Loki's Wife

[kitty384]

Masterlist

Welcome to my masterlist! I’ve done my best to keep everything organized for easy browsing. You’ll find a mix of one-shots and series here—lots of platonic Avengers, found family, and pregnancy-themed stories (I can’t lie, those are my favorite to write). I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I’ve loved writing them!

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Bucky

Pregnancy:

Sometimes I'm Still Scared The Quiet Between Heartbeats It's Not Just Us Anymore Sick Days and Soft Hands He Knew Before I Did It's Starting to Show Operation Talk Some Sense Into Your Best Friends It's Not Silly If It Helps

Dad Bucky

In His Arms, Everything's Safe This Is What Home Feel Like Does It Hurt? You're My Favorite Avenger (Steve) The Three Dads Club (Steve, Sam) You Can Always Come To Me

Light Angst/Fluff:

Slow Down, Sweetheart Are You Sure You're Okay? The Space Beneath The Day You Forgot Stay With Me

Mini Bucky Series

Loki

Pregnancy

There You Are A Morning Meant for Two (and a Half) Hush, Little Star When the Star Begin to Move Blood of a God You Should've Told Me When I Cannot Carry Myself It Wasn't Yours to Carry Where You Go, I Follow Let Me Carry It For You They Know You, All of You Even in Silence, I'm With You The Stars Are Ours Now

Dad Loki

Born of Frost and Fire Where It's Cool and Quiet Cool Hands, Quiet Heart Always Cool, Always Home

Fluff/Angst

We Still Come Home

Avengers Found Family

These are non-romantic, strictly platonic stories

Just in Case (Tony) One Voice at a Time (Sam, Steve, Bucky) Three-Strand Therapy (Bucky) Corners and Company (Bucky) Right Here (Tony, Pepper) Only When They're Close (Sam, Steve, Clint, Bucky, Tony) You Called Me What? (Tony) Too Loud (Thor, Same, Tony) Because It's Sam (Sam, Steve, Bucky) A Little at a Time (Sam, Steve, Avengers) Maximum Capacity 5 Idiots and Me (Sam, Clint, Bruce, Scott, Thor) She Deserves to Feel Safe (Sam, Tony, Clint, Nat)

Peter Parker

Fluff:

Caught in the Web

Stucky

Platonic Parent Stucky

You're Still Ours You Came Back All Her Things After the Nightmare Just Outside the Door The Hoodie

[kitty384]

Code: Hysterical

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (pregnancy, established relationship)

Summary: A harmless prank spirals into full Winter Soldier panic when you fake fainting—with the entire team in on it. Bucky learns two things very quickly: never underestimate your acting skills, and love makes him way too easy to mess with.

Warnings: Pranks, fake medical scare, mild language, chaos humor

Look, in my defense… Bucky started it.

He was the one who switched the cream in my Oreos with toothpaste last week.

He was the one who put googly eyes on every item in the fridge.

And he was the one who replaced my shampoo with glitter gel and then played dumb for two days while I sparkled like a disco ball.

So, really, what happened next?

He brought it on himself.

Operation: “Prank the Winter Soldier” begins at 2:43 PM on a lazy Thursday, when Sam, Steve, and Nat are all bored, slightly chaotic, and very easy to convince.

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asks, spinning a spoon in his fingers like he’s auditioning for Kitchen: The Musical.

I grin. “We fake a fainting spell.”

Steve blinks. “You’re going to fake passing out?”

“Dramatically.”

“Like—on the floor?” Nat asks, already smiling.

“Yep. I go down like a Victorian ghost in a corset. And Bucky panics.”

Sam snorts. “We’re in.”

Steve sighs, but he’s already nodding. “If he murders us, I’m blaming you.”

“He’s not gonna murder you,” I say sweetly. “Just maybe yell a little.”

Phase One: Set the Scene.

I text Bucky: “Hey, can you meet me in the living room in 5? Need help moving something.” He replies instantly: “Be right there, doll.”

God, he’s so sweet.

This is gonna be hilarious.

Phase Two: Act Like Something’s Off.

Steve’s already seated on the couch, pretending to read.

Sam’s fake-scrolling on his phone and occasionally side-eyeing me like he’s an anxious bodyguard.

Nat’s leaning against the wall with the kind of stillness only she can pull off—arms crossed, neutral expression, completely ready to lose it the second Bucky walks in.

Me? I’m on the floor. Lying on my side. Hand over my stomach.

Waiting.

“He’s coming,” Nat whispers.

“Places, people,” I hiss.

Bucky walks into the room and freezes mid-step.

“Y/N?”

No response. (I’m already mentally drafting my Oscar speech.)

He walks faster. “Y/N?!”

Steve looks up from his book. “Oh—yeah, she just kinda… went down.”

“Went down?!”

Bucky’s instantly crouched at my side, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch me too hard. “Baby? Doll? What’s going on—did she hit her head?!”

Nat kneels beside him, totally in character. “She said her stomach hurt. Then she dropped like a stone.”

“Should we call Bruce?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised.

“Call everyone!” Bucky barks, full Winter Soldier panic mode. “FRIDAY, alert the med bay—”

I let out a soft groan and flutter my eyes open.

“Bucky?” I whisper, barely audible. “Is that you?”

His eyes snap to mine.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, already brushing my hair back. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You scared the hell outta me—”

And that’s when I grin.

Big.

Bright.

“Gotcha.”

He blinks.

I sit up.

Sam starts cackling. Nat snorts. Steve covers his face with both hands.

Bucky’s still frozen, mouth half-open, hands hovering mid-air like he’s buffering.

“You—”

I can’t help it. I laugh.

“You should’ve seen your face!”

His jaw drops.

“You pranked me?!”

“Oh, come on,” I giggle, tugging him closer. “You’ve been on a streak lately. You had this coming.”

He stares at me.

Then looks around at our teammates.

“You were all in on this?”

“Yup,” Sam says proudly.

Steve shrugs. “She made a convincing case.”

“I told you she went down like a Victorian ghost,” Nat adds helpfully.

Bucky leans back on his heels, running a hand down his face.

“I swear to God, Y/N…”

“You love me.”

He groans. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Later, I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed, a mischievous look on his face.

“Don’t,” I say immediately.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t plot. I know that look.”

“I’m not plotting.”

“You’re absolutely plotting.”

He leans in. “You fake faint on me again, and I’m painting the nursery pink and orange stripes.”

I gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, doll.”

We stare each other down.

Then he kisses me, slow and sweet, before whispering:

“…But yeah. You got me good.”

[kitty384]

Just Watching

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (pregnancy)

Summary: In the quiet of the night, Bucky stays awake just to watch—memorizing the rise and fall of your breath, the warmth of your belly, and the small reminders that this life is real. It’s a moment of peace, love, and gratitude he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

Warnings: Pregnancy themes, soft intimacy, emotional vulnerability

The room is still.

Not the kind of still that feels empty.

The kind that hums with something warm. Full. Sacred.

