1st Floor: hi! i'm Cas! i'm 18, a professional fan girl, Sebastian Stan's controversially young gf and a virgo sun & aries rising! I love books, music, and pancakes :) enjoy!
2nd Floor: latest ~ masterlist ~ taglist
3rd Floor: MDNI! Send in requests or asks if you feel like it!
thinking about creating a fic series that would be (obviously) Bucky x reader but where reader is an ex-widow and defected at a younger age and Clint and Natasha (not romanticly) are her legal guardians (because Clint helped her escape the red room the same way he helped Nat) and the three of them + Yelena are super sibling coded
and it would kinda be sunshine!reader x grumpy!Bucky and also she fell first he fell harder...
note: the flashbacks would be have the reader be a teen but the main story aspect would be happening 10ish years later
I'm going to start reblogging fics that I love but i'm unsure if I should be reblogging here or my reading account (CasBookmarked), any thoughts?
And since i'm barely going to start reblogging now there's probably gonna be a TON of fics that i'm not going to be able to give justice just because I read them so long ago 💔💔 but if anybody needs fic recs or writer recs definitely ask because I read A LOT
P.S. I have been going through some mental health struggles which is why I haven't wrote anything in a while but I fee myself slowly coming out from my slump so hopefully new fics soon and also potentially a new WIP list 💕💕
Please read the warnings before reading any FF. Most of them are +18 and Of course Bucky
<part9...
February - March 2026
by @nicks-fowler
⚛️ just this once | nick fowler x reader | it has been four months since nick disappeared from your life. you scout out a club where a transaction is to take place, when you are grabbed and pulled into a backroom.
⚛️ bitten once, twice saved | +18 | Mob!Bucky | the promise of takeout from your boyfriend sends you into the dark underbelly of New York when you meet the infamous Mob King of Brooklyn.
⚛️ It's give and take | +18 | Mob!Bucky | James Buchanan Barnes, head mobster of Brooklyn, has a regularly scheduled date night with his girlfriend.
⚛️ tws!bucky | you meet a silent man in the streets of bucharest, it becomes your personal mission to break through his shell
⚛️ the last night & part 2 | 40s!Bucky | Sergeant James Barnes is due to be deployed from England to Italy, for their final night he and 107th visit a local pub for one last hurrah to temper their nerves and fear.
⚛️ the unfathomable deception | +18
⚛️ i'm fakin' | +18 | you aren't sure how you ended up bare, on your knees before your boyfriend lover, but you know you are never faking it again
⚛️ behind the wheel | +18 | in the aftermath of a crash, your last hope is a small garage set aside from the main city. there you leave your precious car left in the hands of a grease covered man with a charming smile.
by @navybrat817
⚛️ A Plum a Day | +18 | You wake up beside Bucky, but you don't know how you got there.
⚛️ Not Just Friends | +18 | You're Bucky's friend, and, yeah, sometimes you sleep together. Why can't he tell you that he wants something more?
⚛️ feral | +18 | Bucky gets a little feral now and then.
⚛️Sweet Like Honey | +18 | Bucky begs to have a taste when he gets home.
⚛️ Ride It | +18 | Bucky encourages you to take what you want.
⚛️ bad at talking by @metal-armed-muse | +18 | bfd!Bucky | maybe blurting out “i love you” in the middle of sex was not your best moment. but he’s your best friend’s dad. shouldn’t he know better?
by @godmadeaterribleerror
⚛️ bucky yearning
⚛️ Mine | +18
⚛️ Keep Still | +18
⚛️ Wrecked | +18
⚛️ Temptation | +18 | dbf!Bucky
⚛️ Bite Your Lip | +18
⚛️ Sit Down, Doll | +18
⚛️ The Caring of Bucky Barnes' Hair | +18
⚛️ His Hands | +18
⚛️ When He Gets Back From a Mission | +18
⚛️ His Favorite Gift | +18 | On Christmas, the only thing Bucky needs is you.
⚛️ Cold Eyes, Warm Hands | +18 | You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?
⚛️ Can You Feel It | +18 | You fall in deep, deep love with Bucky Barnes. But you keep it far, far down. Everyone thinks he feels something back, but you don't believe them. Until something shifts. And Bucky might feel just as much as you.
by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two
⚛️ Rough it up a little bit | +18 | can you pls write about asking nerdy bucky to dom reader? like hair pulling, dirty talk, spanking, marking, all that? i’d love to see his reaction to being asked for that
⚛️ Lexi | Y/N and Bucky are in love with each other, everybody knows but they don't yet… or maybe they do. Y/N is beautiful and she’s not afraid to tell it. Bucky stopped being the HYDRA experiment and now is a little chubby, but still handsome. Someone want to destroy this balance.
⚛️ The Real Deal by @kissedbycas | mostly comfort | On the day of your wedding, nerves hit; not because you doubt loving Bucky, but because you’re afraid of being known. Luckily, he reminds you that marriage isn’t about perfection; it’s about choosing each other and accepting the things we learn to live with
⚛️ amongst everyone by @aceofheartsssss | The very concept of this new man was alluring to you, like a moth to a flame.
⚛️ Ashes to Ashes by @phoenix-in-writing | +18 | Priest!Bucky Barnes | In light of the first day of Lent, you and Father Barnes make a particularly difficult decision on what to give up for the next forty days. Part of my Priest!Bucky series.
⚛️ Having sex in the car by @slutdier | +18
⚛️ When You Know by @shotinthedcrk | fluff | "I can hardly wait to put a ring on that finger"
⚛️ SUMMER NIGHTS by @planetbucky | +18 | don't you know that hot summer nights should be spent fucking with your older boyfriend?
⚛️ he’s mean by @reositos | +18
⚛️House Tour by @brunchable | +18 | You've gotten to know Bucky and you have an obvious connection. You get along, share interests, talk and flirt easily. You can tell he's attracted to you, but he is just too polite. And you don't want him to be polite, you want his hands all over you, doing things far from polite. . .so what's better than a little house tour?
⚛️ Warm Bed, Warmer Mouth by @sunday-bug | +18 | Lee Bodecker x Reader | Sheriff Bodecker can't keep it in his pants for his new secretary, and his mom just wants him to meet a nice gal.
⚛️ He's Just Watching Out by @castielscaplan | He's watching you. For several nights. He finally tells you why.
by @blowingbarnes
⚛️ Deserving | +18 | You brat out and now Bucky needs to show you you can’t have everything you want.
⚛️ Only Ever You - Part 2 | +18 | now you have to deal with the aftermath of both of your actions… ish.
⚛️ Lead Us Not Into Temptation | +18 | You had transferred from St. Magdalene's to Our Lady of the Holy Grace, and you didn't think your first assignment would make you second guess your vows so quick. In your defense, neither did Father Barnes.
⚛️ I Wanna Feel You From The Inside | +18 | You and Bucky get stuck in a snowstorm at an old safe house after you get hit with sex pollen while doing recon in an old HYDRA base in Siberia.
⚛️ Down Bad | +18 | You were never the same after the first night the Soldat visited you.
⚛️ Religion's In Your Lips | +18 | Bucky didn't let you finish prepping for his big Veteran's Committee meeting, so you show him exactly why surprises are no good in situations like this.
by @knowledgeableknitter
⚛️ Isn't it Obvious? | Bucky is recognized in a bar, you confront (and punch) the drunkard who made a hurtful ‘Winter Soldier’ comment. Bucky pulls you away and asks why you care so much. Isn’t it obvious?
⚛️ Caught | +18 | You. Are. Frustrated. You just can't seem to find release. So when you come across Bucky's motorcycle jacket in the common room, you just can't help yourself... But what happens when he finds you?
⚛️ Movi e Night In by @stanmarvelous | Lee Bodecker x Reader | fluff
⚛️ Blurred Lines by @tw1sters | +18 | You've been dancing around this thing with your dad's best friend for far too long — glances that last more than a heartbeat, flirty remarks that toe the line of propriety. It was only ever a matter of time before it snapped.
⚛️ FORTY-SEVEN SECONDS by @harveystan
⚛️ Muscle Memory by @wildflowersandvibranium | +18 | In a town that never forgets , she thought she could hide the bruises behind a perfect smile and life. But someone from her past sees too much—and remembers everything.
⚛️ straight line to you by @theoracleofsin | +18 | Nick Fowler x Reader | "Our wedding vows were whispered over your sister's grave. She was just practice for you."
⚛️ Caught by @bloomedaster | +18 | One night you think you're alone in the tower but you find a certain avenger alone sitting in front of a computer screen.
by @quantumbarnes
⚛️ Roommate!Bucky | +18
⚛️ James Buchanan "Boob Guy" Barnes | +18
⚛️ Backstreets and Backseats | +18 | The cameras can wait. He wants you. Now. And he always gets what he wants.
⚛️ threesome by @buckybsdoll | +18 | stucky | Bucky & Steve taking turns with you
⚛️ cheap shot part 2 by @rosemary-beach-babe | Bucky has zero problem using your secret relationship as a tactical advantage in laser tag. A dark corner, a stolen kiss, and he's walking away with the kill.
⚛️ Like a Spider by @tallaennatargaryen | Bucky finds out you've been spending your own money.
⚛️ Yours Truly by @satlun | fluff | As a political science student fortunate enough to become an assistant to Congressman Barnes, professionalism is essential in this field of work. It seems you have been doing well at it, too, until one night, when red wine clouds your head with fantasies about him. Later that evening, an email, written so professionally with your true intentions, is sent to him under the subject of: Urgent Matter Requiring Immediate Attention.
⚛️ 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 by @lunexiax | +18 | It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
⚛️ The Maid by @mickimoo1409 | +18 | Steve Kemp x Reader | He saved you, he found you and gave you a reason to live, even if it came with threats of death. After two years, your dynamic begins to change.
⚛️ bite the hand by @nonotwithoutu | +18 | Steve Kemp x Reader | When you signed on as a QA at a local hospital, you hadn't expected it to be anything more than the monotonous trade-off of paperwork, clinical reviews, and long advocacy meetings. But when you start suspecting one of the area's most lauded physicians of doing things that surely break his medical oath in his free time, you're morally obligated to report him.
⚛️ Like That Rush by @singulartoast | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | Nick had a bad day. You take him to the edge and drag him over.
⚛️ virgin by @heldbybarnes | +18 | Bucky dating a girl who’s a virgin and she begs him to let her suck his cock when they’re in the middle of a make out session and he’s surprised to see good she is at it.
⚛️ beginning by @barnesdreamcatcher | you move into the apartment next door—and you don’t let him run away even though it’s all he wants to do.
⚛️ bf!bucky by @bittersweetlyblue
⚛️ The Arrangement by @castielscaplan | fluff | Mafia Bucky in an arranged marriage and he avoids her because he's supposed to be this suave debonair guy and he just... isn't. His public persona is solid. He runs his business with an iron (vibranium) fist but when it comes to women he is a hot mess and struggles so he just doesn't get involved. But now he has no choice.
⚛️ Anxiety Lingers by @breadohz
⚛️ extra extra by @sheriff-bodecker | fluff | bucky helps look after you while you’re sick (and you just can't get enough of neighbourhood gossip).
⚛️ "do it f'me?" by @flockoff-featherface | +18
⚛️ Silence by @chateaubarnes
⚛️ changing by @sf26
⚛️ Scammer alert! by @herejustforbuckybarnes | Bucky is an online scammer, and halfway through trying to scam you, he starts flirting and ends up asking you out.
⚛️ Christmas Cheer by @vunblr | +18 | Who would have thought that Santa helpers were real, not so little, and had a big appetite?
