was tangled from where he’d been combing his hands through. That was another thing that set him apart from any other soldier—brunette hair was the rarest in the North Pole.

At least six panicking elves surrounded him, clipboards shoving into his thighs and malfunctioning toys crashing into his ankles. And then, hearing the elf thank you for helping them with the tinsel, Bucky pivots sharply.

His piercing blue eyes landed on you.

He sees you… and freezes. 

You offer him a practiced smile despite your voice breaking as you greet him. “H-Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes close slowly, jaw tightening. There’s a tick in the muscle before he mutters something under his breath. It suspiciously sounded like ‘Of course, she’s here.’

He cleared his throat. “Malyshka,” his voice was low, gravelly, and filled with exhaustion. “It’s not… Now isn’t a great time.” 

“That’s alright,” you say, climbing down the ladder with an elf’s arms wrapped around your neck like a scarf, careful not to slip on spilt Black Forest Gateau hot chocolate after the last step. “I can help.” 

“No.” He fires back in an instant. “Thank you, Malyshka. But no, you can’t. I don’t need any more help today. I’ve had more than enough!”

“Sergeant,” an elf tugs on his sleeve. “We have a nutcracker battalion staging a coup.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath and again muttering under his breath: “Of course, they are.” 

You take a step closer to him, helping the elf down as you do. “What’s going on, Bucky?” 

For another breath, he hesitates, but then he lets the tough exterior falter. Just a little, snowflake sized amount. “The magic is flickering,” he sighs quietly, just enough that only you can hear him. “We’re losing power. The enchantments on the toys aren’t holding. As you can see around, the lights are dimming. And Nicholas—”

He pauses.

There’s a knot tightening in your lower stomach. “What about my grandfather?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks as he looks away. “Come with me.” 

The room was always the most breathtaking to you. It was usually filled with floating stars fueled by the magic of wish lists. But today, the stars were flickering, their light dimming for seconds at a time.

Some were extinguished entirely. 

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat as you looked toward the far end of the room. And, on the other side of the frosted glass door,  resting on a grand snow-crystalled armchair, carved from ice, sat your grandfather. 

Saint Nicholas.

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hide your shocked expression. My grandfather’s face was pale, his beard dull as if someone had drained the sparkles from it. 

“Bucky… he looks—” 

“Terrible,” Bucky muttered. He paced, dodging falling stars. “Doctor Finkel has been to see him this morning and came to the conclusion that it’s not any illness.” 

You frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”

“Depleting. He’s overworked, too many lists coming through but not enough magic being generated.” Bucky replied, walking through the path of darkened stars fallen onto the snow covered floor. “Something’s blocking the magic; it’s not restoring itself, which means wishes aren’t being granted.” 

You followed Bucky, placing your palm beneath a slow-falling star. It felt cold, heavy. “What if it’s not magic…” You whispered, more to myself, but Bucky’s hearing was above average. 

He stood still in front of you. 

“No,” he muttered, letting the soft hum of the lights settle around us for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ve checked everything. Letters, dreams… everything is accounted for.”

“I think—no, you’re right,” you say lightly, an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just the magic fading.” 

“Malyshka—”

You felt your cheeks rush with a heat.

Bucky was the only one in the North Pole who called you Malyshka. Everyone else, even your grandfather, calls me by my birth name. But, no matter how often you tell Bucky that he doesn’t have to call you by that name, he does. It both irritates you and makes your stomach feel like a frostbitten leaf quivering in the wind. 

“What do you think?” Bucky had turned to look down at you, his voice bringing you back to reality.

“It might sound stupid, but what if there’s a list that hasn’t been checked… twice?” You bit your lip, hiding a laugh that you hadn’t expected to surface but after the unintentional pun, you had no control. 

Bucky’s glare sharpened.

“You can’t believe you’re making jokes, right now.” Bucky took a step back from you, his hand raised and gesturing toward you. “Do you think this is funny?”

“N-no,” you say softly, biting your lip again to hide your smile. “I just think you’re overwhelmed, Frosty.” 

He blinked. 

Then, there was a bob in his throat.

No one called him ‘Frosty’. Barely anyone even referred to him by his forename or surname. It’s always either Bucky, Boss, or Sergeant. 

“Please don’t start this again, Malyshka. you haven’t slept. I’ve got to go back out there and deal with unionized nutcrackers, Baster’s left me with a list that is the length of Russia… and back. Then, there’s your grandfather over there.” 

You kept your hand under the star, holding it afloat as you guided it down between us. The dull light cast shadows across his features. His jaw sharpened with a deepening scowl. “We’ll figure it out… together.” 

“Why’d you come down here today, Malyshka?” he asks, suspicion laced in his tone.

My eyes widened slightly in panic.

Oh no. 

Lie. Lie to him, right now. And, be convincing. 

You weren’t expecting him here, and especially not when here is in the state he is currently. 

And then suddenly, the invitation in the inside pocket of your coat felt heavy. His embossed name pressed against your ribs, burning with every breath. How do you tell him that you came here ready to ask him to your Birthday Ball on the 26th? That your heart fluttered as you rehearsed the lines I’d say to him at this very moment. 

But now, standing with him while your grandfather’s spirit begins to fade, the old man sat sipping his milk and a shot of brandy. The rest of the Workshop is in shambles. 

It was obvious, this was not the moment.

You cleared your throat, subtly wrapping your blue and white coat tighter around your body. Hoping the envelope would hide deeper into the fold… hoping Bucky would see the trembling in your hand.

“I—” you took a pause, mentally rummaging through your thoughts for anything. Absolutely anything. “You see, I, um—you wanted to check on progress, make sure all the Christmas Eve arrangements were in order. You know… doing my family duties.” 

His brow furrowed. “You came all the way down here just to ‘check on’ things?” 

You agreed, nodding your head far too hastily to be convincing in any way possible. “Yes! Of course! Just… the routine… checking.” You forced a smile so bright you thought you were about to melt the entire North Pole. 

“Well, great,” Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, scratching gently at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Perfect timing as always, Malyshka.” 

“Wait a minute, was that? Bucky Barnes—sergeant of the S.A.N.T.A squadron of the North Pole—speaking with sarcasm?” you said in a sweet tone, not being able to hide the slight singsong behind the words.

He snapped a ‘Yes.’ without hesitation. 

You tried not to laugh again. It wasn’t the time nor the place. 

But he noticed. 

He definitely noticed.

Bucky’s expression shifted, as if any light that was left inside him had evaporated. The tension in his shoulders returned, and irritation twitched on his upper lip. You followed him through the rest of the Mailing Room, noting how the fallen star now hovered in the space you had occupied. The four walls seem less hollow, less wounded now; it shone a smidge brighter. 

“This is really, really bad,” you whispered, watching your once full-of-life grandfather now sitting without a single ounce of jolly in him. 

“No kidding,” Bucky mumbled behind you. You inspected his reflection in the glass, his eyes not once dropping from your grandfather. But his lips were pressed in a tight line.

A quiet moment passed.

We both basked in the silence. Bucky needed that. A chance of a break. Peace. Even if that was only briefly. The man had seen almost every inch of this world, and stayed loyal to his position at the North Pole and your family for as long as you could remember. 

You're surprised he hasn’t pulled up a chair beside your grandfather and called it a day. Just to stand by his side. But then again, that wasn’t Bucky Frost. You doubt that even now, he’s using this time to ease the pressure off his mind.

Then, as soon as you had that thought, Bucky broke the silence.

“You don’t know how to fix this.” 

The cold air hit your lungs heavier than ever as you held a breath. My finger tips pressed gently against the glass door as your mind went back to the invitation in your pocket.

You had never felt so stupid for wanting. No, hoping for something. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you say wholeheartedly, your voice softening as you turn to face him.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and startled like a reindeer caught in the sleigh lights, just by the softness towards him.

“Don’t—Don’t be sorry,” he whispered gently, turning his head towards the door of the workshop. His voice returned to his usually authoritative tone. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

On any other day, his total disregard for your feelings would annoy you. Break your heart if you're being honest. You had spent many nights wondering, crying over the fact that Bucky Barnes didn’t see you as you saw him. 