The fan hums softly in the corner. Moonlight cuts through the blinds in long silver stripes. And you—God, you—you’re lying beside me, half-wrapped in the blankets, your hand resting over the gentle curve of your stomach.

And I’m just… watching.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a worried way.

Just watching.

Because some part of me still can’t believe this is real.

Your face is relaxed in sleep. Lips parted just slightly. A bit of hair stuck to your cheek.

Your breathing’s even. Slow. Soft.

And your belly rises and falls under the fabric of my old T-shirt that you’ve practically stolen by this point.

I swear it’s the only shirt you want to wear anymore—and I’m not complaining. There’s something about seeing you in it, stretched over our baby, that makes something behind my ribs ache.

You shift slightly, and the blanket slips down your leg.

I reach over and fix it—careful, quiet—tucking it back up gently.

Then my hand rests on your stomach.

It’s not flat anymore. It’s round and warm and alive.

I can feel you breathing under my palm.

And I can feel them too.

Sometimes, if I stay still long enough, I’ll feel a flutter. A nudge. A stretch. Like the little bean is trying to say I’m here.

You’ve told me that happens more often when I’m close.

Like they know it’s me.

Like they know they’re safe.

I’ve fought wars.

I’ve been turned into something I didn’t recognize.

I’ve lost people. Time. Pieces of myself I’m still not sure I’ll ever get back.

But this?

This is something I never even imagined I could have.

A home.

A life where no one’s bleeding or yelling or giving orders.

A person who sleeps beside me like I’d never hurt a thing.

And now… a baby.

Ours.

I feel a kick under my hand.

A real one.

I blink, then smile.

“Hey,” I whisper softly. “You saying hi?”

You shift again, and I freeze—half hoping you don’t wake, half wanting to share this moment with you.

Your eyes flutter open.

“…Buck?”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You blink a few times, stretching slowly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, hand still resting on your belly. “I’m good.”

“You were staring.”

“Was not.”

“You were.”

“Maybe a little.”

You smile sleepily. “What were you thinking about?”

I look down at our hands—yours still over the bump, mine just beneath.

“I was thinking about how I used to be scared of the dark.”

You hum, curious.

“And now? It’s my favorite time of day,” I say quietly. “Because you’re here. And they’re here. And everything’s quiet and safe.”

You reach up and touch my cheek.

And I melt, like I always do.

“I feel safe with you,” you whisper.

I kiss your palm. “I hope they will too.”

“They already do,” you murmur, sliding closer to me, letting me curl around you with my arm tucked under yours.

Your bump presses into my stomach, and my hand stays right there—over the soft rise of your belly. The steady rhythm of your breathing.

And I don’t move.

Not for a long time.

Later, I hear you fall back asleep.

But I stay awake a little longer.

Just watching.

Because I can.

Because I get to.

Because you’re mine, and I’m yours, and we made something beautiful—together.

And I’ll never stop being thankful.

Not even for a second.

[kitty384]

Just Dads and Their Choas Creatures

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x OC (Ellie)

Summary: A simple park day turns into capes, squirrels, playground diplomacy, and two dads realizing they somehow built a life worth being tired for. No missions, no monsters—just kids, coffee, and the kind of chaos that feels like home.

Warnings: Toddler chaos, mild language, domestic fluff, dad humor

It starts with Steve texting me: “Let’s get the kids outside before they eat the drywall.”

To be fair, he’s not wrong.

Both our girls have been bouncing off the walls since 6:00 a.m., and last time we let them get too bored, they covered our living room floor in yogurt and claimed it was “snow.”

So now we’re at the park. Backpacks stuffed with snacks, juice boxes, and emergency wipes. Sunscreen on noses. Hats in place. Chaos fully loaded.

Y/N’s chasing our daughter through the grass while Steve’s wife, Ellie, holds their sleepy toddler against her chest in the shade. Steve and I sit on the picnic blanket, coffee in hand, both of us already exhausted even though it’s not even noon.

Parenthood is humbling.

“Yours tried to jump off the couch last night,” I mutter, sipping my drink.

Steve snorts. “Yours did jump off the couch. Then demanded applause.”

“‘Superhero landing,’” I quote, deadpan.

He laughs. “They’re gonna be trouble when they’re teenagers.”

“They’re already trouble now.”

Just then, our girls run past us—barefoot, giggling, each wearing one of my and Steve’s T-shirts as makeshift capes.

“They raided our bag again, didn’t they?” Steve sighs.

I don’t even look. “Yeah.”

“Are we stopping them?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

We watch as they pretend to fly across the field, arms outstretched, yelling something about saving the squirrels.

“Did they say squirrels?” Steve asks.

“They did.”

“They get that from you.”

“They definitely don’t.”

“They do. You’re the squirrel guy.”

“I’m not the squirrel guy.”

“You feed them in your yard.”

“Once.”

“You named one.”

“…Mr. Chompers is a friend.”

Steve laughs so hard he snorts.

The girls end up at the playground and immediately start bossing around some kid named Tyler. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Y/N and Ellie join us on the blanket, trading sleepy baby cuddles and Goldfish crackers while Steve and I take turns watching the swings like secret service agents.

It’s easy, this life. This rhythm.

I never thought I’d have something like this. A best friend who still looked at me like I was just Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. A wife who laughs at my jokes. A kid who thinks I hang the moon.

And days like this—where nothing hurts, and nobody needs saving, and the hardest part of the afternoon is untangling sippy cup lids—they remind me how far I’ve come.

How far we’ve come.

Later, after juice breaks and scraped knees and several arguments over who gets to “drive the spaceship” (the spaceship is just the jungle gym, by the way), we all lie on the grass under the big shady tree.

The girls are shoulder to shoulder, whispering about starting a “super secret Avengers club.”

Ellie’s dozing with the baby. Y/N’s resting her head in my lap.

And Steve’s staring up at the clouds, one arm flung over his face.

“We’re old,” he murmurs.

“Speak for yourself,” I say.

“My back just cracked in three places.”

“That was the grass sighing under your massive guilt complex.”

He laughs quietly.

Y/N snorts. “That’s the sound of seventy years of emotional repression.”

Steve flips us both off without lifting his head.

Our daughters gasp.

“Daddy!” they scold in unison.

Busted.

Eventually, we pack up the blanket and gather the rogue shoes and get ready to head back.

The girls are holding hands. Covered in dirt. Faces sticky from popsicles. Absolutely radiant.

I crouch in front of our daughter and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You have fun today, sweetheart?”

She nods. “We saved the squirrels. And the slide monster.”

“Busy day.”

“Yeah,” she says seriously. “But we still have to fight the nap dragon.”

I glance at Y/N. “You or me?”

She pats my shoulder. “Good luck, soldier.”

Back at the cars, the girls hug goodbye like they’re parting at sea.

Steve and I just grin.

“Same time next week?” he asks.

“Only if you bring backup snacks.”

“Done.”

I watch our daughters wave at each other through the car windows the whole way out of the lot.

And when I reach over and take Y/N’s hand in mine, she just smiles and laces our fingers together.