⚛️ Show me your teeth by @gemmawritess | +18 | There's been talk of vampires walking amongst your small town, no one knows you have evidence of a vampire on your skin but something in you is wanting to have this beast as your own.
⚛️ In Sickness and In Health by @buckytakethewheel | fluff | "Stop pretending you’re fine. You’re bleeding."
⚛️ 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 by @buckyshusband0 | Nick Fowler x Male Reader | After not being able to handle the mafia king's lifestyle, you end up parting ways due to the blood on his hands. Nick refuses to accept the hard truth, which turns his love into heartbreak and grief.
⚛️ Messy Kisses by @societyfolklore | +18 | Lee Bodecker x Reader
⚛️ soft things by @sweet-pea-writes
⚛️ the heat of him by @witchywithwhiskey | +18 | when congressman bucky barnes sees you've forgotten gloves during a blizzard, he insists on keeping you warm.
Summary: Your relationship is haunted by the ghost of the person you want most.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: ~2k
Content Contains: 2nd person POV, no use of Y/N (i think), female reader implied (although I don’t think theres any super gender specific moments) hurt/no comfort, established relationship with unnamed man, yearning, angst, smut (Not detailed, but mentions of coming, etc), based off the Lizzie McAlpine song (obviously), mentions of feeling used, reader not in love with boyfriend but reader doesn't end up with Bucky regardless, emotionally cheating but not really, not beta read, we die like men, and I think thats it! :)
Author’s Note: Hi guys! I’m back! I’ve had a super busy week, hence not posting, but I’ve been able to sit down this weekend! Pushing It Down and Praying is one of my absolute favorite songs, so I thought it would be good to write about it, especially since music is a really big part of who I am. So obviously, this fic is based heavily on the song. First time writing hurt/no comfort, so I hope this makes the cut since there's technically no actual resolve. It's definitely not as gut-wrenching as other fics I’ve seen, but I guess that could be a good thing depending on your view of things. If you have any tips on how to make something more angsty, let me know!! Anyway, enjoy!
I'm in bed, layin' down, naked
He's inside of me
I love him, kiss his mouth, prayin'
He can't see what I see
The room is dark except for the thin line of streetlight slipping through the blinds, cutting the ceiling into pale, uneven stripes.
The silence is deafening. Not the peaceful quiet. Not the kind you used to chase on early mornings with the windows open and the sound of traffic far below. This quiet is heavy. Airless. The kind that presses down on your chest until breathing feels like work.
Skin against skin. His hands are running over your body like he’s trying to memorize something that belongs to him.
The thought lands flat. Clinical and detached. Like reading off a medical chart.
You stare at the ceiling and try to match your breathing to his, try to feel something resembling closeness, warmth, want, lust, anything. He moans your name like it means more than it does, like it’s supposed to anchor you here, in this moment, in this bed. His bed.
It doesn’t.
You let it happen. All of it. He hits all the right places. He does everything right. Careful hands, practiced rhythm, the kind of attentiveness people talk about like it’s the secret to intimacy.
But still, something is wrong.
You said yes to this.
You said yes because yes was easier than explaining the hollow space you’ve been carrying around for months, years. Because yes meant maybe you’d start to feel normal again. Because yes meant you wouldn’t have to think about the way silence can feel louder than a gunshot ringing out.
But you have never felt more used.
Not by him. He doesn’t know. But he’s trying. And that’s almost worse.
You hear your own moans, and it doesn’t sound like your voice
It’s soft and breathless in all the right places. It’s beyond convincing.
You wonder if actors feel like this. If they ever forget which parts are real and which parts are scripted.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, kisses littering your skin in a way that's disgustingly romantic, but just makes the pit in your stomach grow. He thinks this is closeness. He thinks this is connection. You nod when he searches your face, like you’re agreeing to something unspoken.
You feel like you’re apologizing for a lie he doesn’t know you’re telling.
So you close your eyes.
And everything breaks.
When I close my eyes
You replace him
Wearin' no disguise
You erase him
There’s music playing from a record player that keeps crackling because it’s ancient. It's old and scratchy, but you let it play since Bucky insists it “sounds better this way.” The counter is cluttered with ingredients neither of you measured properly with cups or spoons, but instead with “your heart.” The kitchen smells like garlic and butter and something burning because Bucky got distracted halfway through stirring.
“You’re supposed to watch it,” you laugh, nudging his shoulder.
“I am watching it,” he insists, already abandoning the pan to reach for you instead.
“You’re terrible at multitasking,” you mutter.
“Says the person who walked into a cabinet door this morning.”
“That was one time.”
He spins you before you can finish, socked feet sliding across tile, his hand warm and steady at your waist. There’s no real dancing, just swaying and bumping into things and laughing too loudly for a random Sunday night.
“You’re gonna ruin dinner,” you warn.
“Worth it.”
Bucky presses his forehead to yours like it’s the most natural place in the world to rest, your lips just barely parted. It’s like a scene from every romantic comedy
You remember thinking then; This. This is it. This is what peace feels like.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling is still there. The wrong arms are still around you.
He whispers something against your neck. You don’t catch the words. You don’t try to.
You nod when it feels like you’re supposed to nod. You make sounds when it feels like he expects them. Clench around him when he’s close. You participate in the shape of this moment without ever actually being inside it.
Because the second you let your mind drift, even if just a little, you’re somewhere else again.
I'm in bed, layin' down, naked
You're inside of me
I love him, kiss his mouth, sayin'
"Oh yeah, baby, touch and touch and touch and touch me."
The city is loud in that comforting way, taxis honking, people arguing, someone playing music too loudly down the block. Your hand is tucked into his jacket pocket because you refused to bring gloves, and he refused to let you pretend you weren’t cold.
“I’m not cold,” you insist, shaking from the cold.
“You’re shivering.”
“Am not.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound visible in the winter air, and pulls you closer as you walk.
You pass a bakery, and he slows down.
“You want something.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You looked at it.”
“I glanced.”
“Good enough reason.”
It is, apparently, because five minutes later you’re standing on the sidewalk with a paper bag between you, sharing something warm and sweet, sugar decorating your lips while snow starts to fall in soft, uncertain flurries.
You look at him and remember thinking, I could do this forever.
He looks at you like he already decided he would.
You also remember not realizing moments like these could end.
You blink back into the present, and your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.
You’re not there.
You’re here.
And here feels like falling.
I wanna feel guilty
I wanna feel that it's wrong
I wanna know peace again
Wanna sing a different song
You thought guilt would come.
You thought it would claw at you, make this stop, make you pull away, make you confess something, that would at least make the ache honest.
But guilt requires caring about what you’re doing.
This?
This just feels like disappearing.
He says your name again, softer this time, like he’s checking if you’re still with him.
You aren’t.
You haven’t been for months.
You move because he expects you to. Because you remember how to mirror affection even when you don’t feel like it. Because stopping would mean admitting that there’s a ghost between you and there always will be.
The ghost of someone who might never be here again.
You focus on the wall. On the sound of breathing. On the sound of skin hitting skin. On the fire that’s rapidly growing as you tunnel towards your peak. On anything but the memories.
It doesn’t work.
There was a night when neither of you could sleep. No missions. No crisis. Just restlessness from days spent doing nothing, after doing everything.
He found you sitting on the fire escape, staring out at the city like you were waiting for it to say something back.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, lowering himself beside you.
“You ever feel like if you stop moving, everything catches up to you?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
No fixing. No advice. Just understanding.
You leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, the quiet stretching comfortably between you.
“You don’t have to outrun it,” he added after a while. “Not alone.”
You remember believing him.
After a while, he rested his head against yours.
Not asking.
Just trusting you’d stay.
You did.
You always did.
Until you couldn’t anymore.
That was your first mistake.
The present rushes back in like cold water.
Now every second feels like something you’re trying to outlast.
Softer, harder, in between
You know just how to get to me
He is stable, you are deep
I know just how to get what I need
Stable.
That’s what this is.
Predictable. Careful. Measured.
He asks what you like. He listens. He adjusts. He tries so hard to be good to you that it makes your throat ache.
Because depth was never careful.
Depth was messy laughter in the middle of arguments. Burnt dinners eaten anyway. Long walks with no destination in mind. Sitting in silence that never needed to be filled.
Depth was feeling seen without performing.
You don’t feel seen now.
You feel accommodated.
There’s a difference.
And it makes you feel ungrateful. Broken. Impossible to love correctly.
You focus on breathing. On surviving the moment. On getting through it without letting your face betray you.
Because if you let yourself feel it fully, feel how wrong this is, feel how empty you are, feel how badly you still miss someone you’re not supposed to miss, you might just shatter right here.
And you don’t know how to explain that kind of damage.
It's only a question
If somebody brings it up
So, I'm pushin' it down and prayin'
He won't see it when I come
You’ve become very good at pushing.
Pushing memories down.
Pushing grief down.
Pushing his name down until it feels dangerous to even think it.
Bucky.
The name echoes anyway.
It lives in the spaces you can’t control, between heartbeats, in the pauses of conversation, in the split second before you fall asleep.
You wonder if he ever thinks of you.
You hope he doesn’t.
You hope he’s found something better.
You hope he’s not doing this to himself too.
Now, there is no quiet.
Only motion. Only noise. Only the sound of trying to convince yourself this is enough.
He gives what he can.
You know that.
That might be the cruelest part of all.
Because what he’s giving should be enough. It would be enough for someone else. Someone who hadn’t already learned the shape of different hands, a different voice, a different kind of care that didn’t feel like something you had to accept, it just existed.
You try to feel guilty.
You want to feel like this is wrong.
But mostly you just feel empty.
And underneath that emptiness is something worse: longing that refuses to die, no matter how deeply you try to bury it.
He says your name again, softer now, like he thinks he’s done something right.
You kiss him because that’s what this moment asks of you.
Because it’s easier to pretend than to explain why your eyes are burning.
Because if you stop, if you let yourself think too hard about the absence sitting between every heartbeat, you’re afraid you won’t be able to start again.
You come hard. His body on yours, your hands in his hair, but Bucky’s name on your tongue. Not out loud but right where you’ve pushed it down.
The moment finally ends. Or maybe it just fades.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder like a thank-you. Like this meant something shared.
You stare at the wall.
You feel farther away now than you did before.
He asks if you’re okay.
You say yes.
You always say yes.
Because the truth would sound like:
“I left my heart with him and it never learned how to come back.”
You lie there long after he falls asleep.
Eyes open.
Legs sore.
Chest hollow.
Memories louder than anything in the room.
And you realize, with a kind of quiet horror, that this isn’t healing.
It isn’t moving on.
It’s just learning how to live with the absence.
How to breathe around it.
How to keep going while part of you is still standing in a kitchen that no longer exists, dancing with someone you can’t reach, holding onto a life that kept moving without you.
You don’t cry.
That would mean there’s still something left to release.
Instead, you close your eyes
You push it down.
You swallow it.
You let the memories blur at the edges without ever really leaving. and let the ache stay exactly where it is.
Lastly, you pray
not for love,
not for clarity,
not even for him
but that he won’t see it on your face.
That he won’t notice you’re somewhere else entirely.
That he won’t realize there has been a ghost in this room the entire time.
Author’s Note: I was actually talking to my friends a couple weeks back and we were expressing whether on not we like hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort more and at that point I was 100% hurt/comfort more but I might actually be switching…it all started with this one fic that actually had me thinking it was real life and I started experiencing genuine stress and anxiety (not my best moment) but I’ve been searching for some REAL ANGSTY shit recently so lmk if you have recs! Anyways, as always, feedback is welcome! I hope you enjoyed! Also, feel free to send a request!