To him, you were nothing more than his boss’s granddaughter who just smiled, sang, and skated around the ice. But you are more than that. He just doesn’t let you in long enough for him to see that. To see you. 

It should have been worrisome that no matter how many times he pushed you away, using clipped words and hardened stares, you always came back. But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to believe you weren’t just another distraction or a decoration in the grand scheme of things. 

You took a deep inhale through your nose, letting the frost steady you before trying again, only this time… quieter. “Bucky, you want to help. Please, let me help.” 

In your heart, you swore something warm flashed behind his eyes. A rare flicker of the outer blue ring brightens. Your chest ached for him. But you stepped closer, and his walls went back up, just as quickly as Christmas crumbled around you. 

“No,” he took a step back, almost knocking into a star. Fists balled at his side, his knuckles whitened as if silver seams of frost had glanced over them. “It’s too unpredictable. Malyshka, it’s too dangerous. You won’t be able to deal with… you, too.” 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

You.

He won’t be able to deal with… you?

Were you the problem?

Did you being around make things worse?

“You can see your brain working, don’t take that the wrong way. You just—you don’t get it.” He shut his eyes. Shoulders slumped as a long, pained sigh left his chest. “I’m trying to save Christmas, save the Workshop, save him, and save—” He shook his head, swallowing the next word. 

“Believe me, Bucky. I get it. I might not be in line to be ‘Father Christmas’ one day, but you understand the importance of the role. The happiness, jolly spirit of the holiday. It’s literally engraved in my family line.” You reached out without thinking, and your fingertips brushed against his bicep. 

He froze.

You continued in a whisper. “This isn’t your problem to fix. But if you want to try, then you can’t do it alone. Nobody would expect you to do it alone.” 

Bucky looked behind you, toward your grandfather. His shoulders dropped into an almost complete surrender. He would never confirm it, but the smallest muscle in Bucky's cheek twitched into a smile.

“Stay out of trouble,” he demanded, though it felt like more of a request than an order from a sergeant.

You nodded, turning to take one last look at your grandfather before you headed back toward the Workshop floor. Before you could leave, your hand curled out the door handle, and Bucky's voice echoed through the Mailing Room. 

“And Malyshka… don’t go far. Christmas might need you.” 

Not turning back to let him see, you smiled.

Christmas might need you.

My grandfather might need you. Bucky might need you.

Masterlist | Next Part Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

[delicatebarness]

Get ready for part two 🩷🩷

[delicatebarness]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

Summary: Making your way towards the Workshop, you clutch an invitation to your birthday ball close to your chest. The name embossed on the front is his. But when you arrive, you find the Workshop in chaos.

Warnings: Familial Illness | Emotional Distress and Environment Chaos | Angst | Miscommunication | Holiday Spirit | Bucky Barnes' bicep touching | If I've missed anything, please let me know

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

A/N: I have been obsessed with this idea since it randomly came out of nowhere one evening while taking a bath. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

Soldier for Christmas: Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The North Pole felt different this early evening. It was busier, noisier. Snow floated down in lazy twirls around your boots, and as you exhaled, glittering puffs of your breath caught in the twinkle lights lining the path toward the Workshop.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that there are only six weeks left until the big night. 

But then, that means… There are only six weeks and a day until your big night. 

And you still have one question, one bold question, to ask. The name carved in silver writing caused your heart to flutter with nerves as you clutched the wisteria blue envelope in your gloved hands.

You paused when reaching the doors of the Workshop. 

The air around it felt wrong. As if someone had turned down the lights, muted the music. Has someone shaken the snow globe that it sat in? The silhouette remained the same: beams made from candy-cane, frost covering the windows. 

“Are you kidding me?” An unmistakable, irritated voice bellowed from the opposite side of the door. “No! Don’t—”

Suddenly, it sounded like it had all erupted into chaos with elves shouting over tool clattering. 

“Why would you—okay—for Krampus' sake.” 

You curled your fingers around the carved wooden handle, and when you pushed the door open, your suspicions were right. A storm of panic. But why? There were still six weeks left. 

Toys were sparking and sputtering. A wooden horse galloped past you on one leg. Something told you to look up, and when you did, you were greeted by an elf dangling from the ceiling, tinsel wrapped around their ankle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you whispered as they spun slowly, calling out for someone to cut them down. You rushed up the step ladder to reach them as another elf cried underneath into a pile of crumbled gingerbread houses.

From the height of the ladder, you could oversee the entire Workshop. And in the eye of the hurricane, there he stood. 

Bucky Barnes. 

His back and, by far, the most important part, broad shoulders were to you. His muscles tense beneath the thick navy knitted tactical uniform of all the winter’s soldiers. His, however, was graced with a shimmering silver sergeant’s star.

Long dark brunette hair was tangled from where he’d been combing his hands through. That was another thing that set him apart from any other soldier—brunette hair was the rarest in the North Pole.

At least six panicking elves surrounded him, clipboards shoving into his thighs and malfunctioning toys crashing into his ankles. And then, hearing the elf thank you for helping them with the tinsel, Bucky pivots sharply.

His piercing blue eyes landed on you.

He sees you… and freezes. 

You offer him a practiced smile despite your voice breaking as you greet him. “H-Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes close slowly, jaw tightening. There’s a tick in the muscle before he mutters something under his breath. It suspiciously sounded like ‘Of course, she’s here.’

He cleared his throat. “Malyshka,” his voice was low, gravelly, and filled with exhaustion. “It’s not… Now isn’t a great time.” 

“That’s alright,” you say, climbing down the ladder with an elf’s arms wrapped around your neck like a scarf, careful not to slip on spilt Black Forest Gateau hot chocolate after the last step. “I can help.” 

“No.” He fires back in an instant. “Thank you, Malyshka. But no, you can’t. I don’t need any more help today. I’ve had more than enough!”

“Sergeant,” an elf tugs on his sleeve. “We have a nutcracker battalion staging a coup.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath and again muttering under his breath: “Of course, they are.” 

You take a step closer to him, helping the elf down as you do. “What’s going on, Bucky?” 

For another breath, he hesitates, but then he lets the tough exterior falter. Just a little, snowflake sized amount. “The magic is flickering,” he sighs quietly, just enough that only you can hear him. “We’re losing power. The enchantments on the toys aren’t holding. As you can see around, the lights are dimming. And Nicholas—”

He pauses.

There’s a knot tightening in your lower stomach. “What about my grandfather?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks as he looks away. “Come with me.” 

The room was always the most breathtaking to you. It was usually filled with floating stars fueled by the magic of wish lists. But today, the stars were flickering, their light dimming for seconds at a time.

Some were extinguished entirely. 

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat as you looked toward the far end of the room. And, on the other side of the frosted glass door,  resting on a grand snow-crystalled armchair, carved from ice, sat your grandfather. 

Saint Nicholas.

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hide your shocked expression. My grandfather’s face was pale, his beard dull as if someone had drained the sparkles from it. 

“Bucky… he looks—” 

“Terrible,” Bucky muttered. He paced, dodging falling stars. “Doctor Finkel has been to see him this morning and came to the conclusion that it’s not any illness.” 

You frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”

“Depleting. He’s overworked, too many lists coming through but not enough magic being generated.” Bucky replied, walking through the path of darkened stars fallen onto the snow covered floor. “Something’s blocking the magic; it’s not restoring itself, which means wishes aren’t being granted.” 

You followed Bucky, placing your palm beneath a slow-falling star. It felt cold, heavy. “What if it’s not magic…” You whispered, more to myself, but Bucky’s hearing was above average. 

He stood still in front of you. 

“No,” he muttered, letting the soft hum of the lights settle around us for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ve checked everything. Letters, dreams… everything is accounted for.”

“I think—no, you’re right,” you say lightly, an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just the magic fading.” 

“Malyshka—”

You felt your cheeks rush with a heat.

Bucky was the only one in the North Pole who called you Malyshka. Everyone else, even your grandfather, calls me by my birth name. But, no matter how often you tell Bucky that he doesn’t have to call you by that name, he does. It both irritates you and makes your stomach feel like a frostbitten leaf quivering in the wind. 