Like she always does.

Like she always will.

[kitty384]

Tiny Parrot with a Potty Mouth

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (established relationship, toddler)

Summary: When their toddler picks up a very specific new word, Bucky is forced to face the consequences of his not-so-clean mouth. What follows is chaos, damage control, and the realization that being her favorite person means she’s always listening.

Warnings: Mild language, toddler chaos, parental panic, humor

“Bucky, we have a problem.”

He looks up from where he’s crouched by the toy bin, one hand holding a plastic dinosaur, the other reaching for our daughter’s favorite stuffed sloth.

“What kind of problem?” he asks casually.

Our toddler, standing next to him in mismatched socks and a sparkly tutu, answers for me.

“Shi—!” she chirps brightly, stumbling over the pronunciation but absolutely nailing the rhythm.

Bucky freezes.

Slowly turns his head.

“…Did she just say—?”

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “She did.”

“Wait, wait. Maybe she meant ship.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Y’know,” he continues weakly. “Like… like a pirate. She likes pirates!”

Our daughter claps her hands. “Shi—!”

“Nope,” I say. “That is definitely not about boats.”

Bucky’s face flushes red.

“I… might’ve stubbed my toe this morning,” he mumbles.

“Oh really? That’s it?”

“And dropped a plate.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And stepped on one of her puzzle pieces.”

“She really paid attention to that one, apparently.”

Our daughter beams up at him. “Shi—!”

Bucky puts the dinosaur down like it’s betrayed him. “We’re doomed.”

Over the next 24 hours, she says it six more times.

Once while throwing a crayon.

Once while watching the dog bark at the neighbor.

Twice while trying to put on her own shoes.

And twice for absolutely no reason at all—like she just remembered it existed and wanted to share the joy.

Bucky is mortified.

Which, honestly, is hilarious.

“You have to stop reacting when she says it,” I tell him that night as we get her ready for bed.

“I’m not reacting!”

“You go stiff as a board and make that weird face like you’re trying to telepathically erase the sound.”

“She’s two,” he hisses. “She shouldn’t even know that word.”

“Well, she does. Thanks to a certain someone.”

He groans. “I thought I’d cleaned up my language.”

“You did. Mostly.”

“She doesn’t even repeat you!”

“Because I use mom words. Like ‘uh-oh’ and ‘whoops’ and ‘heckin’ rude.’”

Bucky stares at me. “You are not saying ‘heckin’ rude.’”

“She gets it from the dog videos.”

“I—what are we even doing?”

I smirk. “Trying to deprogram the world’s cutest little sponge.”

Steve finds out when our daughter drops her juice cup and exclaims, “Shi—!”

He chokes on his own coffee.

Bucky claps a hand over her mouth and turns to Steve with the most sheepish expression I’ve ever seen.

“She said ship,” Bucky says weakly.

Steve slowly lowers his mug.

“…Buddy.”

“Don’t say it.”

“She’s literally you. Just smaller and mouthier.”

Sam howls when he hears.

“First word?” he jokes.

Bucky sighs. “No, it was ‘dada.’ But this is a close second.”

We start “Operation Clean Mouth” the next morning.

It involves:

Replacing all curse words with ridiculous substitutes (Bucky now says “sugar biscuit” and “son of a sponge”)

A swear jar—just for Bucky (he owes like $12 by lunch)

Nat teaching our toddler to dramatically gasp and say “Oh nooooo” every time someone curses (this backfires when she does it at the grocery store because someone else says “damn”)

By the end of the week, the word starts fading from her vocabulary.

Mostly.

Except when she drops things.

Or hears Bucky sigh too hard.

“Shi—!” she’ll whisper.

And Bucky will put his head in his hands like he’s failed as a father.

“You didn’t fail,” I tell him one night as we lie in bed, our daughter finally asleep between us. “She just… listens to you. All the time. She watches everything.”

He groans. “That’s worse.”

“No,” I say softly, brushing my fingers through his hair. “That means she trusts you. Loves you. Wants to be like you.”

His eyes flicker to mine.

And soften.

“God help her,” he whispers.

“She’s lucky,” I say. “Even if she cusses like a sailor.”

He laughs.

And in the quiet between us, our daughter shifts in her sleep.

Then mutters, barely audible:

“Ship…”

Bucky winces.

“Close enough,” I whisper.

[kitty384]

Only When I Hold Her

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (postpartum, new parents)

Summary: When their newborn won’t settle for anything—or anyone—Bucky discovers that skin-to-skin and a steady heartbeat are all she needs. In the quiet that follows, he realizes she feels safest right where she belongs: against him.

Warnings: Newborn crying, postpartum exhaustion, emotional vulnerability, soft hurt/comfort

The first time she cries—really cries—I think my heart’s going to rip clean out of my chest.

It’s not like the little fussing noises she made in the hospital. Not the newborn snuffles or soft whimpers that came when she was hungry or tired. No, this is full-throttle, red-faced, inconsolable sobbing.

And nothing’s working.

Y/N’s pacing the bedroom in her robe, bouncing her gently, murmuring soft, tired things I can barely hear.

I’ve tried everything too.

Swaddling. Burping. Rocking.

She just keeps crying.

And Y/N looks like she’s going to fall over.

She’s pale, and her eyes are glossy, and she hasn’t slept more than an hour since we came home. I can see her holding it in—but I know her too well.

She’s about five seconds from breaking.

“Here,” I say softly, stepping in. “Give her to me.”

She hesitates, still gently swaying with the baby.

“I don’t think it’ll help,” she whispers, voice rough. “She’s just—she won’t stop.”

“Let me try,” I say again.

She finally nods and passes her into my arms, slow and careful.

She feels so small against me.

So warm and wiggly and loud.

Her little hands flail, face red, voice shrill.

It hits me like a punch. I hate it—I hate hearing her sound like that.

She’s upset and confused and tiny, and I can’t do anything.

And I can see it’s breaking Y/N too.

I look at her. “Go lie down for a bit.”

“I don’t want to leave her—”

“Just for a minute,” I say gently. “You need to rest. Let me try something.”

She finally nods, leans up, kisses the top of our daughter’s head, and walks to the couch, curling up with her face in her hands.

I watch her for a moment. She’s trembling.

Then I look down at the baby in my arms.

She’s wailing.

But her eyes are open.

And she’s looking at me.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper.

It doesn’t stop her crying.

But something in me shifts.

I go into the bedroom, close the door softly, and sit on the edge of the bed.

Then I pull my shirt off.

“Alright, sweetheart,” I murmur, “let’s try this.”

I lay her against my chest, skin to skin, my hand curved protectively around her back.

She keeps crying for another ten seconds.

Then five.

Then—

Silence.

Her tiny body relaxes.

Her head turns to the side and rests right over my heart.

And she breathes.

Just breathes.

No crying.

No wiggling.

Just warmth.

I go still.

My breath catches.

And I sit there, completely frozen, afraid even the idea of movement will wake her again.

She stays still.

Her little hand curls near my collarbone.