Oh this was hard because I have A LOT of songs that I just keep putting on 😭 I tried not to repeat artists because I could just put Daughter whole discography, or Chappel Roan's, or Flower Face's, or... Yeah I think it's time for me to shut up. Thanks lots for the tag @epiphanyrogers I love yapping about music 💞
1. You're still the one - Shania Twain
2. Yesterday - The Beatles
3. Duvet - Bôa
4. She's always a woman - Billy Joel
5. Shimmer - Fuel
6. You're here that's the thing - Beabadoobee
7. Youth - Daughter
8. Paul - The Big Thief
9. Kaleidoscope- Chappel Roan
10. Lilith - Saint Avangeline
11. Honey & milk - Flower Face
12. Sextape - Deftones
13. Set Free - Katie Gray
No pressure tag: @sassandscribbles @phoenix-in-writing @quantumbarnes @erina00
Thank you @steelandvibranium as always for the tag! I've been listening to Bad Bunny and Green Day pretty much non stop for the past 3 weeks to prep for Super Bowl so I'm sure there are more of their songs that have taken over but those are just from my wrapped 2025 list!
Summary: On the day of your wedding, nerves hit; not because you doubt loving Bucky, but because you’re afraid of being known. Luckily, he reminds you that marriage isn’t about perfection; it’s about choosing each other and accepting the things we learn to live with
Prompt: Candlelight + "I'll make you mine forever."
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Reader
Word Count: : ~2.3k
Content Contains: 2nd person, Congressman Bucky Barnes, no use of y/n (i think), established relationship, slight angst, mostly comfort, mentions of getting cold feet, and I think thats it! :)
Author’s Note: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY aka Day 14!!
Yes, I’m aware that this entry is late </3 But to be fair, it’s not super late, and also, I had a lot to clean up. Slightly angst with reader insecurity, but I love it!
Oh, to be seen as a person and still be accepted. Credits to Isla and Pink, they did such a good job with this and I’m glad I had a chance to get my writing out there! Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one! I figured ending with a wedding was a great way to end this writing challenge!
The room smells like roses and warm vanilla, a soft, expensive kind of calm that doesn’t match the storm inside your chest.
Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, a string quartet is still playing, where patient, looping melodies play on, meant to stretch time until the bride appears.
Candlelight flickers along the hallway outside, casting a golden glow under the threshold. You can almost imagine the guests shifting in their seats, whispering, wondering, maybe even judging.
You’re supposed to be out there.
Instead, you’re sitting in front of the vanity, still as a statue, staring at your hands folded in your lap. Your wedding band waits in a velvet box beside a scattered collection of hairpins you pulled out and then immediately put back.
Your reflection looks like someone else. Someone composed, someone certain, someone put together enough to marry a congressman.
You don’t feel like her.
The door opens quietly behind you, the silence stretching on for just a second longer before:
“You look so beautiful.”
Bucky’s voice, low and familiar, grounding in ways you never could’ve expected. It cuts through everything, relieving some tension in your shoulders but making the pit in your stomach grow deeper.
You hadn’t even heard him come in.
“You weren’t out there when the music started playing, everybody thought you left. I knew that I’d find you here, though.” He gestures lightly to the private bridal lounge the two of you are standing in, like this was the most obvious place in the world.
You don’t turn around. You’re afraid that if you do, you might cry. Or worse, make him worry more.
“We don’t have to do this, not right now, not ever if that’s what you want,” he says after a moment, his tone careful now. “It’s okay if you’re getting cold feet.”
Your head snaps up to meet his gaze through the mirror.
The look on his face isn’t anger. It isn’t frustration. It's something pained, something with disappointment, and worry, and sorry and fear all wrapped into one.
And that nearly undoes you.
“No, Bucky, it’s not that, it’s just-” The words tangle before you can catch them, sitting tasteless on your tongue. Your fingers twist together. “I’m not…I’m not unsure about marrying you.”
He steps closer, brows knitting in the familiar way they get when he tries too hard to figure something out. “Then what is it?”
How do you explain something that sounds so small out loud but feels enormous inside your head?
You swallow.
“I’m worried,” you say slowly, “that once we actually live together… You won’t like me very much.”
Silence.
Not the shocked kind. The confused kind.
“I don’t…” He huffs out a breath, almost laughing from sheer disbelief. “Doll, we’ve spent nights together. Plenty of them.”
“That’s not the same,” you insist, finally turning to face him. “That’s visiting. That’s the version of me that cleans up before you get there.”
“You love me now because you don’t see all of it,” you rush on. “You don’t see me when I set 10 alarms just in case, or when I leave half-full glasses of water everywhere. I’m messy. I never put things back where they belong. “
One corner of his mouth twitches.
You don’t let him interrupt.
“You haven’t seen me when I wake up cranky for no reason,” you continue. “Or when I get sick and turn into the world’s worst patient. Or when I’m on my period and get mad at you for breathing too loudly. You don’t know what it’s like to live with me when I’m not trying to be impressive.”
Your voice drops.
“What if you realize you chose wrong once you see all that?”
Bucky just looks at you.
Really looks.
Not at the dress. Not at the carefully styled hair. Not at the version of you that’s been curated for photographs. and politics, and public appearances beside a congressman who learned how to carry himself with certainty.
He steps closer until he’s kneeling in front of you, hands gently taking yours.
“You think I fell in love with the version of you that tries to impress me?”
You blink.
“I fell in love with the woman who forgot her own coffee on the roof of her car and drove away,” he reminds you softly. “The one who argues with the news reporters. The one who laughs at the wrong moments and cries during movies where the dog dies, the one who leaves her notes everywhere because she doesn’t want to forget things that matter.”
“I’m marrying you because you’re you,” he says. “Every version. The good mornings and the bad ones. The organized days and the chaos. That’s what ‘in sickness and in health’ is supposed to mean, you know. Not just the poetic parts.”
Emotion presses tight behind your ribs.
He studies you for another second, then adds, softer, “Plus, you really think I haven’t imagined all of that already?”
You hesitate. “…You have?”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “I’ve imagined you sick on the couch while I try to convince you to take medicine. I’ve imagined you stealing my side of the bed. I’ve imagined arguing over where you left your shoes.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles.
“I know you’re messy,” he says. “I know you’re human. But that’s the part I want.”
Your throat tightens.
“But what if I’m hard to live with?” you whisper.
Bucky exhales, resting his forehead briefly against your hands like he’s steadying himself too.
“Then we’ll just have to live with each other,” he says simply. “You’ll see my bad days. God knows there are plenty. You’ll see when I get quiet. When I forget things. When I get upset over stupid things. When I wake up from nightmares and pretend I didn’t.”
He looks up again, eyes clear and unwavering.
“That’s the real deal. Not perfection, partnership. I’ve lived more years as someone else’s weapon than as my own person. I didn’t get a name or a choice, just orders. But this is real. You’re real. And standing here with you, flaws and all, is the happiest I’ve ever been.”
Emotion surges so fast it makes your eyes sting.
“In sickness and in health,” he adds, voice turning wry, “in clutter and in chaos, and in inexplicably abandoned water glasses.”
A tear slips down your cheek, followed by an embarrassed, snotty laugh.
He smiles, softer now.
“I’m not marrying you because you’re easy to live with,” he says. “I’m marrying you because it’s you. Every version. Every day. Even the ones where you threaten me over how I put my arm in the dishwasher.”
“I will threaten you,” you mumble.
“I know.”
He squeezes your hands, then says, more quietly:
“I'll make you mine forever.”
The words settle into the space between you. They’re not possessive, not heavy. They’re a promise. A choice. One he’s making with open eyes. One you’re making too.
And suddenly, as if your mind can’t help it, you picture it:
A future night. Not glamorous. Not candlelit.
You’re sitting on the bathroom floor, exhausted and queasy from something you insisted you were “definitely fine” to eat. Wrapped in one of his shirts. Hair a mess. Pride completely gone.
And Bucky is there. Holding your hair back. Rubbing slow circles on your back. Handing you water without a word of complaint, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Not bothered. Not disappointed.
Just there.
The image is so clear that it makes your chest ache.
You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his, letting yourself breathe for what feels like the first time all day.
“You’re already stuck with me,” you murmur.
“Good,” he says as he kisses your knuckles.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The world beyond the room: the guests, the ceremony, the expectations, they all fade into nothing. There’s only the warmth of him, the familiar steadiness of his hands when you finally stand, the way he looks at you like this is the only place he was ever meant to be.
His gaze lingers just long enough to make your pulse skip.
“You really are beautiful,” he says again, quieter this time.
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. “Careful, Congressman. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“Oh, it is,” he replies. “I plan on continuing. For the next fifty, sixty years or so. Give or take.”
There’s a softness in the moment that could easily turn into something else, the kind of closeness you’ve both learned to navigate slowly and deliberately, saving pieces of yourselves instead of rushing them. His hand traces your arm, grounding rather than urgent, a reminder of all the time you’ve chosen to take.
And all the time you still have.
“You don’t have to be impressive,” he says now, like he can see exactly what you’re thinking. “You just have to come down that aisle.”
Another tear slips down your cheek. You laugh at yourself as you wipe it away.
“You’re sure?” you whisper.
“Doll,” he says, standing and helping you to your feet, “I’ve waited a long time to get this right. I’m not scared of real life with you.”
His hands settle at your waist, grounding, warm. For a moment, you just stand there together, breathing the same air, the noise of the waiting world muffled outside the door.
From the hallway comes a gentle knock. Someone is clearing their throat. A very polite, we are waiting for the bride kind of sound.
You laugh under your breath.
Bucky straightens, offering you his arm like he has a hundred times before, except this time, it means something new.
“Ready?” he asks.
You glance once more at your reflection.
You don’t look like someone perfect.
You look like someone loved.
“Ready.”
He walks you to the doorway but stops just before stepping out into view.
“This part,” he says, nodding toward the aisle glowing with candlelight beyond, “that’s yours.”
You squeeze his hand before letting go.
“Don’t cry before I get there,” you warn.
“No promises.”
When you step into the light, the music swells, and every anxious thought you had earlier feels smaller somehow, drowned out by the sight of him waiting at the altar, eyes glassy, looking like he’s been holding his breath his entire life just to see you walk toward him.
And when you finally reach him, when your hands meet again, there’s no doubt left.
Just the quiet certainty of everything ahead
The officiant says words you barely hear, something about gathering, about witness, about love that is chosen again and again. The candlelight around you wavers gently, tiny flames bowing and straightening like they’re breathing with you. You become aware of everything all at once: the warmth of Bucky’s hands around yours, the faint smell of wax and flowers, the quiet sniffle from someone in the front row, and the way the world feels both enormous and impossibly small.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you.
Not when the officiant speaks.
Not when the rings are brought forward.
Not even when someone drops a program, and it echoes far too loudly
It’s like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like he’s just been allowed to look now, and he never plans on stopping.
When it’s his turn, his voice is steady, but softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“I didn’t always believe I’d get a life like this,” he says. “But you walked into it anyway. You didn’t ask me to be perfect. You didn’t ask me to be anything other than who I am. So I promise you the same. I promise you patience on the hard days. I promise you honesty when things aren’t easy. I promise I’ll still be there when the dishes pile up, when we’re both tired, when life looks nothing like the plans we made.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“And I promise to love you in all those ordinary moments. Because that’s where we get to live.”
Your own vows feel less like something memorized and more like something uncovered, like they were waiting for you all along.
“I promise to let this be real,” you say. “Not perfected, not impressive.. Just ours. I promise to laugh at all your stupid jokes, to make fun of you when things go wrong, to stay when things get hard, and to build a home with you that’s full of all the little evidence of living, mess, and all.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter through the room.
You slide the ring onto his finger. His hands are warm. Familiar already.