“What do you think?” Bucky had turned to look down at you, his voice bringing you back to reality.

“It might sound stupid, but what if there’s a list that hasn’t been checked… twice?” You bit your lip, hiding a laugh that you hadn’t expected to surface but after the unintentional pun, you had no control. 

Bucky’s glare sharpened.

“You can’t believe you’re making jokes, right now.” Bucky took a step back from you, his hand raised and gesturing toward you. “Do you think this is funny?”

“N-no,” you say softly, biting your lip again to hide your smile. “I just think you’re overwhelmed, Frosty.” 

He blinked. 

Then, there was a bob in his throat.

No one called him ‘Frosty’. Barely anyone even referred to him by his forename or surname. It’s always either Bucky, Boss, or Sergeant. 

“Please don’t start this again, Malyshka. you haven’t slept. I’ve got to go back out there and deal with unionized nutcrackers, Baster’s left me with a list that is the length of Russia… and back. Then, there’s your grandfather over there.” 

You kept your hand under the star, holding it afloat as you guided it down between us. The dull light cast shadows across his features. His jaw sharpened with a deepening scowl. “We’ll figure it out… together.” 

“Why’d you come down here today, Malyshka?” he asks, suspicion laced in his tone.

My eyes widened slightly in panic.

Oh no. 

Lie. Lie to him, right now. And, be convincing. 

You weren’t expecting him here, and especially not when here is in the state he is currently. 

And then suddenly, the invitation in the inside pocket of your coat felt heavy. His embossed name pressed against your ribs, burning with every breath. How do you tell him that you came here ready to ask him to your Birthday Ball on the 26th? That your heart fluttered as you rehearsed the lines I’d say to him at this very moment. 

But now, standing with him while your grandfather’s spirit begins to fade, the old man sat sipping his milk and a shot of brandy. The rest of the Workshop is in shambles. 

It was obvious, this was not the moment.

You cleared your throat, subtly wrapping your blue and white coat tighter around your body. Hoping the envelope would hide deeper into the fold… hoping Bucky would see the trembling in your hand.

“I—” you took a pause, mentally rummaging through your thoughts for anything. Absolutely anything. “You see, I, um—you wanted to check on progress, make sure all the Christmas Eve arrangements were in order. You know… doing my family duties.” 

His brow furrowed. “You came all the way down here just to ‘check on’ things?” 

You agreed, nodding your head far too hastily to be convincing in any way possible. “Yes! Of course! Just… the routine… checking.” You forced a smile so bright you thought you were about to melt the entire North Pole. 

“Well, great,” Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, scratching gently at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Perfect timing as always, Malyshka.” 

“Wait a minute, was that? Bucky Barnes—sergeant of the S.A.N.T.A squadron of the North Pole—speaking with sarcasm?” you said in a sweet tone, not being able to hide the slight singsong behind the words.

He snapped a ‘Yes.’ without hesitation. 

You tried not to laugh again. It wasn’t the time nor the place. 

But he noticed. 

He definitely noticed.

Bucky’s expression shifted, as if any light that was left inside him had evaporated. The tension in his shoulders returned, and irritation twitched on his upper lip. You followed him through the rest of the Mailing Room, noting how the fallen star now hovered in the space you had occupied. The four walls seem less hollow, less wounded now; it shone a smidge brighter. 

“This is really, really bad,” you whispered, watching your once full-of-life grandfather now sitting without a single ounce of jolly in him. 

“No kidding,” Bucky mumbled behind you. You inspected his reflection in the glass, his eyes not once dropping from your grandfather. But his lips were pressed in a tight line.

A quiet moment passed.

We both basked in the silence. Bucky needed that. A chance of a break. Peace. Even if that was only briefly. The man had seen almost every inch of this world, and stayed loyal to his position at the North Pole and your family for as long as you could remember. 

You're surprised he hasn’t pulled up a chair beside your grandfather and called it a day. Just to stand by his side. But then again, that wasn’t Bucky Frost. You doubt that even now, he’s using this time to ease the pressure off his mind.

Then, as soon as you had that thought, Bucky broke the silence.

“You don’t know how to fix this.” 

The cold air hit your lungs heavier than ever as you held a breath. My finger tips pressed gently against the glass door as your mind went back to the invitation in your pocket.

You had never felt so stupid for wanting. No, hoping for something. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you say wholeheartedly, your voice softening as you turn to face him.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and startled like a reindeer caught in the sleigh lights, just by the softness towards him.

“Don’t—Don’t be sorry,” he whispered gently, turning his head towards the door of the workshop. His voice returned to his usually authoritative tone. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

On any other day, his total disregard for your feelings would annoy you. Break your heart if you're being honest. You had spent many nights wondering, crying over the fact that Bucky Barnes didn’t see you as you saw him. 

To him, you were nothing more than his boss’s granddaughter who just smiled, sang, and skated around the ice. But you are more than that. He just doesn’t let you in long enough for him to see that. To see you. 

It should have been worrisome that no matter how many times he pushed you away, using clipped words and hardened stares, you always came back. But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to believe you weren’t just another distraction or a decoration in the grand scheme of things. 

You took a deep inhale through your nose, letting the frost steady you before trying again, only this time… quieter. “Bucky, you want to help. Please, let me help.” 

In your heart, you swore something warm flashed behind his eyes. A rare flicker of the outer blue ring brightens. Your chest ached for him. But you stepped closer, and his walls went back up, just as quickly as Christmas crumbled around you. 

“No,” he took a step back, almost knocking into a star. Fists balled at his side, his knuckles whitened as if silver seams of frost had glanced over them. “It’s too unpredictable. Malyshka, it’s too dangerous. You won’t be able to deal with… you, too.” 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

You.

He won’t be able to deal with… you?

Were you the problem?

Did you being around make things worse?

“You can see your brain working, don’t take that the wrong way. You just—you don’t get it.” He shut his eyes. Shoulders slumped as a long, pained sigh left his chest. “I’m trying to save Christmas, save the Workshop, save him, and save—” He shook his head, swallowing the next word. 

“Believe me, Bucky. I get it. I might not be in line to be ‘Father Christmas’ one day, but you understand the importance of the role. The happiness, jolly spirit of the holiday. It’s literally engraved in my family line.” You reached out without thinking, and your fingertips brushed against his bicep. 

He froze.

You continued in a whisper. “This isn’t your problem to fix. But if you want to try, then you can’t do it alone. Nobody would expect you to do it alone.” 

Bucky looked behind you, toward your grandfather. His shoulders dropped into an almost complete surrender. He would never confirm it, but the smallest muscle in Bucky's cheek twitched into a smile.

“Stay out of trouble,” he demanded, though it felt like more of a request than an order from a sergeant.

You nodded, turning to take one last look at your grandfather before you headed back toward the Workshop floor. Before you could leave, your hand curled out the door handle, and Bucky's voice echoed through the Mailing Room. 

“And Malyshka… don’t go far. Christmas might need you.” 

Not turning back to let him see, you smiled.

Christmas might need you.

My grandfather might need you. Bucky might need you.

Masterlist | Next Part Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

[thezombieprostitute]

I love this play on "Winter Soldier". Poor Bucky is up to his eyes in messes to clean up. I hope he and Malyshka can figure out what's wrong. And not just to save Christmas!

[delicatebarness]

We’ll have to wait and seeeeeeee 🤭🤭

Thank you for reading!! 🩷🩷

[delicatebarness]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

Summary: Making your way towards the Workshop, you clutch an invitation to your birthday ball close to your chest. The name embossed on the front is his. But when you arrive, you find the Workshop in chaos.

Warnings: Familial Illness | Emotional Distress and Environment Chaos | Angst | Miscommunication | Holiday Spirit | Bucky Barnes' bicep touching | If I've missed anything, please let me know

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

A/N: I have been obsessed with this idea since it randomly came out of nowhere one evening while taking a bath. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

Soldier for Christmas: Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The North Pole felt different this early evening. It was busier, noisier. Snow floated down in lazy twirls around your boots, and as you exhaled, glittering puffs of your breath caught in the twinkle lights lining the path toward the Workshop.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that there are only six weeks left until the big night. 