And then… she sighs.

I look down at her, stunned.

And something in my chest—something I didn’t even know was tight—unravels.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear Y/N crack the door open behind me.

“Is she…?” she whispers.

I nod slowly. “She stopped.”

Y/N steps into the room like she’s afraid she’ll shatter it.

Her eyes go wide.

And then she covers her mouth.

“She’s—she’s asleep,” she says, like she doesn’t believe it.

I nod again.

Y/N kneels beside me, slowly, carefully. Her hand brushes our daughter’s back, then rests gently on my thigh.

“She didn’t do that for me,” she whispers.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “That doesn’t mean anything bad.”

She looks at me. Eyes glassy. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

My heart drops.

“Y/N. You carried her. Grew her. Brought her into the world. That little girl would follow your voice through a warzone. She loves you. She’s just…” I glance down at our daughter, “…used to hearing my heartbeat from the outside now.”

Y/N nods slowly, trying to smile.

But I know that face.

The barely keeping it together face.

So I reach my metal hand out, resting it against her cheek.

“Take a nap,” I whisper. “I’ll hold her. You need rest.”

“Are you sure?”

I glance down again.

She’s asleep. Peaceful.

My daughter.

Our daughter.

And somehow, she feels safe with me.

After everything I’ve done. After everything I thought I’d never deserve.

She feels safe.

I nod. “I’ve got her.”

Y/N crawls into bed behind me and wraps an arm around my waist, resting her head between my shoulder blades.

“I love you,” she murmurs.

“I love you too.”

We sit like that until the baby stirs again.

And this time, we’re ready.

Later, when the team hears what happened, they start calling me The Baby Whisperer.

Tony says it’s because of my enhanced body heat.

Clint says it’s because I have “dad aura.”

Sam says it’s because my voice is so low it “resonates with her tiny bird bones.”

I don’t care what it is.

I only care that it works.

Because every time she cries, and I hold her close, skin to skin, she goes quiet again.

She just wants to know I’m there.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to wonder.

[kitty384]

It's Like He Thinks His Hand Will Keep Us Safe

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (pregnancy)

Summary: Somewhere along the second trimester, Bucky starts keeping a hand on your belly like instinctive armor—gentle, constant, and full of quiet love. It’s not about control; it’s about safety, connection, and a man who already loves his child with everything he has.

Warnings: Pregnancy themes, soft domestic moments, extreme tenderness

It started sometime during the second trimester.

At first, I didn’t notice it. Not really.

A touch here, a brush there—little moments that could’ve meant anything. Resting his hand on my waist while I was cooking, smoothing a palm over my shirt when we were on the couch. Just everyday Bucky things.

But then it became constant.

Subtle, sure. But unmistakable.

Everywhere we went, he had a hand on my belly.

Not in a weird, possessive way. Never like that.

It was soft. Gentle. Protective.

Like he was afraid the world might forget I was carrying something fragile unless he reminded it with his touch.

Like he thought his hand might be the thing that kept us safe.

We were in the elevator when I caught it the first time.

I’d leaned against the side rail, hand on my hip, ankles aching after a long mission debrief. The elevator jolted just a little—barely a twitch—and without even looking, Bucky reached out and laid his hand across my bump.

Like instinct.

Like armor.

His thumb rubbed back and forth in slow, absent motions.

He didn’t even blink.

I stared at him for a second. “You do that a lot, you know.”

He glanced down at his hand, like he’d just realized it was there.

Then he shrugged. “I like knowing you’re both okay.”

My heart twisted, warm and aching all at once.

“Do you think they can feel it?”

He smiled, soft and sure. “I hope so.”

The second time I caught it, we were at the compound movie night. Sam had insisted on a group watch of something “culturally essential” (read: Shrek 2), and we were all crammed together on couches and beanbags with popcorn and drinks and chaos.

I was curled into Bucky’s side, socked feet up, sweatshirt stretched over my growing belly.

He had one arm around me—and the other hand?

Resting on my bump.

Not moving. Not squeezing. Just… there.

A constant.

I don’t even think he realized he’d done it until the baby kicked and startled him so badly he spilled popcorn.

Nat nearly cried laughing.

But even then—he didn’t move his hand.

Just smiled, wide and soft, like the kick had spoken directly to his heart.

“Hi there, little one,” he whispered, his thumb brushing in gentle arcs. “Didn’t mean to bug you.”

It got worse (cuter) as the pregnancy went on.

We’d be walking down the hallway and he’d rest a hand over my belly like someone might try to snatch the baby out of me mid-step.

I’d lean into the fridge and boom—hand.

I’d sit on the couch to read and suddenly feel him reach over without looking, resting his palm lightly across the top curve of my bump like he couldn’t help it.

And sometimes—when I was half-asleep and curled on my side—he’d wrap around me and slip a hand under my shirt, skin to skin, holding me so gently it made my chest ache.

I asked him once, “Why do you always do that?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Just feels like if I’m touching you, I’ll know right away if something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I know,” he said. “But if it did—I’d want to be the first to know.”

My eyes burned. “You love them already, don’t you?”

“More than I ever thought was possible,” he whispered.

The team started noticing.

Clint made jokes, of course.

“Does the hand come off at any point, or is that just permanent now?”

“Do you charge rent for belly access?”

“Is that your emotional support bump?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Steve just smiled.

Sam took to calling us “The Human Security Blanket and Her Winter Arm.”

Tony tried to scan the baby “for vibranium exposure” and was banned from touching my stomach for life.

But no one really questioned it.

Because they knew Bucky.

And they knew what this meant to him.

The night I felt my first big kick, Bucky had fallen asleep on the couch with his hand still curved over my bump, thumb twitching like he was dreaming.

I didn’t want to wake him.

But the kick was big.

And then another.

And another.

I gasped quietly—and he woke instantly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whispered, grabbing his hand. “Just—feel.”

He blinked.

Then felt it.

Then smiled so wide I thought he might cry.

“They’re dancing,” he whispered.

“Or fighting.”

“Or both.”

“Definitely ours, then.”

I fall asleep easier when his hand is there.

When I feel the pressure of him, gentle and solid, like a promise wrapped around us.

I think the baby does too.

And I think Bucky knows that.

Because he never lets go.

[kitty384]

You Should've Told Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (married, pregnancy)

Summary: When a medical scare sends you to the brink while Bucky is off-mission, Steve steps in to hold things together—but secrets have a way of breaking hearts. When Bucky comes home, the truth hits harder than any battlefield ever could.

Warnings: Pregnancy complications, fainting, emotional angst, hurt/comfort

The first time I got dizzy, I brushed it off.

The second time, I blamed it on standing too long.

The third time, I passed out cold on the hallway floor.

I woke up in the medical center, IV in my arm, Steve sitting in the corner of the room looking like someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently, getting up fast. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

My voice was hoarse. “The baby?”

He nodded quickly. “They’re fine. Strong heartbeat. You scared us, though.”

“What… happened?”

“Dehydration. Fever. Blood pressure dropped. You weren’t saying anything.”