When he places yours on your hand, his thumb lingers there for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing that too.
The officiant smiles.
“I now pronounce you-”
But you don’t hear the rest, because Bucky is already pulling you closer. It’s not rushed nor dramatic, just certain. The kiss is soft and grounding and full of that same promise he made in the dressing room.
Forever doesn’t have to be something curated, something that looks tough on the outside but fragile within. Forever is a series of the ordinary days you’ll share.
When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours, just for a second, the way he did before everything began.
“Hi, Mrs. Barnes,” he murmurs.
You laugh, the sound bright and disbelieving.
“Hi, Mr.Barnes.”
The candles keep flickering.
The music swells.
And somewhere between the aisle and the doors, between the life you had and the one waiting just outside, you realize the storm inside your chest is gone.
In its place is the steady weight of his hand in yours and the certainty that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.
Author’s Note: Fun fact, I'm an insane madalaptive daydreamer, so most of the stuff I write is actually inspired by those said madalaptive daydreams. It comes in handy since it makes writing terribly easy, but it sucks because I get distracted a lot, and most of the time the daydreams are too short to actually turn into any actual full blown fic.
Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this one! I'm super sad the event is ending, but this is a good chance for me to be more open with my plots, so stay tuned. Probably gonna go into a writers block after this tho...
Anyway, as always, feedback is always appreciated! Send requests since I no longer have any fics planned! I hope you enjoy!
Summary: Saturdays are for sleeping in, even with the never-ending noise the apartment endures. Today though? It’s silent, and something is cooking.
Prompt: Breakfast In Bed
Pairing: 1940's!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: ~1.4k
Content Contains: 2nd person, 1940’s James Barnes (my love), post-war Bucky, mentions of PTSD (like once), no use of y/n (i think), established relationship, Bucky and reader have kids, Peggy and Steve mentioned (and their kids), fluff, not proofread, we die like everybody in infinity war, and I think thats it! :)
Author’s Note:
Day 13! Tomorrow is Valentine's! I lowk wasn’t going to write today, but I wanted to have domestic Bucky, and I think tomorrow I’m gonna do another Congressman Barnes fic. So we’re here. No beta because I start writing at like 9 pm every day.
On an unrelated note, I'm having a valentines get together tmr, (Galentines if you will, minus the fact that a guy will unfortunately be there (we invited him)). Anyway, I’ve made two loaves of sourdough since that is something I’ve been dabbling in, and I added glitter just like that girl from TikTok (Gigi and her sourdough starter, Eloise) It’s been fun!
Anways, enjoy!!
A quiet morning was something of the impossible.
Between two children and a decorated war hero husband, silence was virtually non-existent.
Whether it was the thunder of little feet racing from room to room or your husband laughing far too loudly with his best friend (both of whom seemed fundamentally incapable of understanding the unspoken rule about not visiting people before ten in the morning), the apartment was always alive with sound.
And you were grateful for every deafening second of it.
After almost losing James in the war, getting him back, and then almost losing him again, after being forced to sit in that terrible, hollow quiet and pray that he would come home, that Steve would bring back the love of your life alive., you learned very quickly that you would rather live inside a cacophony than ever face that stillness again.
So maybe that was why you were awake so early this Saturday morning.
Which, frankly, was suspicious.
Saturdays were sacred. Saturdays were for sleeping in. Early on in your marriage, those short, golden weeks before he shipped out, you and James had divided chores like civilized adults. When he left, you carried the entire household alone while working long shifts as a telephone operator for the SSR, patching calls that always seemed far more urgent than anyone explained to you.
When he came home, he tried to take everything back.
“If it were up to me, doll,” he’d said, rolling up his sleeves with the kind of stubborn determination you knew meant you were already losing the argument, “you wouldn’t lift a finger again.”
You’d stared at him, and he stared back. James was always drawn towards your stifling independence and stubborn streak. And quite frankly, he was the only one who was actually able to put up with it.
So you compromised. Reluctantly.
Now the chores were split evenly, though James had an annoying habit of “accidentally” doing your half before you could get to it.
And Saturdays? On Saturdays, he took full command so you could rest.
Which was why it was very strange that the other side of the bed was empty.
You frowned, reaching across cool sheets. No James. No sounds of clattering pans. No children arguing over cereal. No smell of coffee.
Too quiet.
You pushed yourself upright, already suspicious.
“James?” you called, voice still thick with sleep.
Nothing.
You swung your legs over the side of the bed just as the door creaked open.
And then
“Don’t move!”
You froze.
James stood there, hair slightly disheveled, sleeves rolled, and hands up like he was about to surrender to the police, looking far too pleased with himself. Behind him, your two children attempted to peer around his legs while holding something that was very obviously a tray and very obviously not level.
“Daddy said you weren’t allowed to get up,” your youngest announced loudly.
“Yes,” your older one added with grave importance, “This is a surprise, and you’re ruining it.”
You blinked.
“…Am I?”
James grinned. “You are, sweetheart. Back under the covers.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re suspiciously cheerful.”
“That hurts me,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Truly.”
“You burned something, didn’t you?”
From the hallway came a very recognizable voice: “He absolutely burned something.”
You leaned sideways to see past James.
Steve stood there, holding a coffee pot like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d been talked into this. One of his and Peggy’s children clung to his coat, watching the operation unfold with wide-eyed fascination.
Steve had been James’s brother in everything but blood since before the war, just as Peggy had become your own closest confidante, the kind of friendship forged over shared worry, long nights, and the certainty that the four of you had built a family together, not just alongside one another.
“You brought backup?” you asked.
James scoffed. “I did not need backup.”
Steve raised a brow. “You asked me how to fry an egg.”
“That was one time.”
“You asked twice.”
You covered a laugh with your hand.
James turned back to you quickly, regaining control of the situation before Steve could continue dismantling his dignity. “Alright, alright, everybody inside.”
The children shuffled forward with intense concentration, carrying the tray between them like it contained state secrets.
You sat back against the pillows as they climbed onto the bed to deliver it.
The tray was… charming.
Toast slightly uneven. Eggs with yolks that had been brutally broken. A small dish of jam. Coffee. And, your chest tightened, a single flower in a water glass.
“Where did you get that?” you asked softly.
James shrugged. “Borrowed it from Mrs. Donnelly downstairs.”
“You stole Mrs. Donnelly’s flowers?”
“I will return the favor,” he said quickly. “Eventually.”
Your youngest beamed. “We helped cook!”
Steve coughed. “They supervised.”
“We stirred,” your older one insisted.
“You stirred air,” James corrected.
You looked at the tray again, emotion creeping up on you before you could stop it. The mismatched plates. The careful arrangement. The fact that James, who had once lived on army rations and diner coffee, had clearly tried very, very hard.
“For no reason?” you asked.
James’s expression softened.
“There doesn’t have to be a reason.”
Steve, sensing the shift, cleared his throat and herded the extra children toward the hallway. “Alright, troops. We’re going to… inspect the living room. Thoroughly.”
One of them saluted.
The door shut behind them, leaving the room quiet again, but this time, it was a warm quiet.
James sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
You picked up the coffee. “If this tastes terrible, I’m still drinking it.”
“It doesn’t taste terrible,” he said defensively. “I had help.”
“You had Steve.”
“I actually had Peggy supervise,” he corrected. “Steve was just moral support.”
You smiled into the cup before taking a sip, thinking of your best friend and her family intertwining with your own.
It was surprisingly good.
“That’s alarming,” you admitted.
He looked insufferably proud.
You took a bite of toast. “So what’s the occasion, Sergeant Barnes?”
He reached for your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles in that absent, familiar way he had when he was thinking.
“Just wanted to do something nice for my wife,” he said. “And remind her she’s allowed to rest sometimes.”
You snorted. “Tell that to the SSR switchboard.”
“I would,” he said seriously. “But they seem afraid of Peggy.”
“That’s because everyone is afraid of Peggy.”
“Fair.”
You ate another bite, studying him.
He looked… lighter than he had in a long time.
War hadn’t followed him home the way you’d both feared. There were still hard nights. Still moments when silence stretched too long. But there was laughter now. Routine. Children who climbed him like a playground. Friends who came over too early and stayed too late.
Life.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.
“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”
Your foot nudged his thigh under the blanket.
He leaned closer, voice lowering just enough to send warmth up your spine.
“Besides,” he added, “I figured if I brought you breakfast first, you might forgive me for keeping you up late.”
You gave him a look.
“James Buchanan Barnes.”
“What?” he said, completely unrepentant.
“You are impossible.”
“You married me anyway.”
“You know,” James murmured, a little smile tugging at his mouth as he watched you laugh with them, “I could see us doing this all over again… maybe one more set of tiny footsteps running around.”
You tried to stay stern. You failed.
His hand slipped to your waist, gentle, grounding. Not demanding. Just there.
“Eat,” he said softly. “Then we’ve got the whole day. Kids want to go to the park. Steve says he’s going to attempt flying a kite again.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“For the kite, yes.”
You laughed, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder.
For a moment, you let yourself just breathe him in, soap, coffee, and the faint trace of the flour he’d definitely spilled earlier.
Normal things.
Precious things.
“…Thank you,” you said.
He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Anytime, doll.”
From the other room came a crash, followed by Peggy’s voice and Steve’s laugh.
“That was not supposed to happen!”
You sighed.
James grinned.
“So,” he asked, standing and offering you a hand once you’d finished eating, “ready to join the chaos?”
You took his hand.
Always.
Author’s Note: I'm running out of color schemes for this gradient text thing I've got going on. Does anybody actually read my a/n? because I put a lot of effort into them and they make me laugh. can somebody please talk to me. If you actually read this, I hope you enjoyed! Please send tips or requests or something dont let me fade into the abyss. Thank you!
Summary: Finals week was supposed to be about studying…that’s until Bucky decided to prove, through extremely questionable science, that distraction is its own kind of experiment and love is far more important than studying
Prompt: "You're such a nerd" + making a love potion
Pairing: CollegeAU!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: ~1.5k
Content Contains: 2nd person, college AU, female reader in mind, but nothing that actually depicts gender besides maybe glittery pens? Use of y/n like once, established relationship, clingy Bucky, smart reader, smart Bucky, dorky Bucky, reader studies malpractice law because that's what I'm planning to study and I think thats all! :)
Author’s Note: Day 12! Sorry, I didn't write yesterday, I didn't really feel like it, whoops! Anyway, more college Bucky because I love it! Medical Malpractice reader because that's my future right there!! Also, Bucky is really smart (aka he's a mechanical engineer major with a minor in chemistry) because I am hopelessly in love with smart men. I was actually just telling my friend how every guy I've liked has been really good at math. Enjoy!
You were sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of folders, neon highlighters, glittery pens, and loose pages that had long since escaped whatever organizational system you’d started with.
Who organizes things anyway?
Your laptop hummed beside you, a half-finished outline blinking accusingly on the screen while you cross-referenced yet another case, one arm thrown over your notes as if physically holding the information in place might help you memorize it faster (it doesn’t.) Sticky notes cover the wall in a color-coded system that makes perfect sense to you and absolutely no one else.
The first thing you notice is the noise. Or rather, the lack there-of
The dorm was quiet…too quiet, in that way that suggested something, or rather someone, was about to ruin it.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the soft, library hush that makes you feel productive and studious and vaguely like Elle Woods studying for the SAT.
No. This is the kind of quiet that means James Buchanan Barnes is bored.
And when Bucky is bored, he becomes a problem.