But then, that means… There are only six weeks and a day until your big night. 

And you still have one question, one bold question, to ask. The name carved in silver writing caused your heart to flutter with nerves as you clutched the wisteria blue envelope in your gloved hands.

You paused when reaching the doors of the Workshop. 

The air around it felt wrong. As if someone had turned down the lights, muted the music. Has someone shaken the snow globe that it sat in? The silhouette remained the same: beams made from candy-cane, frost covering the windows. 

“Are you kidding me?” An unmistakable, irritated voice bellowed from the opposite side of the door. “No! Don’t—”

Suddenly, it sounded like it had all erupted into chaos with elves shouting over tool clattering. 

“Why would you—okay—for Krampus' sake.” 

You curled your fingers around the carved wooden handle, and when you pushed the door open, your suspicions were right. A storm of panic. But why? There were still six weeks left. 

Toys were sparking and sputtering. A wooden horse galloped past you on one leg. Something told you to look up, and when you did, you were greeted by an elf dangling from the ceiling, tinsel wrapped around their ankle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you whispered as they spun slowly, calling out for someone to cut them down. You rushed up the step ladder to reach them as another elf cried underneath into a pile of crumbled gingerbread houses.

From the height of the ladder, you could oversee the entire Workshop. And in the eye of the hurricane, there he stood. 

Bucky Barnes. 

His back and, by far, the most important part, broad shoulders were to you. His muscles tense beneath the thick navy knitted tactical uniform of all the winter’s soldiers. His, however, was graced with a shimmering silver sergeant’s star.

Long dark brunette hair was tangled from where he’d been combing his hands through. That was another thing that set him apart from any other soldier—brunette hair was the rarest in the North Pole.

At least six panicking elves surrounded him, clipboards shoving into his thighs and malfunctioning toys crashing into his ankles. And then, hearing the elf thank you for helping them with the tinsel, Bucky pivots sharply.

His piercing blue eyes landed on you.

He sees you… and freezes. 

You offer him a practiced smile despite your voice breaking as you greet him. “H-Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes close slowly, jaw tightening. There’s a tick in the muscle before he mutters something under his breath. It suspiciously sounded like ‘Of course, she’s here.’

He cleared his throat. “Malyshka,” his voice was low, gravelly, and filled with exhaustion. “It’s not… Now isn’t a great time.” 

“That’s alright,” you say, climbing down the ladder with an elf’s arms wrapped around your neck like a scarf, careful not to slip on spilt Black Forest Gateau hot chocolate after the last step. “I can help.” 

“No.” He fires back in an instant. “Thank you, Malyshka. But no, you can’t. I don’t need any more help today. I’ve had more than enough!”

“Sergeant,” an elf tugs on his sleeve. “We have a nutcracker battalion staging a coup.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath and again muttering under his breath: “Of course, they are.” 

You take a step closer to him, helping the elf down as you do. “What’s going on, Bucky?” 

For another breath, he hesitates, but then he lets the tough exterior falter. Just a little, snowflake sized amount. “The magic is flickering,” he sighs quietly, just enough that only you can hear him. “We’re losing power. The enchantments on the toys aren’t holding. As you can see around, the lights are dimming. And Nicholas—”

He pauses.

There’s a knot tightening in your lower stomach. “What about my grandfather?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks as he looks away. “Come with me.” 

The room was always the most breathtaking to you. It was usually filled with floating stars fueled by the magic of wish lists. But today, the stars were flickering, their light dimming for seconds at a time.

Some were extinguished entirely. 

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat as you looked toward the far end of the room. And, on the other side of the frosted glass door,  resting on a grand snow-crystalled armchair, carved from ice, sat your grandfather. 

Saint Nicholas.

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hide your shocked expression. My grandfather’s face was pale, his beard dull as if someone had drained the sparkles from it. 

“Bucky… he looks—” 

“Terrible,” Bucky muttered. He paced, dodging falling stars. “Doctor Finkel has been to see him this morning and came to the conclusion that it’s not any illness.” 

You frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”

“Depleting. He’s overworked, too many lists coming through but not enough magic being generated.” Bucky replied, walking through the path of darkened stars fallen onto the snow covered floor. “Something’s blocking the magic; it’s not restoring itself, which means wishes aren’t being granted.” 

You followed Bucky, placing your palm beneath a slow-falling star. It felt cold, heavy. “What if it’s not magic…” You whispered, more to myself, but Bucky’s hearing was above average. 

He stood still in front of you. 

“No,” he muttered, letting the soft hum of the lights settle around us for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ve checked everything. Letters, dreams… everything is accounted for.”

“I think—no, you’re right,” you say lightly, an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just the magic fading.” 

“Malyshka—”

You felt your cheeks rush with a heat.

Bucky was the only one in the North Pole who called you Malyshka. Everyone else, even your grandfather, calls me by my birth name. But, no matter how often you tell Bucky that he doesn’t have to call you by that name, he does. It both irritates you and makes your stomach feel like a frostbitten leaf quivering in the wind. 

“What do you think?” Bucky had turned to look down at you, his voice bringing you back to reality.

“It might sound stupid, but what if there’s a list that hasn’t been checked… twice?” You bit your lip, hiding a laugh that you hadn’t expected to surface but after the unintentional pun, you had no control. 

Bucky’s glare sharpened.

“You can’t believe you’re making jokes, right now.” Bucky took a step back from you, his hand raised and gesturing toward you. “Do you think this is funny?”

“N-no,” you say softly, biting your lip again to hide your smile. “I just think you’re overwhelmed, Frosty.” 

He blinked. 

Then, there was a bob in his throat.

No one called him ‘Frosty’. Barely anyone even referred to him by his forename or surname. It’s always either Bucky, Boss, or Sergeant. 

“Please don’t start this again, Malyshka. you haven’t slept. I’ve got to go back out there and deal with unionized nutcrackers, Baster’s left me with a list that is the length of Russia… and back. Then, there’s your grandfather over there.” 

You kept your hand under the star, holding it afloat as you guided it down between us. The dull light cast shadows across his features. His jaw sharpened with a deepening scowl. “We’ll figure it out… together.” 

“Why’d you come down here today, Malyshka?” he asks, suspicion laced in his tone.

My eyes widened slightly in panic.

Oh no. 

Lie. Lie to him, right now. And, be convincing. 

You weren’t expecting him here, and especially not when here is in the state he is currently. 

And then suddenly, the invitation in the inside pocket of your coat felt heavy. His embossed name pressed against your ribs, burning with every breath. How do you tell him that you came here ready to ask him to your Birthday Ball on the 26th? That your heart fluttered as you rehearsed the lines I’d say to him at this very moment. 

But now, standing with him while your grandfather’s spirit begins to fade, the old man sat sipping his milk and a shot of brandy. The rest of the Workshop is in shambles. 

It was obvious, this was not the moment.

You cleared your throat, subtly wrapping your blue and white coat tighter around your body. Hoping the envelope would hide deeper into the fold… hoping Bucky would see the trembling in your hand.

“I—” you took a pause, mentally rummaging through your thoughts for anything. Absolutely anything. “You see, I, um—you wanted to check on progress, make sure all the Christmas Eve arrangements were in order. You know… doing my family duties.” 

His brow furrowed. “You came all the way down here just to ‘check on’ things?” 

You agreed, nodding your head far too hastily to be convincing in any way possible. “Yes! Of course! Just… the routine… checking.” You forced a smile so bright you thought you were about to melt the entire North Pole. 

“Well, great,” Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, scratching gently at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Perfect timing as always, Malyshka.” 

“Wait a minute, was that? Bucky Barnes—sergeant of the S.A.N.T.A squadron of the North Pole—speaking with sarcasm?” you said in a sweet tone, not being able to hide the slight singsong behind the words.

He snapped a ‘Yes.’ without hesitation. 

You tried not to laugh again. It wasn’t the time nor the place. 

But he noticed. 

He definitely noticed.

Bucky’s expression shifted, as if any light that was left inside him had evaporated. The tension in his shoulders returned, and irritation twitched on his upper lip. You followed him through the rest of the Mailing Room, noting how the fallen star now hovered in the space you had occupied. The four walls seem less hollow, less wounded now; it shone a smidge brighter. 