I looked away.

He knelt beside the bed, hand gentle on mine.

“You have to tell us when you’re not okay.”

“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” I whispered.

Steve gave me a look. “Buck would want you to worry him.”

My chest ached at his name.

“He’s still on comm silence, isn’t he?”

Steve nodded. “He’s not back for two more days.”

“Don’t tell him,” I said quickly.

Steve blinked. “Y/N—”

“I don’t want him distracted. It’s just bed rest, right?”

“Strict bed rest,” he confirmed. “And fluids. You need to let people take care of you.”

“I can do that,” I whispered.

But I didn’t know how true that would be until Bucky came home.

It happened like this:

Steve stayed with me for two full days. Brought me soup. Helped me to the bathroom. Carried me back to bed when I got dizzy again. Never once made me feel like a burden.

But the whole time, this storm hung over my head.

Because eventually, Bucky would find out.

And I had no idea how he’d take it.

I was half-asleep, curled in bed under a mess of pillows and soft blankets, when I heard his voice echo down the hallway.

It was calm.

Too calm.

Steve tried to intercept him in the hall.

I couldn’t hear every word, but I could hear the tone.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“She made me promise not to.”

“I’m her husband, Steve.”

“I know that. But she wanted to protect you.”

“She almost collapsed alone. You think that doesn’t tear me apart?”

The door opened seconds later.

And then there he was.

Bucky. Gear still on. Dried blood on his sleeve. Dirt on his boots. And eyes so full of worry it made my stomach twist.

“Hi,” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

Just crossed the room, dropped to his knees at my bedside, and cupped my face so gently it made my eyes water.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said softly.

“I didn’t want to distract you.”

He shook his head. “There is nothing—nothing—more important to me than you and that baby. You get that, right?”

Tears spilled over.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it. I should’ve been here.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I’m never leaving again.”

I took his hand, threading our fingers together. “They said I’ll be okay.”

“You better be,” he said, voice cracking.

He climbed into the bed, armor and all, and held me carefully against his chest. His hand slid protectively over my bump.

“Did you feel them move?” I whispered.

He shook his head.

Then froze.

Tiny pressure. Just under his hand.

A kick.

His eyes widened.

“Was that—?”

I nodded. “They missed you too.”

And he laughed. Just a little. Just enough.

Then he kissed my forehead and whispered, “We’re not doing this without me ever again.”

He stayed the rest of the night. Didn’t even shower.

Just curled around me, holding my hand, whispering promises to our unborn baby like they were sacred.

And for the first time in days—I believed them.

[kitty384]

Sink Duty

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic | Soft Dad!Stucky)

Summary: You were just trying to help with the dishes. You didn’t expect Bucky to lift you into the sink—or Steve to scold him while trying not to smile. But honestly? It felt like one of the best nights of your life.

Warnings: None! Just soft fluff, kitchen chaos, and found family warmth. Minor teasing, physical affection, protective dad energy, and safe silliness.

I didn’t mean to become part of dish duty.

It just sort of… happened.

We’d finished dinner—Bucky made pasta, Steve made the sauce, and I stirred something that may or may not have been edible, but they told me it was perfect anyway—and we were all still hovering in the kitchen, full and happy in that cozy post-meal kind of way.

Steve started rinsing the plates. Bucky was loading the dishwasher. I leaned against the counter sipping juice from a chipped mug I’d claimed as mine weeks ago.

And then Bucky turned around, narrowed his eyes at the pile of sudsy bowls, and looked right at me.

“You wanna help?”

I blinked. “I mean… yeah. But I don’t really know how.”

His grin turned mischievous. “Then it’s time you learned.”

“Bucky,” Steve warned, without even turning around. “Don’t you—”

Too late.

Bucky leaned down, wrapped his arm around my waist, and with absolutely no hesitation—

lifted me into the sink.

“Bucky!”

“I dried it first,” he said, laughing as he set me gently into the deep metal basin. “It’s warm! And safe! She’s fine.”

I stared down at my feet, now hovering a few inches off the floor in a pool of soapy water.

My legs were tangled with silverware.

My hands were half-submerged in a bowl I hadn’t seen coming.

Steve turned, dish towel in hand, and gave him the look.

“You can’t put her in the sink!”

“She said she wanted to help.”

“There’s a difference between handing her a sponge and turning her into a kitchen gnome!”

I couldn’t help it.

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

Because Steve looked scandalized and exasperated and amused all at once, and Bucky looked so proud of himself, and for a moment it didn’t matter that I’d never done dishes like this before or that my knees were probably going to cramp.

All that mattered was that they were here.

And they were mine.

Steve walked over and wiped some bubbles off my cheek with a gentle thumb.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

I nodded, still giggling. “I think I’m in too deep now.”

Bucky snorted. “Pun absolutely intended.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “If you encourage her, I swear—”

I flicked a bubble at him.

He gasped like I’d just betrayed the nation.

“You are out of control.”

“She’s got the Rogers sarcasm,” Bucky said proudly, leaning back against the counter like this had all gone exactly to plan.

“More like the Barnes chaos.”

“I contain my chaos, thank you very much.”

I dunked a sponge in the water and handed it to Steve with both hands.

He blinked at me.

“You want me to clean while you supervise?”

I nodded solemnly. “Sink gnome rules.”

Bucky nearly choked on his laughter.

Steve gave me another look, then tossed the towel over his shoulder and took the sponge anyway.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “I’m outnumbered.”

We stayed in the kitchen like that for a while—Steve rinsing, Bucky drying, me sitting in the sink occasionally splashing them both when they weren’t looking. The room felt alive. Lit with warm light and warmer laughter. Like the walls themselves were soaking up the sound of home.

They didn’t treat me like I was fragile.

They didn’t hover when I laughed too hard or froze up too fast.

They just… let me be here.

In the mess.

In the joy.

And I wasn’t scared to take up space.

Not anymore.

Eventually, the water got cold.

My hands were wrinkled.

My hair was damp from one too many flicked bubbles.

Steve reached out, wrapping a warm towel around my shoulders like I’d just come in from a storm.

“Alright, gnome,” he said, gently lifting me down with both hands. “Out of the sink. Before Bucky starts trying to teach you how to mop with your socks.”

“I think she could do it,” Bucky said, already reaching for the mop with a grin.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“Too late.”

When my feet touched the floor again, I didn’t expect the way it hit me.

That ache in my chest.

That soft, full feeling I only got with them.

Because I’d spent years being told I wasn’t part of anything.

That I was too broken.

Too dangerous.

Too wrong.

And now I was standing in a kitchen wrapped in a towel, dripping soap onto the floor while Steve Rogers wiped my cheek and Bucky Barnes offered me dessert because “I earned it.”

I was part of something.

I was part of them.

I sat on the counter while Bucky served ice cream into mismatched mugs.

Steve leaned against the fridge beside me.

His arm bumped mine.

I didn’t flinch.

Instead—I leaned back.

Just a little.

But he noticed.

And smiled.

“Thanks for helping with the dishes,” he said.