From somewhere above you came the unmistakable sound of a chair creaking, slowly and repeatedly. In a rhythm that was far too deliberate to be accidental, but technically plausible enough to be chalked up to coincidence. You tried to ignore it, eyes scanning the same sentence for the fourth time, but the noise continued. Creak, pause, creak. Accompanied now by an exaggerated sigh, suggesting that a man was currently enduring the greatest tragedy of the modern age: having nothing to do while his girlfriend studied.
You didn’t have to look to know Bucky was slouched dramatically at your desk, probably upside down in the chair or moments away from doing something that would test both your patience and the structural integrity of your lofted bed.
“Did you know,” Bucky says from your desk chair, spinning slowly in it, “that if you stare at a screen for too long, your blink rate decreases by forty percent?”
You do not look up.
“That sounds fake,” you mutter, annotating a new paragraph about medical negligence.
“It is not fake. I read it in an article. A reputable one.”
“Mhm. What’s the article called?”
The chair squeaks again. He’s spinning faster now.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbles.
You smile to yourself. There was something so precious about Bucky trying his best to get you to talk to him, yet still being content (?) with just being in your presence.
You continue, underlining something twice for emphasis. Then you hear the chair stop.
Silence.
Suspicious silence.
You glance up.
Bucky is watching you. Chin propped on his hand. Eyes soft. Hair falling into his face in that unfair, old-fashioned way that makes him look like he walked straight out of a 1940s photograph and accidentally enrolled in university.
He smiles when you catch him looking.
You immediately look back down at your notes.
“Y/n,” he says, voice warm and patient. “You’ve been studying for three hours.”
“I have a test.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“And it’s still true.”
He leans back dramatically.
“I miss you.”
“You’re literally right there.”
“You haven’t looked at me in fifteen minutes.”
You sigh. “Bucky.”
He perks up. “Yes?”
“Go read a book.”
“I already did.”
You blink slowly, not amused. “Already?”
“Yeah.” He gestures to the novel on your nightstand. “The Hobbit.”
You set your pen down with a sigh. “Go read something new. Actually, go learn something new. Put that engineering brain to use.”
“Why can’t I reread The Hobbit?”
“Because you reread it for fun.”
“It’s comforting,” he argues, like this is a completely reasonable defense. “Adventure. Loyalty. Good food. Very practical problem-solving through sword fights.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile but ultimately failing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, pushing to his feet, putting a hand on his heart as if he’s been wounded, “deeply underappreciated.”
You return to your outline, beyond determined to ignore whatever dramatic nonsense he’s about to attempt next.
You hear drawers opening.
Cabinets.
The fridge.
A pause.
Then the unmistakable sound of… measuring?
You look up slowly, peering out of your bedroom and into the hall.
Bucky is standing at your kitchen counter with a mug, three snack bowls, your electric kettle, and what appears to be an alarming number of your roommate’s snacks.
“What are you doing?” you ask as you approach island, sitting on a stool across from him.
He doesn’t look up.
“Conducting an experiment.”
“That’s my favorite mug.”
“It will be returned to you in better condition than I found it.”
“That’s not how mugs work, Bucky.”
He straightens, suddenly very serious.
“I am making a love potion.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
You stare harder.
He gestures to the setup like a game show host revealing a prize.
You try to go back to studying.
You last approximately six seconds.
“What,” you say slowly, “is in that?”
“I’m glad you asked.” He slides on your reading glasses (the ones he absolutely does not need. The ones he steals from you before he reminds you he doesn’t actually need glasses thanks to his very perfect vision) because apparently this requires academic authority. “This is a highly calibrated formula.”
“That’s maple syrup.”
“Viscosity agent,” he corrects, using his hands to talk more so than his mouth. “Symbolizes emotional cohesion.”
“That’s cinnamon.”
“Nasal stimulation. Proven to enhance positive memory recall.”
“That’s-Bucky, that’s a packet of hot chocolate mix.”
He points at you like you’ve validated his thesis.
“Exactly. Dopamine activation through sugar delivery.”
You laugh despite yourself, pressing your lips together to stop it.
He continues, fully committed now.
“And,” he says, lowering his voice, “a carefully measured amount of caffeine. To ensure heightened attentiveness to one James Buchanan Barnes.”
“You cannot chemically engineer attention.”
He gives you a look.
“I’ve taken three more chemistry classes than my major requires. I absolutely can try.”
You shake your head, smiling down at your textbook again.
He walks over and sets the mug beside your laptop like it’s a sacred offering.
“Drink this,” he says. “And if my hypothesis is right, you will fall even more in love with me.”
You glance at it. Then at him.
Then back at the mug.
Then, at the color-coded logical fallacies chart, you made.
Then back at him.
"You're such a nerd."
He gasps a gasp that is so distressed, you would’ve thought that you just broke up with him.
“That is BOLD coming from someone voluntarily studying malpractice law on a FRIDAY night.”
You gesture to the mug. “You made a love potion.”
“With methodology.”
“You narrated the methodology.”
“That’s called transparency in research,” he taps a finger to his head.
“You used whipped cream as a ‘binding agent.’”
He folds his arms. “It’s structurally important.”
You try, and I mean really try, to hold onto your serious demeanor.
But he’s looking at you like he’s already won. Like he knows exactly when you’re about to give in.
That soft, hopeful expression.
The boyish patience that doesn’t belong to this century.
You close your laptop.
He lights up immediately. “Did it work?”
“I didn’t even drink it.”
“Placebo effect,” he says confidently.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, standing beside you, “you stopped studying.”
You lean into him before you can second-guess it, your head settling against his forearm. He relaxes instantly, like this was the entire goal all along (which, knowing him, it absolutely was.)
“You distracted me,” you murmur.
“I saved you from overexertion.”
“You made hot chocolate.”
“Revolutionary hot chocolate.”
You nudge him with your knee. He leans over and wraps an arm around you, absentmindedly tracing shapes against your arm like he’s diagramming something only he understands.
“You know,” he says after a moment, quieter now, “in my defense… I just like being around you.”
You tilt your head up. “That’s a terrible defense.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But it’s honest.”
You reach for the mug, take a sip.
It’s absurdly sweet.
Ridiculous.
Completely unnecessary.
It’s actually kind of disgusting in the way it makes your teeth ache.
You take another sip anyway.
Bucky watches you like you’re the most fascinating experiment he’s ever conducted.
“Well?” he asks.
You set the mug down.
“It’s terrible.”
He grins. “You drank it twice.”
You wander over to the couch and slide down into the pillows, tugging him along until he’s half sprawled across you, laughing when he tries to protest about the so-called “structural integrity of the experiment.”
Your notes are still there.
Your test still exists.
But for now, his hand is warm against yours, his voice low as he starts rambling about something he read earlier, and the world feels small in the best way.
“Next time,” you murmur, eyes drifting closed, “you’re making coffee. Not potions.”
“No promises,” he says.
You feel him press a soft kiss to your hair.
“For the record,” he adds, “the hypothesis was successful.”
You lace your fingers with his.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess it was.”
Author’s Note: I did get inspiration for the beginning after shoving papers into my bag and telling my friend I don't believe in organization (I am a hot mess.) Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoyed, and feedback is always appreciated!! Thank you!
Summary: You go to Bucky’s apartment to blow off steam, but he ends up blowing up your entire “mutual benefits” arrangement with three accidental words.
Prompt: Hiding under a blanket to hide your/their blush + an accidental I love you
Pairing: CollegeAU!Bucky Barnes x Best friend!Reader
Word Count: ~2k
Content Contains: 18+ MDNI, 2nd person POV, college Bucky AU, a little bit of shy Bucky, female reader, best friend reader, smut, oral (f receiving), fluff, cursing, no use of y/n, not proof-read again because I can’t post things on time. And I think that’s it! :)
Author’s Note: Day 10! And also my first time writing smut….
Anyway, I’m a major sucker for best friend readers and also for non-established relationships (totally not because I’m (definitely) being led on by a man right now.) Tis the season I guess. Enjoy! I love this one [ again totally not for reasons said above ): ]
Also does anybody know how to get em dash on computer because I'm just using hyphen since I hate copy and pasting. Lmk!
Mutual benefit.
That’s what the two of you called it.
Whenever one of you had a rough day, whenever someone seemed to cross a line, whenever your hands weren’t enough to satisfy the craving for intimacy, you or Bucky would call the other.
It wasn’t just being friends with benefits; it was being each other’s person, just without the pesky label.
It wasn’t only about tangled sheets or quiet laughter at midnight. It was about knowing the exact tone in his voice that meant he’d had a bad day. It was about the way he’d show up with takeout and that stubborn crease between his brows when someone had upset you. It was about checking in on each other, about making sure the other got home safe. About sitting in comfortable silence that felt fuller than most people’s over-the-top declarations of love.
There were no grand confessions. No dramatic, sweeping romances. Just steady care and loyalty. Just two best friends who trusted each other with their bodies the same way they trusted each other with their fears.
So no, it wasn’t just a no-strings-attached thing; there was care and affection in it from the beginning. But as of recently, there was something more.
-
You and Bucky had been friends for a long time. Maybe that’s what made the arrangement so perfect. You knew each other inside and out, literally. You mapped out each other's bodies while already knowing that the other wanted, what the other needed.
Today was no different.
It was a stressful day altogether. Classes were hard, friends were being annoying, and your roommate wouldn’t clean up her fucking mess. You were tired. You were irritated. You needed a place to go: Bucky’s.
The two of you never created stereotypical rules for your arrangement. It didn’t matter if it was premeditated or not. Didn’t matter if you spent the night afterwards or not, because after all, you were best friends originally, a little sex here and there didn’t change that. Mostly.
When you knocked on Bucky’s door, he answered instantly. Was he expecting you? No. Was he expecting literally anybody else? Also no. But after you came to his apartment sobbing in the middle of the night once, he vowed to never let you stand outside for even a second longer than needed. Naturally, he opened the door like there was a fire every time, regardless of whether it was you or not.
The second he registered that it was actually you standing at his door, he stepped aside immediately, allowing you entrance into his home. He must’ve noticed how tense you were because the only word he said once you set your stuff down was
“Sit.”
You sank down onto his couch, the thick cushion pulling you in slightly. He sits beside you, careful not to get too close nor stray too far. Bucky can see the tension in your shoulders, and as much as he wants to do something to help, he always makes sure it's you who asks first.
-
“She is just so annoying. If there was an award for the worst roommate, she would get it!”
"I know,” he hums. He braces his hands on the arms of the chair and leans in. You’ve been going on about your day for the past 30 minutes, and while Bucky has behaved very well in not starting anything, the distance between the two of you has gradually disappeared.
“You keep saying you know,” you huff.
“I know.”
“Seriously, Bucky! Can’t you say anything other than ‘I know?’ You’re starting to piss me off more than I already am.”
Bucky contemplates a second before answering, “You’re stressed, so I won’t take that comment to heart. But nothing I could say right now is going to change how you’re feeling about the situation, so let’s just do the talking afterwards.”
Bucky drops to his knees in front of you and works the laces of your shoes with quick, efficient movements.
"What are you doing?"
His mouth curves up into a wicked smile that instantly makes you warm, transforming the raging annoyance into an ever hotter fire.
"Mutual benefit," he grins, “You release some tensions, and I get to feel you come apart on my tongue.”
You blush bright red. It’s not like this is out of the blue. You suppose you did come here for a reason, but you didn’t realize how much more intimate this would feel than it usually does.
You grab the throw blanket that was resting in your lap and bring it up to your face, not wanting him to see the effect his words have on you, but Bucky isn’t having any of that. He yanks the blanket away, the coolness a stark contrast to the fire you already feel coiling within you.
His eyes lock with yours. He’s holding you captive, albeit willingly, and his hands slide up the length of your legs, caressing your inner thighs, waking every nerve ending along their path before he reaches the button on your jeans.