“This is really, really bad,” you whispered, watching your once full-of-life grandfather now sitting without a single ounce of jolly in him. 

“No kidding,” Bucky mumbled behind you. You inspected his reflection in the glass, his eyes not once dropping from your grandfather. But his lips were pressed in a tight line.

A quiet moment passed.

We both basked in the silence. Bucky needed that. A chance of a break. Peace. Even if that was only briefly. The man had seen almost every inch of this world, and stayed loyal to his position at the North Pole and your family for as long as you could remember. 

You're surprised he hasn’t pulled up a chair beside your grandfather and called it a day. Just to stand by his side. But then again, that wasn’t Bucky Frost. You doubt that even now, he’s using this time to ease the pressure off his mind.

Then, as soon as you had that thought, Bucky broke the silence.

“You don’t know how to fix this.” 

The cold air hit your lungs heavier than ever as you held a breath. My finger tips pressed gently against the glass door as your mind went back to the invitation in your pocket.

You had never felt so stupid for wanting. No, hoping for something. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you say wholeheartedly, your voice softening as you turn to face him.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and startled like a reindeer caught in the sleigh lights, just by the softness towards him.

“Don’t—Don’t be sorry,” he whispered gently, turning his head towards the door of the workshop. His voice returned to his usually authoritative tone. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

On any other day, his total disregard for your feelings would annoy you. Break your heart if you're being honest. You had spent many nights wondering, crying over the fact that Bucky Barnes didn’t see you as you saw him. 

To him, you were nothing more than his boss’s granddaughter who just smiled, sang, and skated around the ice. But you are more than that. He just doesn’t let you in long enough for him to see that. To see you. 

It should have been worrisome that no matter how many times he pushed you away, using clipped words and hardened stares, you always came back. But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to believe you weren’t just another distraction or a decoration in the grand scheme of things. 

You took a deep inhale through your nose, letting the frost steady you before trying again, only this time… quieter. “Bucky, you want to help. Please, let me help.” 

In your heart, you swore something warm flashed behind his eyes. A rare flicker of the outer blue ring brightens. Your chest ached for him. But you stepped closer, and his walls went back up, just as quickly as Christmas crumbled around you. 

“No,” he took a step back, almost knocking into a star. Fists balled at his side, his knuckles whitened as if silver seams of frost had glanced over them. “It’s too unpredictable. Malyshka, it’s too dangerous. You won’t be able to deal with… you, too.” 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

You.

He won’t be able to deal with… you?

Were you the problem?

Did you being around make things worse?

“You can see your brain working, don’t take that the wrong way. You just—you don’t get it.” He shut his eyes. Shoulders slumped as a long, pained sigh left his chest. “I’m trying to save Christmas, save the Workshop, save him, and save—” He shook his head, swallowing the next word. 

“Believe me, Bucky. I get it. I might not be in line to be ‘Father Christmas’ one day, but you understand the importance of the role. The happiness, jolly spirit of the holiday. It’s literally engraved in my family line.” You reached out without thinking, and your fingertips brushed against his bicep. 

He froze.

You continued in a whisper. “This isn’t your problem to fix. But if you want to try, then you can’t do it alone. Nobody would expect you to do it alone.” 

Bucky looked behind you, toward your grandfather. His shoulders dropped into an almost complete surrender. He would never confirm it, but the smallest muscle in Bucky's cheek twitched into a smile.

“Stay out of trouble,” he demanded, though it felt like more of a request than an order from a sergeant.

You nodded, turning to take one last look at your grandfather before you headed back toward the Workshop floor. Before you could leave, your hand curled out the door handle, and Bucky's voice echoed through the Mailing Room. 

“And Malyshka… don’t go far. Christmas might need you.” 

Not turning back to let him see, you smiled.

Christmas might need you.

My grandfather might need you. Bucky might need you.

Masterlist | Next Part Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

[unholyhuntress]

This is everything! Christmas AND Bucky?!?! Be still my beating heart 💓

[delicatebarness]

Thank you for reading 🩷🩷

[delicatebarness]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

Summary: Making your way towards the Workshop, you clutch an invitation to your birthday ball close to your chest. The name embossed on the front is his. But when you arrive, you find the Workshop in chaos.

Warnings: Familial Illness | Emotional Distress and Environment Chaos | Angst | Miscommunication | Holiday Spirit | Bucky Barnes' bicep touching | If I've missed anything, please let me know

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

A/N: I have been obsessed with this idea since it randomly came out of nowhere one evening while taking a bath. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

Soldier for Christmas: Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The North Pole felt different this early evening. It was busier, noisier. Snow floated down in lazy twirls around your boots, and as you exhaled, glittering puffs of your breath caught in the twinkle lights lining the path toward the Workshop.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that there are only six weeks left until the big night. 

But then, that means… There are only six weeks and a day until your big night. 

And you still have one question, one bold question, to ask. The name carved in silver writing caused your heart to flutter with nerves as you clutched the wisteria blue envelope in your gloved hands.

You paused when reaching the doors of the Workshop. 

The air around it felt wrong. As if someone had turned down the lights, muted the music. Has someone shaken the snow globe that it sat in? The silhouette remained the same: beams made from candy-cane, frost covering the windows. 

“Are you kidding me?” An unmistakable, irritated voice bellowed from the opposite side of the door. “No! Don’t—”

Suddenly, it sounded like it had all erupted into chaos with elves shouting over tool clattering. 

“Why would you—okay—for Krampus' sake.” 

You curled your fingers around the carved wooden handle, and when you pushed the door open, your suspicions were right. A storm of panic. But why? There were still six weeks left. 

Toys were sparking and sputtering. A wooden horse galloped past you on one leg. Something told you to look up, and when you did, you were greeted by an elf dangling from the ceiling, tinsel wrapped around their ankle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you whispered as they spun slowly, calling out for someone to cut them down. You rushed up the step ladder to reach them as another elf cried underneath into a pile of crumbled gingerbread houses.

From the height of the ladder, you could oversee the entire Workshop. And in the eye of the hurricane, there he stood. 

Bucky Barnes. 

His back and, by far, the most important part, broad shoulders were to you. His muscles tense beneath the thick navy knitted tactical uniform of all the winter’s soldiers. His, however, was graced with a shimmering silver sergeant’s star.

Long dark brunette hair was tangled from where he’d been combing his hands through. That was another thing that set him apart from any other soldier—brunette hair was the rarest in the North Pole.

At least six panicking elves surrounded him, clipboards shoving into his thighs and malfunctioning toys crashing into his ankles. And then, hearing the elf thank you for helping them with the tinsel, Bucky pivots sharply.

His piercing blue eyes landed on you.

He sees you… and freezes. 

You offer him a practiced smile despite your voice breaking as you greet him. “H-Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes close slowly, jaw tightening. There’s a tick in the muscle before he mutters something under his breath. It suspiciously sounded like ‘Of course, she’s here.’

He cleared his throat. “Malyshka,” his voice was low, gravelly, and filled with exhaustion. “It’s not… Now isn’t a great time.” 

“That’s alright,” you say, climbing down the ladder with an elf’s arms wrapped around your neck like a scarf, careful not to slip on spilt Black Forest Gateau hot chocolate after the last step. “I can help.” 

“No.” He fires back in an instant. “Thank you, Malyshka. But no, you can’t. I don’t need any more help today. I’ve had more than enough!”

“Sergeant,” an elf tugs on his sleeve. “We have a nutcracker battalion staging a coup.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath and again muttering under his breath: “Of course, they are.” 

You take a step closer to him, helping the elf down as you do. “What’s going on, Bucky?” 

For another breath, he hesitates, but then he lets the tough exterior falter. Just a little, snowflake sized amount. “The magic is flickering,” he sighs quietly, just enough that only you can hear him. “We’re losing power. The enchantments on the toys aren’t holding. As you can see around, the lights are dimming. And Nicholas—”

He pauses.

There’s a knot tightening in your lower stomach. “What about my grandfather?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks as he looks away. “Come with me.” 