“Thanks for letting me.”

“You know you don’t have to do anything to be part of this, right?”

I looked down into my mug of ice cream.

Then back at him.

“I know. I just wanted to.”

Bucky placed a spoon into my hand and tapped my nose with the handle.

“And that’s why we’re keeping you.”

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[kitty384]

The Hoodie

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic | Soft Dad!Stucky)

Summary: After a rough day, Steve offers you one of his old sweatshirts to calm you down. You don’t mean to keep it—but it starts showing up every time you need comfort. Soon, neither of you questions it. It’s yours. It always has been.

Warnings: Implied anxiety, emotional regulation through comfort clothing, reader needing safe space, protective dads, soft found family healing, hoodie symbolism

It started because I couldn’t breathe.

The compound felt too loud. My skin felt too tight. The world felt too big and too small all at once.

I didn’t remember what triggered it.

Just that I ended up in the hallway, pressed against the wall, trying to remember how to pull air into my chest without it hurting.

Steve found me there.

He didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t touch me.

He just crouched beside me, quiet and steady.

“Do you want something to hold?”

I shook my head.

But he still left—and came back thirty seconds later with something soft and warm and Steve-shaped in his hands.

One of his old sweatshirts.

Faded navy. Too big. Frayed along the cuffs.

He didn’t say anything else. Just draped it gently across my lap and sat beside me until my breath found its rhythm again.

I didn’t mean to keep it.

Really.

But it stayed in my room that night.

And the next.

And then the next.

The first time I wore it, I was too tired to think.

I’d had a nightmare the night before and barely made it through training.

Everything in my body ached.

I reached for the hoodie like I’d done it a hundred times.

It was big enough to cover my hands and long enough to brush my thighs.

It smelled like clean cotton and old books and safety.

And the moment it touched my skin, the world quieted.

Just a little.

Steve saw me in it that morning.

I froze—toast halfway to my mouth.

But he just smiled, soft and warm, like it didn’t surprise him at all.

“Looks better on you,” he said, ruffling my hair before turning back to the coffee pot.

From that day on, it became… mine.

No one said it out loud.

But it lived folded on the edge of my bed.

Wrapped around my shoulders on bad days.

Worn backwards on the couch when I didn’t want to talk.

Sleeves always tucked into my fists.

Bucky started calling it “the armor.”

“Grab your armor, kid,” he’d say when I looked frayed around the edges. “Mission of the day is surviving.”

And I would.

Because I had the hoodie.

One night, after I’d fallen asleep on the couch, I woke up to find Bucky tucking it more securely around me.

He didn’t notice I was awake.

He just whispered, “You’re safe, doll. You’re safe,” like a lullaby he meant with his whole chest.

Sometimes I caught Steve looking at me when I wore it.

Like he was remembering something old and soft.

I asked him once where it came from.

He smiled without teeth.

“College. First one I ever bought for myself.”

“Why’d you give it to me?”

He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Because you looked like you needed to be wrapped in something that already knew how to hold love.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I just pulled the sleeves down over my hands and nodded.

I wore it on quiet mornings when the nightmares didn’t quite let go.

I wore it to my second therapy appointment and every one after that.

I wore it the first time I joined family movie night and fell asleep on Steve’s shoulder.

I wore it when I helped Bucky stir pancake batter and got flour all over the front.

He didn’t even pretend to be mad.

He just smiled and said, “Guess it’s really yours now.”

No one ever took it away.

No one ever asked for it back.

It was mine.

In the way that mattered.

Not because I bought it.

Not because I earned it.

But because someone looked at me once and said, You don’t have to do this alone.

And then handed me something to prove it.

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[kitty384]

Just Outside the Door

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic | Soft Dad!Stucky)

Summary: You’ve been through more than most people survive—and today, you finally agree to take the first step toward healing. Steve and Bucky don’t say much. They don’t push. They just walk you to the office, sit outside the whole time, and remind you with their silence: you don’t have to do this alone.

Warnings: Discussions of trauma recovery, mild anxiety, first therapy session, reader fear of vulnerability, gentle comfort, protective dads, implied past emotional neglect, implied PTSD, found family tenderness

I didn’t sleep the night before.

I just stared at the ceiling in my room, heart crawling in my chest, that tight ache behind my ribs growing heavier with every hour that passed.

It wasn’t the kind of fear I could name.

It wasn’t even fear of the therapist.

It was fear of me.

Fear of what might come out if someone asked me to speak out loud.

Fear that I’d sit down in that soft chair, in that soft room, and the moment someone said, “How are you really doing?”—

I’d break.

Steve didn’t say anything when I came down for breakfast that morning.

He just handed me a mug.

Warm tea.

No sugar, just the way I liked it.

Bucky passed me a slice of toast and smiled like he didn’t notice the way my hands were shaking.

And neither of them said a word about where we were going.

They let me bring it up when I was ready.

I didn’t.

Not even once.

But I still followed them when they got in the car.

Still put on the hoodie Steve left folded on my desk. Still slipped the comfort stone Bucky had given me into the pocket.

Still sat between them in the backseat like I couldn’t trust myself to face forward.

The clinic wasn’t far.

Fifteen minutes, maybe.

But it felt longer.

My palms were sweating by the time we pulled into the parking lot.

Steve turned off the car.

Bucky glanced back at me.

And both of them waited.

They didn’t say, Are you ready?

They didn’t say, Come on.

They just sat.

Silent.

Soft.

Until I opened the door and stepped out on my own.

The building was modern and quiet.

Pale blue walls. Big windows.

Nothing about it looked dangerous.

But my heart wouldn’t listen.

Every step felt like walking toward something I couldn’t name.

At the front desk, Steve gave my name.

They didn’t make me speak.

They didn’t ask me to explain.

The woman behind the counter smiled gently and handed me a clipboard.

I didn’t touch it.

Bucky took it for me.

Filled in every blank.

Checked every box.

“Just sign it when you’re ready,” he murmured, handing me the pen.

I scrawled my name in the corner like I was afraid it would catch fire.

The waiting room was almost empty.

Just one other person.

I sat down between them again.

Not because I needed to be protected.

But because I didn’t know how to feel normal without them.

When the door opened and my name was called, I felt my body freeze.

Steve leaned close, voice low and calm.

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

Bucky rested a hand on my back.

“We’re right here.”

“I don’t—” My throat tightened. “What if I can’t do it?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Steve said. “You just have to sit. That’s enough.”

I nodded.

Just once.

And stood.

My legs didn’t feel like they belonged to me.

But I walked through the door anyway.

The office was soft.

That was the only word I had for it.

Soft lighting. Soft chairs. Soft colors on the wall.

The woman inside—Dr. Morgan—didn’t stand. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t make me shake her hand.

She just gestured to the couch and said, “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

I sat down slowly.

Hands in my lap.

Eyes on the window.

“I’m not going to ask you to tell me your story,” she said after a while. “Not today.”

I didn’t answer.

But something in my chest shifted.

She smiled.