Your breath catches.
"My girl. On my couch. In my house." He enunciates each claim while unbuttoning your pants, agonizingly slow. Need floods your body and flushes your skin with an addictive rush. The way he calls you his girl has you already gripping onto the cushions.
Bucky is the only person in this world you can't get enough of. The only one you constantly crave. And Bucky can’t get enough of you either. The two of you are addicted.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear, tugging them down your legs. He kisses up your thighs, caressing the curves of your knees and every single inch of skin he uncovers, drawing soft sighs and impatient whimpers from your lips.
He licks a strip up your aching core, moaning as he finally makes contact with your cunt.
One thing about Bucky, the singular thing he was always going to do when you showed up for a visit was eat you out like he was a man starving for his next meal. He had to force himself to come up for air as he devoured your pretty pussy.
All that filled the air now was loud moans and your desperate cries as Bucky ferociously sucked at your clit. All you could do was roll your eyes in ecstasy, gripping his hair in your hands.
“Does that feel good, baby?” Bucky says abruptly as he, once again, comes up for air.
“Mmmhm,” you mumble, which was all you could do.
“I need words, doll,” he says.
“God, yes, Bucky! It does!” you manage to blurt out.
And even though Bucky was going hard at all your sensitive parts, you wanted more. You needed more. You felt desperate, starved, eager, and greedy.
“Bucky-, I need more,” you say.
Bucky doesn’t need any more words than that.
He starts delving into you harder. He licks harshly, to the point where you can’t breathe. The overstimulation was so violent that you couldn’t help but start crying out of pleasure.
“B-Bucky,” was all you could say due to the dizzying feeling of his tongue deep inside. He growls at your whimpers, pushing you closer to your peak.
“Fuck ’m close,” you tell him as you’re reaching your high.
“That’s it, fuck, let go for me,” Bucky groans into your cunt. You sob as you come, soaking his face in your juices as you ride out your climax.
He doesn’t let up, moaning as he laps up your juices.
“Look so pretty like this, using my face to get off, god I love you.”
The words leave him wrecked and breathless, tangled up in pleasure and instinct.
And then-
He goes still.
You do too.
It’s like the entire room inhales and forgets to exhale. Your fingers loosen in his hair, just slightly. His mouth hovers against your skin, no longer moving, no longer teasing. Just frozen.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he pulls back.
His eyes find yours.
There’s no smug grin now. No cocky edge. Just a wide, stunned realization as the echo of what he said settles between you.
You feel it too. Not embarrassment. Not regret.
But recognition.
“I-” Bucky swallows hard, sitting back on his heels. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure in a way you’ve barely ever seen. “That just... slipped.”
Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
Because it didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like something that had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for months.
“You don’t have to-” he starts quickly, already getting up to sit next to you on the couch, misreading your silence. “We’re good, okay? I don’t wanna mess this up. I just- I wasn’t thinking.”
You sit up slowly, still breathless and shaky, jeans still pooled on the floor near your feet. “You weren’t thinking,” you repeat softly.
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
“But you meant it?” you ask.
That’s when he freezes again.
Truly freezes.
There’s a split second where he could laugh it off. Blame it on the moment. On the heat. On the way your body reacts to him.
Instead, his shoulders drop.
“Yeah,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I meant it.”
You feel yourself clench around nothing. The honesty in his words is more of a turn-on than anything else.
The truth hangs heavy and fragile between you.
You search his face for panic, for regret.
You don’t find either.
You find fear, but not of loving you. Fear of losing you.
A slow laugh leaves your chest. “That’s kind of funny.”
His brows knit together. “Funny?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, turning slightly toward him, angling your body so you’re facing him more fully, your knee brushing against his thigh as you close the space between you, pushing at his shoulders until he’s the one shifting back.
He lets you.
He always lets you.
His back hits the couch cushions, and you follow, swinging a leg over his hips until you’re straddling him. The position flips so easily it almost makes you smile, the man who had been between your thighs seconds ago now looking up at you like you’ve hung the stars.
Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. He leans into your touch without hesitation, big hands settling instinctively at your waist like that’s where they’ve always belonged.
“Because,” you whisper, steady and close enough that your breath fans over his lips, “I’ve been trying really hard not to say it first.”
He goes still beneath you.
All over again.
“You… what?”
“I love you too, Bucky.”
The words feel steady. Certain. Not rushed or pulled out of you by heat or impulse. Just the truth.
You move your hips once, slowly, grinding against him gently, just trying to test the waters. His breath stutters out like he’s been holding it for years.
All this time, you called it mutual benefit. No labels. Just best friends who happened to know each other’s bodies as well as their pet-peeves.
But it was never just that.
It was love in the way he opened the door the second you knocked. Love in the way you both pretended not to notice how much it hurt when the other mentioned dating someone else. Love in every “I know” and every late-night conversation in Bucky's bed, arms wrapped around each other.
It had always been there.
It just took him being blissed out, completely pussy-drunk, and honest to let it slip.
A slow, almost disbelieving smile spreads across his face. “So I didn’t just ruin everything?”
You huff a soft laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “No. You just accidentally told the truth.”
His hands slide to your waist, grounding and warm.
“Okay,” he whispers, like he’s handling something precious. “Okay.”
And when he kisses you this time, it’s not frantic or teasing.
It’s slow and intentional. Like he's mapping out something new and finding traces of the past in it as well.
Not mutual benefit anymore.
But mutual love.
Author’s Note: As always, any feedback would be appreciated! If you have any requests, please send them in! It's my first time writing smut, so If it's terrible, please let me now! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!
Summary: Wine has become a staple in your and Bucky’s relationship, whether it’s something fancy or something mundane. The taste of your love lingers on your tongue just like every glass of wine.
Prompt: Going to a wine tasting, one of you gets silly drunk + "I want you so badly it hurts to hold back."
Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky X Reader
Word Count: ~1.4k
Content Contains: 2nd person, TFATWS Bucky, female reader, mentions of alcohol, mentions of being drunk, reader gets drunk, Bucky doesn’t, it seems like they drink a lot, but I swear it's just casual, Bucky being respectful, pre- established relationship, female reader, but no major descriptions besides for an ivory dress, no use of Y/N, not proof-read because it’s almost 12 am where I’m at. And I think that’s it! :)
Author’s Note: Day 8, and I’m finally writing again. I’ve had a super busy weekend! Only a couple more days of this before I’m left without prompts! Anyway, if any of you care, my team placed 3rd for our biomedical debate, so that’s cool, I guess. Well, I hope you enjoy this!
The first time you and Bucky met was at a party Sam was hosting. The first time the two of you met, you were wearing your favorite dress.
It was a warm ivory piece, silk low-cut, and impractical in the only way a favorite dress can be. You were already a little, just slightly, tipsy, wandering around mingling. The apartment was loud and crowded, and you had already decided the night was going great.
And then—BOOM—Impact.
You had run squarely into a brick wall. Except it wasn’t a brick wall; it was none other than Bucky Barnes, and it wasn’t you who ran into him, but the other way around. You stumbled forward as he collided with you, the world jolting sideways.
Red wine surged cold and sticky down your chest, seeping into your dress, soaking the fabric and transforming it into a stained mess.
“Oh—oh my god, I am so, so sorry—”
You looked up to find wide blue eyes staring back at you in horror. Bucky was standing frozen in front of you, apologizing profusely, while his glass tilted uselessly in his hand, crimson liquid dripping down your dress like some dramatic murder scene.
He immediately sprang into action, grabbing napkins and frantically attempting to not only dry you but also somehow pat away the stain. He was muttering apologies under his breath while clearly trying not to look at the way the neckline of your dress dipped. His hands hovered everywhere before realizing how widely inappropriate it was to be manhandling you and your chest that was on display in your very low-cut dress.
“I swear I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t looking where and was going and God, your dress—” he rambled on.
And you laughed. It slipped out of you, light, and unbothered, because honestly? The way he looked like he might pass out from embarrassment was kind of adorable.
“It’s okay,” you said. “I promise.”
Blush spread across his face, the same shade of scarlet that you dress had now turned, and you smiled. It was charming how genuinely apologetic he seemed. Later, he would tell you that's when he knew. That when Bucky heard the sound of your laughter, he knew instantly that he had found his future.
If it were somebody else, maybe he would’ve stopped there, offer to pay for dry-cleaning, and disappear into the crowd, but for once in what seemed like a very long time, that same boyish confidence he radiated in the 40’s returned, and he offered you his jacket.
“Here,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and holding it out. “Please. At least let me do this.”
You took it. Wrapped yourself in warmth that smelled like musk, leather, and something distinctly like him.
And so that began the triennium relationship.
-
Three years later, you’re standing in a vineyard with that same man, his hand warm and familiar at the small of your back, a ring heavy and perfect on your finger.
Wine had quickly become a staple part of your relationship. A language that the two of you learned together. With many jokes referencing that very night, where Bucky not only ruined your favorite dress but also gave you a new favorite thing instead: him.
Early on in your relationship, it meant candlelit dinners and Bucky pretending not to flinch at the price of whatever the sommelier recommended. It meant movie nights where the two of you would each hold a glass and bicker over plot holes in the rom-coms you watched.
Then it shifted. It meant slow evenings spent cooking side by side, jazz music humming softly in the background while he refilled your class without even asking.
Even now, at the stable, long-term romance the two of you have made, wine still plays an important aspect. Cleaning the apartment together? Open a bottle. Having a little self-care? Pour a glass. Eating leftover pizza out on the balcony? It was, “We might as well finish yesterday’s bottle.”
It wasn’t about the alcohol. It never was.
It was a ritual. Familiarity. Wine, what was typically a virtue of wealth or of elegance, was transformed into something else, something reserved for only the two of you.
You drank because it became a symbol of how the two of you wanted to do everything together, whether it was fancy dates or sipping on a glass as the two of you lie in the bathtub. The quiet understanding that even the most mundane moments were better when shared.
Both you and Buck knew he couldn’t get drunk. He knew that the serum burned through alcohol like it was nothing. But once he met you, he never, not once, resented it. Because it meant he got to remember everything.
The way your laugh was just a bit higher-pitched when you’d had a little too much. The way you leaned into him without realizing it, fingers curling into his shirt like you needed him to anchor you. The way you insisted you were perfectly fine when clearly relying on him just a little more than usual.
He loves your laugh regardless, how you’re always so independent, but there's something so endearing to him, when he watches you from the doorframe, trying to remain so self-determined.
-
When Bucky proposed, it was after a gorgeous candlelight dinner downtown, where you guessed it, the two of you each shared a glass.
He proposed to you, alone, outside. Snow dusted Central Park like something out of the romantic Christmas movies the two of you JUST binged. The city felt hushed around you. The exact way you had imagined.
It was freezing, naturally, but all the outlying factors made it feel like the warmest night. You cried. He smiled so hard his face hurt. You said yes, breathless and laughing all at once.
The two of you went home after you said yes, ordered pizza, and opened another bottle.
-
After announcing the proposal, many friends asked how the two of you celebrated. The question stopped the two of you in your tracks when you realized;
Somehow, you never actually did celebrate the proposal.
That’s how you ended up here. A 4 p.m. wine tasting at a place so fancy neither of you could pronounce its name. The sommelier spoke in dramatic metaphors, “Notes of oak, blah blah blah, whispers of blackberry, blah blah blah, an emotional finish, blah blah blah.”
And you nodded along like you understood (you didn’t.)
It was fun. The two of you exchanged questioning glances as you assimilated with the other couples who were there, clearly taking this more seriously than you.
The problem was that no one told you that you weren’t supposed to drink the entire glass.