The room was always the most breathtaking to you. It was usually filled with floating stars fueled by the magic of wish lists. But today, the stars were flickering, their light dimming for seconds at a time.

Some were extinguished entirely. 

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat as you looked toward the far end of the room. And, on the other side of the frosted glass door,  resting on a grand snow-crystalled armchair, carved from ice, sat your grandfather. 

Saint Nicholas.

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hide your shocked expression. My grandfather’s face was pale, his beard dull as if someone had drained the sparkles from it. 

“Bucky… he looks—” 

“Terrible,” Bucky muttered. He paced, dodging falling stars. “Doctor Finkel has been to see him this morning and came to the conclusion that it’s not any illness.” 

You frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”

“Depleting. He’s overworked, too many lists coming through but not enough magic being generated.” Bucky replied, walking through the path of darkened stars fallen onto the snow covered floor. “Something’s blocking the magic; it’s not restoring itself, which means wishes aren’t being granted.” 

You followed Bucky, placing your palm beneath a slow-falling star. It felt cold, heavy. “What if it’s not magic…” You whispered, more to myself, but Bucky’s hearing was above average. 

He stood still in front of you. 

“No,” he muttered, letting the soft hum of the lights settle around us for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ve checked everything. Letters, dreams… everything is accounted for.”

“I think—no, you’re right,” you say lightly, an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just the magic fading.” 

“Malyshka—”

You felt your cheeks rush with a heat.

Bucky was the only one in the North Pole who called you Malyshka. Everyone else, even your grandfather, calls me by my birth name. But, no matter how often you tell Bucky that he doesn’t have to call you by that name, he does. It both irritates you and makes your stomach feel like a frostbitten leaf quivering in the wind. 

“What do you think?” Bucky had turned to look down at you, his voice bringing you back to reality.

“It might sound stupid, but what if there’s a list that hasn’t been checked… twice?” You bit your lip, hiding a laugh that you hadn’t expected to surface but after the unintentional pun, you had no control. 

Bucky’s glare sharpened.

“You can’t believe you’re making jokes, right now.” Bucky took a step back from you, his hand raised and gesturing toward you. “Do you think this is funny?”

“N-no,” you say softly, biting your lip again to hide your smile. “I just think you’re overwhelmed, Frosty.” 

He blinked. 

Then, there was a bob in his throat.

No one called him ‘Frosty’. Barely anyone even referred to him by his forename or surname. It’s always either Bucky, Boss, or Sergeant. 

“Please don’t start this again, Malyshka. you haven’t slept. I’ve got to go back out there and deal with unionized nutcrackers, Baster’s left me with a list that is the length of Russia… and back. Then, there’s your grandfather over there.” 

You kept your hand under the star, holding it afloat as you guided it down between us. The dull light cast shadows across his features. His jaw sharpened with a deepening scowl. “We’ll figure it out… together.” 

“Why’d you come down here today, Malyshka?” he asks, suspicion laced in his tone.

My eyes widened slightly in panic.

Oh no. 

Lie. Lie to him, right now. And, be convincing. 

You weren’t expecting him here, and especially not when here is in the state he is currently. 

And then suddenly, the invitation in the inside pocket of your coat felt heavy. His embossed name pressed against your ribs, burning with every breath. How do you tell him that you came here ready to ask him to your Birthday Ball on the 26th? That your heart fluttered as you rehearsed the lines I’d say to him at this very moment. 

But now, standing with him while your grandfather’s spirit begins to fade, the old man sat sipping his milk and a shot of brandy. The rest of the Workshop is in shambles. 

It was obvious, this was not the moment.

You cleared your throat, subtly wrapping your blue and white coat tighter around your body. Hoping the envelope would hide deeper into the fold… hoping Bucky would see the trembling in your hand.

“I—” you took a pause, mentally rummaging through your thoughts for anything. Absolutely anything. “You see, I, um—you wanted to check on progress, make sure all the Christmas Eve arrangements were in order. You know… doing my family duties.” 

His brow furrowed. “You came all the way down here just to ‘check on’ things?” 

You agreed, nodding your head far too hastily to be convincing in any way possible. “Yes! Of course! Just… the routine… checking.” You forced a smile so bright you thought you were about to melt the entire North Pole. 

“Well, great,” Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, scratching gently at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Perfect timing as always, Malyshka.” 

“Wait a minute, was that? Bucky Barnes—sergeant of the S.A.N.T.A squadron of the North Pole—speaking with sarcasm?” you said in a sweet tone, not being able to hide the slight singsong behind the words.

He snapped a ‘Yes.’ without hesitation. 

You tried not to laugh again. It wasn’t the time nor the place. 

But he noticed. 

He definitely noticed.

Bucky’s expression shifted, as if any light that was left inside him had evaporated. The tension in his shoulders returned, and irritation twitched on his upper lip. You followed him through the rest of the Mailing Room, noting how the fallen star now hovered in the space you had occupied. The four walls seem less hollow, less wounded now; it shone a smidge brighter. 

“This is really, really bad,” you whispered, watching your once full-of-life grandfather now sitting without a single ounce of jolly in him. 

“No kidding,” Bucky mumbled behind you. You inspected his reflection in the glass, his eyes not once dropping from your grandfather. But his lips were pressed in a tight line.

A quiet moment passed.

We both basked in the silence. Bucky needed that. A chance of a break. Peace. Even if that was only briefly. The man had seen almost every inch of this world, and stayed loyal to his position at the North Pole and your family for as long as you could remember. 

You're surprised he hasn’t pulled up a chair beside your grandfather and called it a day. Just to stand by his side. But then again, that wasn’t Bucky Frost. You doubt that even now, he’s using this time to ease the pressure off his mind.

Then, as soon as you had that thought, Bucky broke the silence.

“You don’t know how to fix this.” 

The cold air hit your lungs heavier than ever as you held a breath. My finger tips pressed gently against the glass door as your mind went back to the invitation in your pocket.

You had never felt so stupid for wanting. No, hoping for something. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you say wholeheartedly, your voice softening as you turn to face him.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and startled like a reindeer caught in the sleigh lights, just by the softness towards him.

“Don’t—Don’t be sorry,” he whispered gently, turning his head towards the door of the workshop. His voice returned to his usually authoritative tone. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

On any other day, his total disregard for your feelings would annoy you. Break your heart if you're being honest. You had spent many nights wondering, crying over the fact that Bucky Barnes didn’t see you as you saw him. 

To him, you were nothing more than his boss’s granddaughter who just smiled, sang, and skated around the ice. But you are more than that. He just doesn’t let you in long enough for him to see that. To see you. 

It should have been worrisome that no matter how many times he pushed you away, using clipped words and hardened stares, you always came back. But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to believe you weren’t just another distraction or a decoration in the grand scheme of things. 

You took a deep inhale through your nose, letting the frost steady you before trying again, only this time… quieter. “Bucky, you want to help. Please, let me help.” 

In your heart, you swore something warm flashed behind his eyes. A rare flicker of the outer blue ring brightens. Your chest ached for him. But you stepped closer, and his walls went back up, just as quickly as Christmas crumbled around you. 

“No,” he took a step back, almost knocking into a star. Fists balled at his side, his knuckles whitened as if silver seams of frost had glanced over them. “It’s too unpredictable. Malyshka, it’s too dangerous. You won’t be able to deal with… you, too.” 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

You.

He won’t be able to deal with… you?

Were you the problem?

Did you being around make things worse?

“You can see your brain working, don’t take that the wrong way. You just—you don’t get it.” He shut his eyes. Shoulders slumped as a long, pained sigh left his chest. “I’m trying to save Christmas, save the Workshop, save him, and save—” He shook his head, swallowing the next word. 

“Believe me, Bucky. I get it. I might not be in line to be ‘Father Christmas’ one day, but you understand the importance of the role. The happiness, jolly spirit of the holiday. It’s literally engraved in my family line.” You reached out without thinking, and your fingertips brushed against his bicep. 

He froze.

You continued in a whisper. “This isn’t your problem to fix. But if you want to try, then you can’t do it alone. Nobody would expect you to do it alone.” 