“Sometimes the hardest part is showing up.”

I didn’t cry.

But I wanted to.

We didn’t talk about everything.

We didn’t talk about much.

But I told her my name.

I told her that I didn’t sleep well.

I told her that sometimes I feel like I’m still stuck in a room with no doors.

And she didn’t try to fix it.

She just nodded.

Listened.

Let the silence sit when I needed it to.

When the session ended, I felt like I’d run a marathon.

My hands were sore from clenching.

My chest hurt from holding my breath.

But when I walked back into the waiting room—

They were still there.

Steve, looking up with eyes full of warmth.

Bucky, standing as soon as he saw me.

Like I was something they’d been waiting for.

Something worth waiting for.

They didn’t say, How did it go?

They didn’t ask, Did you cry?

They just stepped close.

And let me lean between them.

In the car, Bucky turned on the music without saying a word.

Steve passed me the hoodie I’d left behind.

And I held it in my lap the whole way home.

That night, I didn’t say anything at dinner.

But Steve reached across the table and tapped his knuckles gently against mine.

Bucky left a tiny white stone on my pillow.

And when I went to bed that night, I didn’t stare at the ceiling.

I closed my eyes.

And whispered, just once—

“They stayed.”

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[kitty384]

After the Nightmare

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic | Soft Dad!Stucky)

Summary: You’ve never gone to them after a nightmare before. But tonight, your chest aches and your hands shake—and when you slip into their room, too quiet to be brave, Steve and Bucky don’t say a word. They just open the covers and make space for you.

Warnings: Nightmare imagery (non-detailed), implied past trauma, touch-starved behavior, anxiety, safe physical comfort, reader crying, heavy emotions with gentle resolution, soft found family dynamic, 2k+ words

The dream didn’t start with fire.

It never did.

It always began in silence. Cold. Bright white walls and humming lights. Voices behind glass. The smell of sterile metal and restraint.

And then came the part you couldn’t breathe through.

The part where someone reached for you, and you couldn’t move.

Not fast enough.

Not loud enough.

Not enough.

You woke up choking on air.

Sheets tangled.

Sweat slick on the back of your neck.

Your chest a cave of something sharp and silent.

The compound was dark when you slipped into the hallway barefoot.

Your room felt too small. Too quiet.

You weren’t even sure where you were going at first.

Only that you didn’t want to be alone.

Not this time.

Not again.

You stood outside their door for what felt like forever.

Steve and Bucky had said it once. More than once.

“If you ever need us.”

“Any time, sweetheart.”

“Doors never locked.”

But you’d never tested it.

Not like this.

Not in the middle of the night when your hands were still shaking and your throat still burned.

Your fingers hovered over the doorknob.

Then turned.

It opened without a sound.

And you stepped inside.

They were both asleep.

Steve on the left, one arm tucked behind his head, blankets pushed halfway down.

Bucky curled toward him, loose and peaceful for once, a rare calm resting on his face.

You’d never seen them like this.

Never been this close while they were so unguarded.

They trusted you.

You knew that.

And that trust felt like something too fragile to touch.

But still… your feet carried you forward.

You didn’t mean to cry.

Not really.

But as you reached the side of the bed—stood there, unsure, silent—your body made the decision for you.

A tear hit your cheek before you even felt it fall.

Then another.

Then—

“Sweetheart?”

Steve’s voice was still thick with sleep.

But soft.

So soft.

Bucky blinked awake beside him.

Both of them sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark.

You froze.

Hands at your sides.

Tears now falling freely down your face.

You couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t ask.

Didn’t know how.

But Bucky saw you.

And opened the blanket.

Just a little.

Just enough.

His voice was quiet. Not a question.

“C’mere.”

You moved before you could stop yourself.

Climbed in between them.

Shaking.

Tears soaking into the collar of Steve’s sleep shirt as you curled into his side.

Bucky wrapped around your back, his metal hand feather-light over your hip.

Neither of them spoke right away.

They didn’t ask what happened.

They didn’t tell you it was just a dream.

They just held you.

Like they were always meant to.

Like this space between them had been waiting for you all along

You didn’t mean to fall asleep again.

But eventually, the sobs softened.

Your fingers unclenched.

Your lungs started letting air in without the ache.

And sometime before dawn, tucked between their bodies and their warmth and their steady, heartbeat comfort—

You drifted off.

When you woke again, the room was still dim.

The world quieter.

Softer.

Steve’s arm was still around you, resting warm and steady across your ribs.

Bucky’s hand had found yours sometime in the night and never let go.

Neither of them moved.

They were both awake.

But they didn’t speak.

Just looked down at you with something too tender for words.

You opened your mouth to say I’m sorry.

But Steve shook his head.

“You don’t have to apologize, honey.”

Bucky squeezed your hand.

“You came to us. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

You looked between them.

Eyes blurry.

Voice small.

“I didn’t mean to cry.”

Steve smiled, brushing a thumb under your eye.

“You’re allowed to cry.”

Bucky added, “You’re allowed to do anything you need. This is your home now.”

You stayed there for a long time.

None of you in a rush to move.

Not even when the sun crept higher.

Not even when the compound started to stir.

Because this was the first time you’d gone to them on your own.

And the first time you realized… they’d always make room for you.

Even in the middle of the night.

Even if you couldn’t speak.

Even if all you could do was cry.

They’d never ask you to be anything more than themselves.

And this time, you believed them.

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[kitty384]

All Her Things

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic | Soft Dad Stucky)

Summary: They come home late and find you asleep in their bed, surrounded by all your comfort items. You never asked to be there. You didn’t leave a note. But they don’t say a word—they just climb in beside you and make it a home.

Warnings: Soft emotional comfort, implied trauma background, touch-starved reader, gentle found family moments, safe physical affection, nothing graphic

It was late.

Later than they meant to be.

The mission wasn’t long, but there’d been delays—debriefs, medical checks, a traffic jam outside the compound gates because someone (Tony) had reprogrammed the clearance system again.

By the time Steve and Bucky made it back upstairs, the hallways were quiet.

Lights dim.

Doors closed.

They’d assumed you were already asleep.

But when they opened the door to their bedroom—

They stopped.

And melted.

You were curled in the middle of the bed.

Dead asleep.

Surrounded by everything.

One of Steve’s hoodies bunched under your cheek.

A soft blanket Bucky had gifted you after a nightmare—crumpled over your legs.

A stuffed animal Sam had won for you at a street fair. Your notebook. A little drawing of the three of you in crayon.

And in your fist?

Steve’s dog tags.

Pressed to your chest like a shield.

You looked so small.

So still.

Like your body had finally relaxed enough to let go—but only here.

Only with this.

Only in the middle of their world.

Bucky exhaled softly.

His hand rose to his chest like something hurt.

Steve swallowed, trying to breathe around the warmth flooding his lungs.

“She brought everything,” Bucky whispered.

“She brought herself,” Steve said back. “That’s what matters.”

They didn’t speak after that.

Didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t try to move you.

They just… climbed in.