By the fourth tasting, your cheeks were warm. By the sixth, you were giggling at absolutely nothing. By the eighth, you were leaning heavily into Bucky’s side, whispering commentary into his ear like you were sharing state secrets.
“This one tastes… purple,” you murmured.
Bucky hummed. “Yeah. Totally.”
When it was finally over, he thanked the staff, guided you outside, and wrapped his arm securely around you as you swayed just slightly on the sidewalk.
In the car, you talked the whole way home.
About the vineyard dog. About how much you loved him. About how the ring still didn’t feel real. About how you were definitely not drunk. Bucky just smiled, nodded, murmured encouragements, grounding hand warm on your thigh.
At home, he helped you kick off your shoes, laughing softly as you clung to him.
“I love you,” you said, very seriously.
“I love you too.”
You tilted your face up. “Can I have a kiss?”
He brushed your hair back gently as he guided you to the bathroom. “Not right now. Once we get you settled, then yeah.”
Your smile faltered, misunderstanding flashing across your face. “Oh. You don’t… You don’t want me?”
Bucky froze. His heart clenched painfully at the thought.
He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes dark and earnest as he leaned in close.
“I want you so badly it hurts to hold back.”
Your breath caught. The reassurance settled warm and heavy in your chest, and you smiled
“Oh,” you whispered. “Okay.”
He kissed your forehead instead.
And later, when the world stopped spinning, when you were tucked into bed with his arms around you, when the night was quiet and familiar and yours, it settled in. The happiness, the certainty, the steady kind of joy that didn’t need marking or proving.
Like the last sip of wine you let linger, already knowing you’d pour another tomorrow.
Author’s Note: Can you tell I've never actually drank before? My parents own a bar, though, so maybe that's really what I'm basing things on. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! I loved this one especially much for no apparent reason, maybe nervous!Bucky! Anyways, as always, feedback and requests welcome! Thank you!
Summary: You finally get home from a long mission, but it just so happens that “home” isn’t the compound, but rather a pair of arms inside.
Prompt: "Nothing feels as good as coming home to you." - "Nothing feels as good as having you come home to me."
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word Count: ~1k
Content Contains:
2nd Person POV, Avenger Bucky Barnes, probably takes place post civil war but where everybody is still a happy family idk I didn’t plan that far, mentions of reader injury, mentions of reader almost dying, mentions of blood, still nothing too graphic, Bucky and Reader are co-dependent as it seems, Bucky misses reader just as much as she misses him and I think thats it! :)
Author’s Note: Day 5! I’m so tired right now, so maybe that’s what I’ve channeled into this one! I still love it, and I desperately wish I too had somebody to fall into after a long day, but alas, here I am composing my feelings into fanfiction. Anyways, I digress. I probably won’t post something for tomorrow’s prompt solely for the fact that I have to go be a master biomedical debater and these events take ALL DAY 💔Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
There is a wave of exhaust seeping into your bones with every step.
It’s not the kind that comes from being overworked or pushed too hard, but the quieter kind. The one that settles into your shoulders and makes them tense, like they’re bracing for something that never quite arrives.
The mission wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. You’ve been on countless others, ones with active threats to your life, ones where adrenaline carries you through and wears off just in time for you to reach the medbay and take a hot shower. Those are easy, in a way. They’re loud and purposeful. You stare danger in the face, and it’s your duty to protect the people who depend on you. You have to be faster at saving lives than the reaper can take them. Those are the missions that leave you feeling accomplished, no matter how bad your body physically aches.
The long missions are the painful ones.
The kind where you sit and watch. Where your back aches from being hunched over cameras, shoulders tight from holding still too long, anticipating. Where your body is on high alert, but your hands feel restless because they’re not doing anything, YOU’RE not doing anything. You just sit and wait. The silence is the worst. You come home successful and still feel useless, like you left pieces of yourself somewhere between each new city and each new alias.
You know these missions matter. They’re the foundation: the quiet threads that make the high-stakes ones possible. Still, knowing doesn’t make them enjoyable.
You’ve been gone two months. Prague. Low-stakes undercover work, minimal intel, just orders to watch and wait. The team was investigating an underground weapons manufacturer, and while the rest of the team ran drills and chased leads, you learned faces and watched for patterns that weren’t even there. It was up to you to figure out who lingered too long and who vanished too fast.
By the time you land back home, you’re running on autopilot. Jittering and antsy with something that isn’t stress.
You tell yourself it’s exhaustion. That it’s the boredom of the mission clinging to you.
It isn’t.
You’re just tired of being away from home. Tired of being away from Bucky.
It isn’t like this is new for you. You’ve spent time apart before, real, measurable time. A year, once, in Alaska, you doing private work for SHIELD while he stayed in New York. That distance hadn’t hollowed you out like this. You hadn’t even felt this unstable the night a bullet slipped past your armor and almost killed you. You laid there bleeding, thinking that might be it. That maybe this is the farthest, distance wise, the two of you would ever be.
Something changed after that.
It wasn’t puppy love anymore. It wasn’t convenience or comfort, someone for the other to hold when the nightmares got too much, or the hurt ran bone deep.
It’s devotion. Clean cut; blind and deep.
You don’t linger when the quinjet touches down. The hangar smells like fuel and metal and something sterile that already makes your skin itch. Normally, you’d follow the routine without a question; debrief room first, sitting under fluorescent lights while someone asks the same questions you’ve already answered in your head a dozen times. Medbay second, vitals, scans, and a futile reminder to rest (even when the nurses already know you’ll be briefed for a new mission in a few days, maybe a week if you’re lucky)
Not tonight.
You sign your name on the tablet without slowing, barely glancing at the agent who starts to open their mouth to stop you. “Debrief can wait,” you mutter, already shoving past them.
You don’t go to the meeting room. You don’t go to medbay. You’re not bleeding. Nothing’s broken. Whatever is wrong with you isn’t something they could scan anyway.
Your boots echo down the hallway as you cut through the compound, fingers fidgeting at your sides, pulse too fast for a mission that went exactly as planned. You pass your own door without even looking at it. You’ll settle back in later.
You take the turn toward Bucky’s room instead.
It feels reckless. Skipping protocol, skipping procedure, it's something you would never do, but the pull is stronger than discipline. You don’t knock when you reach his door. You’ve never needed to.
The moment you step inside, the tension finally cracks.
The door barely shuts behind you before you hear his footsteps. You drop your bag, breath hitching when his arms wrap around you, solid and warm and real. You press your face into his shoulder like you’ll forget how he feels if you don’t relearn it right now.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither do you. You just breathe.
Then he leans back enough to look at you, eyes soft but searching, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s checking for something invisible.
You’re the first to speak, "Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."
"Nothing feels as good as having you come home to me."
The words settle between you, heavy and gentle all at once.
His forehead rests against yours now, hands sliding to your waist like they belong there because they do. The closeness sparks something familiar that curls low in your stomach, not rushed but certain. The kind of feeling that promises later without demanding it now.
“I missed you,” you whisper. The phrase settles wrong in your chest. It’s true, of course, yet it doesn’t even parallel how desperate you were to actually be with him.
“I know,” he murmurs, mouth kissing your temple, then your cheek. Before finally drifting down to your lips. He doesn’t kiss you, not yet. But the two of you are so close that you can make out the aftertaste of his mint gum.
“I felt it every day.”
You smile against him, finally letting your shoulders drop. For the first time in weeks, the tension lessens. Not because the mission is over, they never are, but because you’re, finally, exactly where you’re supposed to be. Home
And home isn’t a place.
It’s him.
Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! I don't have much to say after this one (shocker). If you have any requests, let me know!
Summary: You love the taste of cherries. Bucky loves the taste of cherries too, but only when they’re on your lips.
Prompt: Apple/Berry Picking Date +“Are you just going to stare?”
Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 630
Content Contains: 2nd person, female reader in mind, but I don't think there's any descriptors besides plump lips. no use of Y/n, TFATWS!Bucky (my love), making out in public places, Bucky is down bad for reader, and I think thats it! :) PROOF-READ!
Author’s Note: Day 4! I love this one! My favorite fruit is cherries so obviously I’m inclined to like this one more. I’m actually not sure if cherries count as berries but I figured it would work. I’ve gone cherry picking with my family and friends the past 2 years and I absolutely love it. The orchard we go to actually has different fruits/produce for every season but we’ve only gone during cherry season. My friends and I definitely ate way too many (while picking them) this last time because by the time we paid, we couldn’t stomach another one at all! Anyways, enjoy!
“Are you just going to stare?”
Your voice snaps Bucky back to reality, but his gaze stays locked on your lips.
The same place they've been the entire time you've been at the cherry orchard.
Cherry red, glossy with juice, and messy in a way that he thinks is unfairly distracting.
The two of you are standing between rows of trees that reach almost 15 feet. The branches are bowing low, making it easier to pick from but also making it harder to see. Sunlight filters through the air, casting a glow on your skin. You look breathtakingly beautiful and Bucky is left rendered speechless.
Your fingers are stained red, sweet and sticky, and when you pop another cherry between your plump lips, more juice spills just slightly over your bottom lip.
Trickles of cherry juice are running down your mouth now and your hand goes up to brush away the remnants of the sweet fruit. All Bucky can focus on is how good your mouth would taste against his.
He swallows. Hard.
“Earth to Barnes,” you holler with a laugh, fully aware of what you look like right now and seeing clearly just how much your appearance affects him. He’s still frozen in place, basket of cherries long forgotten at his side as his eyes trail your thumb that wipes the remaining juice.
His jaw tightens, composure hanging on by merely a thread. “You know what you’re doing,” he mutters.
You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head teasingly. “Oh, do I?”
He takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body. The type of warmth that isn’t a result of being out in the sun for the past 2 hours, but a type of warmth that's uniquely him; steady and grounding. His breath stutters, eyes flickering, then finally meeting yours before they drift back down again. Helpless.
You lick your lips without thinking, tasting cherries: sweet and sharp.
That does it.
You barely had a chance to react before his lips are crashing down on yours, hands going up to cup your face as he deepens the kiss. Unlike your other kisses that are usually tender and soft, this one is hungry, all consuming, addictive, like your Bucky’s vice and he needs his fix. It's surprising in a sense but wholeheartedly welcomed.
You let out a quiet gasp and Bucky uses that moment to slip his tongue inside. He lets out a moan as he finally tastes what he's been eyeing all day.
“God you’re so sweet,” Bucky whispers as he pulls away for just a second to let you breathe, then he's back at it, again, exploring your mouth like he's a man starving, desperate for his next meal.
Your hands tangle in his hair and you feel as he grins against your lips.
The two of you finally pull away, faces warm, lips swollen and breath shallow. He lifts his thumb, brushing the corner of your mouth. It’s gentle, amost reverent, like he’s afraid of crossing some nonexistent line. He wipes away the last trace of red juice, gaze locked on you now.
“You missed some,” he says quietly.
You let out a breathy laugh. “I think you missed some.”
His thumb lingers, just a second longer than necessary. You lean into his hand as he caresses your cheek.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I just couldn’t look away.”
It's your turn to seal his lips with a kiss this time, dragging him down by the shirt. The kiss is greedy, just as passionate as before.
Somewhere besides you, you hear a group of people approaching, probably trying to take advantage of the ripe patch of fruit the two of you found.
Still, neither one of you moves.
Author’s Note: Again, I love this one so much, I've reread it like 60 times. I hope you all like this one as much as me!! :) As always, send requests! Thank you!!
Summary: You try to keep an injury at bay, but Congressman Barnes sees everything, and he’s not going to simply leave you be.
Prompt: “Is this okay?”