Bucky looked behind you, toward your grandfather. His shoulders dropped into an almost complete surrender. He would never confirm it, but the smallest muscle in Bucky's cheek twitched into a smile.

“Stay out of trouble,” he demanded, though it felt like more of a request than an order from a sergeant.

You nodded, turning to take one last look at your grandfather before you headed back toward the Workshop floor. Before you could leave, your hand curled out the door handle, and Bucky's voice echoed through the Mailing Room. 

“And Malyshka… don’t go far. Christmas might need you.” 

Not turning back to let him see, you smiled.

Christmas might need you.

My grandfather might need you. Bucky might need you.

Masterlist | Next Part Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

[delicatebarness]

𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 || 𝑩𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔

Summary: Making your way towards the Workshop, you clutch an invitation to your birthday ball close to your chest. The name embossed on the front is his. But when you arrive, you find the Workshop in chaos.

Warnings: Familial Illness | Emotional Distress and Environment Chaos | Angst | Miscommunication | Holiday Spirit | Bucky Barnes' bicep touching | If I've missed anything, please let me know

Word Count: 2.5K

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two

A/N: I have been obsessed with this idea since it randomly came out of nowhere one evening while taking a bath. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

Soldier for Christmas: Let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

The North Pole felt different this early evening. It was busier, noisier. Snow floated down in lazy twirls around your boots, and as you exhaled, glittering puffs of your breath caught in the twinkle lights lining the path toward the Workshop.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that there are only six weeks left until the big night. 

But then, that means… There are only six weeks and a day until your big night. 

And you still have one question, one bold question, to ask. The name carved in silver writing caused your heart to flutter with nerves as you clutched the wisteria blue envelope in your gloved hands.

You paused when reaching the doors of the Workshop. 

The air around it felt wrong. As if someone had turned down the lights, muted the music. Has someone shaken the snow globe that it sat in? The silhouette remained the same: beams made from candy-cane, frost covering the windows. 

“Are you kidding me?” An unmistakable, irritated voice bellowed from the opposite side of the door. “No! Don’t—”

Suddenly, it sounded like it had all erupted into chaos with elves shouting over tool clattering. 

“Why would you—okay—for Krampus' sake.” 

You curled your fingers around the carved wooden handle, and when you pushed the door open, your suspicions were right. A storm of panic. But why? There were still six weeks left. 

Toys were sparking and sputtering. A wooden horse galloped past you on one leg. Something told you to look up, and when you did, you were greeted by an elf dangling from the ceiling, tinsel wrapped around their ankle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you whispered as they spun slowly, calling out for someone to cut them down. You rushed up the step ladder to reach them as another elf cried underneath into a pile of crumbled gingerbread houses.

From the height of the ladder, you could oversee the entire Workshop. And in the eye of the hurricane, there he stood. 

Bucky Barnes. 

His back and, by far, the most important part, broad shoulders were to you. His muscles tense beneath the thick navy knitted tactical uniform of all the winter’s soldiers. His, however, was graced with a shimmering silver sergeant’s star.

Long dark brunette hair was tangled from where he’d been combing his hands through. That was another thing that set him apart from any other soldier—brunette hair was the rarest in the North Pole.

At least six panicking elves surrounded him, clipboards shoving into his thighs and malfunctioning toys crashing into his ankles. And then, hearing the elf thank you for helping them with the tinsel, Bucky pivots sharply.

His piercing blue eyes landed on you.

He sees you… and freezes. 

You offer him a practiced smile despite your voice breaking as you greet him. “H-Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes close slowly, jaw tightening. There’s a tick in the muscle before he mutters something under his breath. It suspiciously sounded like ‘Of course, she’s here.’

He cleared his throat. “Malyshka,” his voice was low, gravelly, and filled with exhaustion. “It’s not… Now isn’t a great time.” 

“That’s alright,” you say, climbing down the ladder with an elf’s arms wrapped around your neck like a scarf, careful not to slip on spilt Black Forest Gateau hot chocolate after the last step. “I can help.” 

“No.” He fires back in an instant. “Thank you, Malyshka. But no, you can’t. I don’t need any more help today. I’ve had more than enough!”

“Sergeant,” an elf tugs on his sleeve. “We have a nutcracker battalion staging a coup.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath and again muttering under his breath: “Of course, they are.” 

You take a step closer to him, helping the elf down as you do. “What’s going on, Bucky?” 

For another breath, he hesitates, but then he lets the tough exterior falter. Just a little, snowflake sized amount. “The magic is flickering,” he sighs quietly, just enough that only you can hear him. “We’re losing power. The enchantments on the toys aren’t holding. As you can see around, the lights are dimming. And Nicholas—”

He pauses.

There’s a knot tightening in your lower stomach. “What about my grandfather?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks as he looks away. “Come with me.” 

The room was always the most breathtaking to you. It was usually filled with floating stars fueled by the magic of wish lists. But today, the stars were flickering, their light dimming for seconds at a time.

Some were extinguished entirely. 

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat as you looked toward the far end of the room. And, on the other side of the frosted glass door,  resting on a grand snow-crystalled armchair, carved from ice, sat your grandfather. 

Saint Nicholas.

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to hide your shocked expression. My grandfather’s face was pale, his beard dull as if someone had drained the sparkles from it. 

“Bucky… he looks—” 

“Terrible,” Bucky muttered. He paced, dodging falling stars. “Doctor Finkel has been to see him this morning and came to the conclusion that it’s not any illness.” 

You frowned. “What’s wrong with him then?”

“Depleting. He’s overworked, too many lists coming through but not enough magic being generated.” Bucky replied, walking through the path of darkened stars fallen onto the snow covered floor. “Something’s blocking the magic; it’s not restoring itself, which means wishes aren’t being granted.” 

You followed Bucky, placing your palm beneath a slow-falling star. It felt cold, heavy. “What if it’s not magic…” You whispered, more to myself, but Bucky’s hearing was above average. 

He stood still in front of you. 

“No,” he muttered, letting the soft hum of the lights settle around us for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ve checked everything. Letters, dreams… everything is accounted for.”

“I think—no, you’re right,” you say lightly, an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s probably just the magic fading.” 

“Malyshka—”

You felt your cheeks rush with a heat.

Bucky was the only one in the North Pole who called you Malyshka. Everyone else, even your grandfather, calls me by my birth name. But, no matter how often you tell Bucky that he doesn’t have to call you by that name, he does. It both irritates you and makes your stomach feel like a frostbitten leaf quivering in the wind. 

“What do you think?” Bucky had turned to look down at you, his voice bringing you back to reality.

“It might sound stupid, but what if there’s a list that hasn’t been checked… twice?” You bit your lip, hiding a laugh that you hadn’t expected to surface but after the unintentional pun, you had no control. 

Bucky’s glare sharpened.

“You can’t believe you’re making jokes, right now.” Bucky took a step back from you, his hand raised and gesturing toward you. “Do you think this is funny?”

“N-no,” you say softly, biting your lip again to hide your smile. “I just think you’re overwhelmed, Frosty.” 

He blinked. 

Then, there was a bob in his throat.

No one called him ‘Frosty’. Barely anyone even referred to him by his forename or surname. It’s always either Bucky, Boss, or Sergeant. 

“Please don’t start this again, Malyshka. you haven’t slept. I’ve got to go back out there and deal with unionized nutcrackers, Baster’s left me with a list that is the length of Russia… and back. Then, there’s your grandfather over there.” 

You kept your hand under the star, holding it afloat as you guided it down between us. The dull light cast shadows across his features. His jaw sharpened with a deepening scowl. “We’ll figure it out… together.” 

“Why’d you come down here today, Malyshka?” he asks, suspicion laced in his tone.

My eyes widened slightly in panic.

Oh no. 

Lie. Lie to him, right now. And, be convincing. 

You weren’t expecting him here, and especially not when here is in the state he is currently. 

And then suddenly, the invitation in the inside pocket of your coat felt heavy. His embossed name pressed against your ribs, burning with every breath. How do you tell him that you came here ready to ask him to your Birthday Ball on the 26th? That your heart fluttered as you rehearsed the lines I’d say to him at this very moment. 