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 901
Content Contains: 2nd person POV, allusions to smut, Congressman Bucky Barnes, reader injury (nothing too explicit), mentions of a dagger, mentions of blood, Bucky taking care of the reader, and I think that's it!! :) Also not proof-read (sorry, I promise I'll proofread the next one...maybe)
Author’s Note: Day 3 of the galentines event! Feeling like I'm on a roll (totally neglecting all my other responsibilities)
I got this idea from that one scene in The Artful Dodger where Jack lifts Lady Belle's dress in the alleyway to see how badly she's injured. I love that show, and I'm so excited for season 2! Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
The dagger caught where it shouldn’t have. It slipped not with a spectacle, but with a stupid, careless flick of your wrist.
You didn’t even realize it had happened at first; it was quick, too quick. Too quick for panic, too quick for drama. But just enough for a sharp bloom of pain in your thigh, quickly swallowed by adrenaline and embarrassment.
A training injury happened; it was nothing new. You clenched your teeth together, finished the drill, and told yourself it was nothing. A clean nick. Manageable. Said you’d deal with it later
And tonight was the gala.
You dressed carefully, choosing fabric that felt heavy and forgiving, ignoring the dull ache that pulsed when you moved too fast. You smiled through speeches and polite applause, stood at Congressman Barnes’ side like everything was exactly as it should be.
Bucky noticed anyway.
He always did. Didn’t matter if he was in the middle of a discussion over legislation, committee work, or the upcoming votes; his eyes shifted to you automatically.
It was the way you favored one leg when you thought no one was watching. The way your hand brushed your thigh once, unconsciously, like you were checking something was still there. His smile held through the evening, but his eyes sharpened, watchful, concerned, waiting for every grimace you let out when you moved slightly wrong.
You were barely through the door when he caught your wrist, dragging you into an unoccupied room in some random corridor. It took a moment for you to take in your surroundings before it clicked. You’re in his office.
“Y/N,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Not aggressive. Just steady. “Sit.”
You tried to laugh it off. “Bucky, it’s nothing. I didn’t want to-”
But Bucky was a super-soldier. And more importantly, he was now a congressman. So when he tells you something, despite your disregard, you’ve already resigned yourself to giving in.
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he replied, already kneeling in front of you. His voice softens in the way it only does with you. “Not with me.”
You watched him as he fiddled with your gown. The contrast was absurd. He was still wearing his suit, with the sleeves rolled up, and his tie hung neatly around his neck. But he didn’t look like the same composed man he was a second ago. There was an intent to his gaze, his eyes dark with concern and a sliver of nervousness. Bucky Barnes, the man who survived not only World War II but also HYDRA, was right in front of you, on his knees, shaking slightly, looking at you like he belonged there.
His hands hovered for a second near the bottom of your dress, careful, before he was already lifting the hem, as if it were the most natural event in the world. Then recognition set in: his eyes flicking up to yours, searching your face for any sort of discomfort. For a look that said he was a trespasser breaking into your private property.
“Is this okay?" He spoke, already feeling like he had created a display out of nothing.
You nodded, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.
He lifted the fabric just enough to see. Nothing dramatic, just a thin line of red, angry red against the skin, but already dried at the edges. It wasn’t severe, but it was unmistakably there. His jaw tightened, not with anger, but something closer to hurt that you hadn’t told him.
“You’re stubborn,” he murmured, more fond than scolding. “You know that?”
“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” you said weakly.
That earned the smallest smile.
He cleaned the wound with meticulous care, movements gentle like you might bruise from a harsh thought. Every touch was deliberate, respectful, intimate in the quiet way that mattered most. When he wrapped the bandage, his thumb lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
“Next time,” he said softly, “you tell me.”
The distance was virtually absent. He wasn’t leaning in anymore, but you still felt the warmth of his breath. It was sensual to say the least, but it was hardly distracting you from the way his hands gripped the outside of your thighs or how his eyes seemed to shift from a look of concern into a look that mirrored what it was you were feeling.
“I know,” you whispered, quiet, like you were afraid your voice would betray you.
The room was silent now. Nothing except the beating of your heart as you imagined what it would be like if Bucky were on his knees in front of you for an entirely different reason. You silently scolded yourself as you felt your heart rate increase and the blood start to flood your face. You prayed he wouldn’t hear what this somewhat compromising position was doing to you, but you knew better than to hope.
Something unspoken passed between the two of you then, something like gratitude, relief, the promise that nothing would go unnoticed between the two of you.
So when he stood, leaning into your ear, breathing down your neck before whispering, “We’re leaving early.” You knew not to argue this time.
Because Bucky Barnes already took care of you one way, but he wasn’t done. And neither were you. So your answer was a laugh and a hand laced firmly with his as he led you away.
Author’s Note: Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is welcome! And again, if anybody has a request, please send it :)
Also, yes, I posted a little late, let's just ignore it <3
Summary: Marriage wasn’t something you thought was in the cards for you and Bucky Barnes, but then he shows you that you and he have always been on the same page.
Prompt: “Is that a ring box in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky x Reader
Word Count: ~1.3k
Content Contains: 2nd Person POV, allusions to sex (nothing explicit), TFATWS Bucky, Mentions of PTSD/Trauma, fluff, no use of y/n, not proof-read
Author’s Note: Galentines event day 2!! And I actually love writing for this event, all the prompts are so cute. Obviously, from the title, this is loosely based off Taylor Swift’s “Call It What You Want.” Again, not much dialogue since it’s awkward to write but I promise I’ll get better. Probably should have been working on my biomedical debate arguments, but I’d rather do anything else. I don’t know if I’ll write everyday but I guess we’ll see how long this streak of motivation goes on for! :)
Also, does anybody know good tags to use??
Bucky Barnes was not a man who believed he would find love.
He had let himself think about it once: quietly and carefully, even as he was beaten, battered, and bruised after being drafted into the war in 1942.
Love felt like a luxury meant for other men. Men who didn’t wake up thrashing from night terrors.. Men who didn’t count the years by battles survived. By burdens that had them shackled.
And when he fell from that train, metal screaming against ice and sky, it never crossed his mind at all.
Eighty years later, the world was completely different. Neon lights where ration lines once were. Phones that fit in pockets. Music that came from stereos or Bluetooth headphones and NOT record players. But some things hadn’t changed much, like the way Bucky still flinched at sudden sounds, or the way he loved quietly, as if love itself might shatter if handled too roughly. As if love or happiness, was something that could be stripped from him the second he messed up again.
When you started dating him, you assumed he would never ask you to marry him. This was the 21st century, after all. Marriage was just a piece of paper. A form. A signature. Tangible evidence of a relationship. And it wasn’t like either of you guarded parts of your relationship anyway, whatever walls had existed came down the first time a make-out session got a little too heated and quiet laughter and even louder moans replaced apologies.
It never bothered you. You fell in love with Bucky Barnes as he was, not with the idea of a perfect husband, not the fantasy of being someone’s perfect wife (not that you ever thought you would be the “perfect wife” either. You were just slightly too stubborn.)
Bucky Barnes was a man made of scars and memories that clawed their way into both his nightmares and plagued his waking hours and everyday thoughts. To you, the most important thing was never a shiny ring. It was proving, over and over again, that you would still be there when the dark moments won. When his scars showed. When pieces of him cracked so deeply you worried they might splinter into you. You were there when guilt pressed down on his chest so hard all you could do was hold him, arms tight, as if love alone could will him back together.
At first, you didn’t think the relationship would work. You can only help someone who wants to help themselves, and for the longest time, Bucky didn’t.
But your unwavering loyalty (either your greatest flaw or your greatest strength) is what turned the tide. Slowly. Gently. Through what felt like divine intervention, he began to open up, and you could’ve sworn you’d been handed a miracle.
Recovery was never linear. There were bad days. Worse nights. But after seeing how deeply you cared, Bucky began to try, really try, to make you proud.
He never knew you already were. Every single day.
—
Your family asked when you’d settle down. When you’d stop waiting for him to ask and find someone who wanted to flaunt you with an absurdly expensive piece of jewelry. Even Sam mentioned once, casually, that you might end up the same age as Bucky before he finally committed.
“You know he’s kind of old-fashioned, right?” Sam would say, smirking. You’d shrug, the corners of your mouth turning just slightly upward. “Who says I’m not as well?”
The passive comments never stung. You both knew your relationship wasn’t defined by legalities or ownership. You already belonged to each other. The future didn’t exist without him, and if that meant skipping a legal marriage, so be it.
Besides, you were technically married anyway, or so you liked to tell yourself.
You wore a necklace with his initial on your neck. It rested warm against your chest, hidden underneath your t-shirts and work blouses. Simple, but always there, like a promise meant just for you. A quiet reminder that what you have is real, unlike anything you ever had before.
Bucky’s version was quieter. Your initials etched into theinside of his dog tags, flat against him at all times, the one thing he sought comfort from. No one saw, not even you. Not the way his fingers ran over the carvings absentmindedly when he was anxious or stressed, when he couldn’t sleep, or his hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. It was your name that grounded him back to the present.
Call it what you want, but for the two of you, it felt like quiet devotion.
You had a rhythm. Waking up tangled together. You making coffee while he starts breakfast. His hand always guiding you to the inside of the sidewalk. Him never failing to open a door for you or pulling out your chair, despite knowing you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself. Being each other’s emergency contacts. The way he let you mess with his dog tags or ruffle his hair just as he finally got it to sit right.
Still, despite everything, a small, childish part of you lingered; the same part that staged wedding ceremonies on playgrounds, planned receptions in middle school notebooks, and paused too long at wedding dresses while window-shopping with friends. You never blamed Bucky. He’d lost too much to ever have to be tied down.
So you kept your Pinterest boards secret. Never told him how you sometimes wandered past jewelers, letting your eyes drift over rings, wondering if there was a world where he wanted this too.
You didn’t know that he did. Just as badly.
—
One thing about you: you ruin surprises. Nobody could let you in on a secret because the whole neighborhood would find out by lunch. You (along with whoever’s birthday it was) had to be barred from learning the surprise party plans. It's not that you actively sought these things out; you were just simply too observant and simply too instinctive
You noticed everything. Patterns. Shifts. Secrets never survived long around you.
So when you came home that night, exhausted from work, right after you kissed Bucky hello, you felt something unfamiliar press against your hip, the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Is that a ring in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
He went completely still.
Your heart dropped. You instantly regretted it. Why would you say that? Why make things awkward?
But you were good at reading people. And Bucky Barnes, just like you. was terrible at keeping secrets.
When he pulled back, eyes glassy, breath uneven, and dropped to one knee, your heart leapt straight into your throat.
“Wait,” you whispered, hands already shaking. “Bucky-”
He told you he wanted it to be perfect. Memorable. Something you would find in a fantasy, but that he couldn’t not do it here. Right now. Standing in the home that the two of you decorated together. Surrounded by the new memories he holds onto during sleep. He told you he knew you dreamed of weddings, even though you never said a word. That he wanted this, wanted you. That he wanted to grow old with you, make you a mom, and show you how devoted he could be. Make up for every single moment he thought he hadn’t loved you well enough.
He said he hadn’t felt anything like this since before Hydra. Before the war. Since before he can even remember.
“So,” his voice broken into a soft laugh through tears, “will you marry me?”
You barely heard the rest through your tears.
“Yes,” you sobbed, laughing. “Yes, of course”
And that was it. Nothing fancy, just raw, pure, unfiltered love. The quiet, stubborn, unbreakable type. Happiness had finally found him. You had found him.
And just like you always have, you stayed.
Author’s Note: Hii! If you made it to the end, then please let me know what you think! Tips are greatly appreciated! Send requests if you'd like, I'd love to write for other people! Thank you! :)