But now, standing with him while your grandfather’s spirit begins to fade, the old man sat sipping his milk and a shot of brandy. The rest of the Workshop is in shambles. 

It was obvious, this was not the moment.

You cleared your throat, subtly wrapping your blue and white coat tighter around your body. Hoping the envelope would hide deeper into the fold… hoping Bucky would see the trembling in your hand.

“I—” you took a pause, mentally rummaging through your thoughts for anything. Absolutely anything. “You see, I, um—you wanted to check on progress, make sure all the Christmas Eve arrangements were in order. You know… doing my family duties.” 

His brow furrowed. “You came all the way down here just to ‘check on’ things?” 

You agreed, nodding your head far too hastily to be convincing in any way possible. “Yes! Of course! Just… the routine… checking.” You forced a smile so bright you thought you were about to melt the entire North Pole. 

“Well, great,” Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, scratching gently at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Perfect timing as always, Malyshka.” 

“Wait a minute, was that? Bucky Barnes—sergeant of the S.A.N.T.A squadron of the North Pole—speaking with sarcasm?” you said in a sweet tone, not being able to hide the slight singsong behind the words.

He snapped a ‘Yes.’ without hesitation. 

You tried not to laugh again. It wasn’t the time nor the place. 

But he noticed. 

He definitely noticed.

Bucky’s expression shifted, as if any light that was left inside him had evaporated. The tension in his shoulders returned, and irritation twitched on his upper lip. You followed him through the rest of the Mailing Room, noting how the fallen star now hovered in the space you had occupied. The four walls seem less hollow, less wounded now; it shone a smidge brighter. 

“This is really, really bad,” you whispered, watching your once full-of-life grandfather now sitting without a single ounce of jolly in him. 

“No kidding,” Bucky mumbled behind you. You inspected his reflection in the glass, his eyes not once dropping from your grandfather. But his lips were pressed in a tight line.

A quiet moment passed.

We both basked in the silence. Bucky needed that. A chance of a break. Peace. Even if that was only briefly. The man had seen almost every inch of this world, and stayed loyal to his position at the North Pole and your family for as long as you could remember. 

You're surprised he hasn’t pulled up a chair beside your grandfather and called it a day. Just to stand by his side. But then again, that wasn’t Bucky Frost. You doubt that even now, he’s using this time to ease the pressure off his mind.

Then, as soon as you had that thought, Bucky broke the silence.

“You don’t know how to fix this.” 

The cold air hit your lungs heavier than ever as you held a breath. My finger tips pressed gently against the glass door as your mind went back to the invitation in your pocket.

You had never felt so stupid for wanting. No, hoping for something. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you say wholeheartedly, your voice softening as you turn to face him.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and startled like a reindeer caught in the sleigh lights, just by the softness towards him.

“Don’t—Don’t be sorry,” he whispered gently, turning his head towards the door of the workshop. His voice returned to his usually authoritative tone. “Just don’t get in my way.” 

On any other day, his total disregard for your feelings would annoy you. Break your heart if you're being honest. You had spent many nights wondering, crying over the fact that Bucky Barnes didn’t see you as you saw him. 

To him, you were nothing more than his boss’s granddaughter who just smiled, sang, and skated around the ice. But you are more than that. He just doesn’t let you in long enough for him to see that. To see you. 

It should have been worrisome that no matter how many times he pushed you away, using clipped words and hardened stares, you always came back. But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to believe you weren’t just another distraction or a decoration in the grand scheme of things. 

You took a deep inhale through your nose, letting the frost steady you before trying again, only this time… quieter. “Bucky, you want to help. Please, let me help.” 

In your heart, you swore something warm flashed behind his eyes. A rare flicker of the outer blue ring brightens. Your chest ached for him. But you stepped closer, and his walls went back up, just as quickly as Christmas crumbled around you. 

“No,” he took a step back, almost knocking into a star. Fists balled at his side, his knuckles whitened as if silver seams of frost had glanced over them. “It’s too unpredictable. Malyshka, it’s too dangerous. You won’t be able to deal with… you, too.” 

Your heart felt like it skipped a beat.

You.

He won’t be able to deal with… you?

Were you the problem?

Did you being around make things worse?

“You can see your brain working, don’t take that the wrong way. You just—you don’t get it.” He shut his eyes. Shoulders slumped as a long, pained sigh left his chest. “I’m trying to save Christmas, save the Workshop, save him, and save—” He shook his head, swallowing the next word. 

“Believe me, Bucky. I get it. I might not be in line to be ‘Father Christmas’ one day, but you understand the importance of the role. The happiness, jolly spirit of the holiday. It’s literally engraved in my family line.” You reached out without thinking, and your fingertips brushed against his bicep. 

He froze.

You continued in a whisper. “This isn’t your problem to fix. But if you want to try, then you can’t do it alone. Nobody would expect you to do it alone.” 

Bucky looked behind you, toward your grandfather. His shoulders dropped into an almost complete surrender. He would never confirm it, but the smallest muscle in Bucky's cheek twitched into a smile.

“Stay out of trouble,” he demanded, though it felt like more of a request than an order from a sergeant.

You nodded, turning to take one last look at your grandfather before you headed back toward the Workshop floor. Before you could leave, your hand curled out the door handle, and Bucky's voice echoed through the Mailing Room. 

“And Malyshka… don’t go far. Christmas might need you.” 

Not turning back to let him see, you smiled.

Christmas might need you.

Your grandfather might need you.

Bucky might need you.

Masterlist | Next Part Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. I would appreciate it if you could reblog, like, and/or comment. ♡

[delicatebarness]

I’m hoping to post the first part of my bucky x reader Christmas fic tomorrow 🤭

[delicatebarness]

A Christmas Fic??

Hi everyone, sorry I’ve been MIA recently. There’s just been so much happening irl.

However I am here and literally just thought of this idea about an hour ago in the bath and want to know what you think.

• Bucky x Reader

• Reader is the Princess of the North, known as the Ice Princess, and Bucky is a ‘Winter Soldier’ in the north.

Reader makes her way toward the workshop where she knows Bucky helps guard, especially so close to Christmas, with an invitation for Bucky—to be her plus one to her parents ‘December 26th Ball’.

However when she arrives, the workshop is fallen into chaos. And not the usually lead up to Christmas chaos. Saint Nic has became ill, and caused the Christmas magic to falter, meaning no Christmas wishes are being granted.

Bucky and Reader then decide to save Christmas, they will work together to grant the wishes.

And all is well, until there ONE wish, they struggle to find.

Would you read?

Yes

No

I’d give it a try

Voting ended onNov 7, 2025

[delicatebarness]

Soooo that’s a yes? 🤭

[delicatebarness]

A Christmas Fic??

Hi everyone, sorry I’ve been MIA recently. There’s just been so much happening irl.

However I am here and literally just thought of this idea about an hour ago in the bath and want to know what you think.

• Bucky x Reader

• Reader is the Princess of the North, known as the Ice Princess, and Bucky is a ‘Winter Soldier’ in the north.

Reader makes her way toward the workshop where she knows Bucky helps guard, especially so close to Christmas, with an invitation for Bucky—to be her plus one to her parents ‘December 26th Ball’.

However when she arrives, the workshop is fallen into chaos. And not the usually lead up to Christmas chaos. Saint Nic has became ill, and caused the Christmas magic to falter, meaning no Christmas wishes are being granted.

Bucky and Reader then decide to save Christmas, they will work together to grant the wishes.

And all is well, until there ONE wish, they struggle to find.

Would you read?

Yes

No

I’d give it a try

Voting ended onNov 7, 2025

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan talking about learning Spanish for his role in Felipe Gálvez’s new film: “I said to him, ‘We’re doing this. You’re not using AI.”

[delicatebarness]

Walker: You know, eating too much cheese can be bad for you.

Y/N: Wanna know what else is bad for me?

Walker: …

Y/N: Men. But I still get on my knees every night and shove your dick down my throat, don’t I?

Walker: …

Bucky: …

Yelena: …

Bob: She’s trying to say—

Walker: I KNOW WHAT SHES TRYING TO SAY THANK YOU BOB!!

[delicatebarness]

My toxic trait is that I believe I could fix Bucky by bouncing on it