Steve to your left, careful not to dislodge the hoodie under your cheek.

Bucky to your right, tucking the blanket around your knees.

Neither of them turned on the light.

Neither of them said, Why our bed?

Because they already knew.

This was the safest place you had.

And they weren’t about to take it away from you.

Bucky curled a hand gently over your shoulder.

Steve laid his palm over your back.

You stirred only a little—just a soft, sleepy noise in your throat before tucking closer to Steve’s side.

Still holding the tags.

Still safe.

Still theirs.

They lay there in the dark, not sleeping yet.

Not needing to.

Just listening to you breathe.

And thinking:

She brought all her things.

But we’re the ones who are lucky.

Because she brought herself, too.

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[kitty384]

You Came Back

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x Teen!Reader (Found Family | Platonic) Summary: You’ve never touched their dog tags before—never dared. But when you finally do, it’s instinct. A whisper tumbles out without permission, and it nearly brings your dads to their knees. Warnings: Heavy emotional themes, soft touch-starvation, trauma-related behaviors, found family tenderness, implied PTSD/childhood experimentation, safe touch, crying (happy tears), reader healing

I’d seen them a hundred times.

Hanging on the dresser knob in the corner of their room. Tucked under Steve’s pillow when he couldn’t sleep. Dangling from Bucky’s fingers when he thought no one was watching and his mind was far away.

Dog tags.

Their names stamped in cold metal.

Steve’s: bold and clean and quietly heroic.

Bucky’s: battered, scratched, just barely legible under the years.

I never touched them.

Not once.

Even when they left them out on purpose. Even when Bucky said casually, “They’re just tags, sweetheart, they don’t bite.”

Even when Steve winked and added, “Unless you want them to.”

I’d always smile at the joke. Pretend it didn’t twist something in my chest.

But I didn’t reach.

Because those tags meant something. Something I didn’t think I was allowed to hold.

Until today.

They were gone on a mission.

Just a short one.

They’d left that morning with soft promises and tighter hugs.

Bucky kissed the top of my head like he always did and said, “We’ll be back before dinner.”

Steve smiled with that all-warm, all-honey softness in his eyes and added, “Save us pancakes.”

I smiled too.

Because I trusted them now.

I believed them when they said they’d come back.

But old habits don’t die easy.

Even after love.

Even after safety.

I was cleaning the sheets when I saw them—left on the nightstand, like always.

The tags.

Worn. Silver. Familiar.

I froze.

Then sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly.

Hands curled into my lap.

I didn’t move for a long time.

But then—

Without meaning to, without even thinking—

I reached.

Fingers brushing the cool edge of the chain.

They clinked together gently.

Steve’s resting on top.

Bucky’s hanging low.

They were heavier than I expected.

But warm, somehow.

Not cold like I thought they’d be.

Maybe that was just them.

Maybe that was because they always made things warmer.

My thumb brushed the letters on Steve’s.

The metal scratched lightly beneath the pad of my finger.

Rogers, Steven G.

And something inside me cracked.

I pressed it to my chest, barely breathing.

And whispered, so soft it wasn’t even sound—

“You came back.”

I didn’t hear the door open.

I didn’t know they were standing there.

Not until I looked up—

—and saw them frozen in the doorway.

Both of them.

Still in mission gear. Dirt on their boots. A scrape on Steve’s cheek. Dust in Bucky’s hair.

And both of them looking at me like I’d just whispered something holy.

I panicked, of course.

Hands jerked back.

The tags clinked against each other as I let go like I’d been burned.

“I—I was just—”

But Bucky was already moving.

Crossed the room in two strides.

“Hey,” he said, crouching in front of me, voice barely a breath. “You’re okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Steve sat on the bed beside me.

Not touching.

But close enough.

“Were you scared we wouldn’t come back?”

I shook my head.

Then nodded.

Then whispered, “I didn’t want to be.”

Bucky’s hand rested over mine—metal and warm.

“We left them for you,” he said. “In case you needed something real to hold onto.”

I looked down at the tags.

Then up at them.

“I didn’t know if I could.”

Steve leaned in, his fingers brushing the back of my shoulder.

“You can always hold us. Even when we’re not here.”

I felt it then.

The weight of their gaze.

The weight of the tags.

And the truth in my chest.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

Steve pulled me into his arms.

Tight.

Safe.

Warm.

Bucky wrapped around me from behind.

And the dog tags stayed caught between us—pressing into my skin like a promise.

They came back.

And next time?

I wouldn’t be afraid to reach for them.

Masterlist

Request

[kitty384]

Hey ! Can you write one of those Fics where Loki finds out about the pregnancy and is ecstatic.

🌙✨Thanks for the request! This one made me smile the whole time I wrote it—hope you love soft, excited Loki as much as I do 💚

Title: The Stars Are Ours Now

Summary: Y/N has been keeping a secret, not out of fear—but out of reverence. When she finally tells Loki that he’s going to be a father, he doesn't just react with love… he reacts with awe, laughter, and a joy so bright it feels like magic. Because for Loki, this isn’t just about becoming a parent—it’s about becoming whole.

Warnings: Pregnancy reveal, softness, Loki being beyond ecstatic, gentle tears, implied trauma healing, established relationship, fluff, emotional intimacy, magic, found family, happy crying.

You didn’t plan on hiding it. Not really.

You just… wanted the moment to feel right. Because it wasn’t something you wanted to blurt out. It wasn’t something that deserved to be rushed or tangled up in casual timing.

This was Loki. And you were carrying his child.

That wasn’t news you gave over breakfast. It was news you gave with trembling hands, soft eyes, and the kind of breathless wonder that echoed the way he had changed your world.

It had been almost two weeks since you’d found out. The test was still tucked safely into a small carved box—one Loki had gifted you months ago, lined with velvet and tiny celestial runes.

You hadn't touched it. You’d barely even opened it since. As if looking too long might shatter the truth.

But you could feel it. The quiet shift. The warmth in your chest. The way your body felt… not like your own, but more important somehow. Sacred.

And tonight—tonight, he was coming home.

You sat on the edge of your shared bed, the small box in your lap, legs bouncing slightly despite your effort to appear calm.

The fireplace crackled low.

Outside the windows, the moon rose slow and full, like it knew something holy was about to happen.

You barely heard the sound of his magic on the air before the doors opened—before he swept into the room like dusk and gold and spring air.

“Darling,” he breathed, relief pouring from his voice as his eyes landed on you. “There you are.”

He was already smiling. Already shedding his cloak as he crossed to you. Already reaching, arms wrapping around your shoulders as he leaned down to kiss the crown of your head.

“I missed you more than I can begin to—” He stopped. Paused.

You hadn’t returned the hug.

Not out of fear.

But because your hands were still clutching the box.

He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. “Are you alright?”

“I… have something for you.”

His eyes flickered with concern, then curiosity, and finally—calm affection.

He sat beside you. “What is it?”

You held it out with both hands. “Just… open it slowly, okay?”

He took it gently. Reverently, even. He always handled your gifts like they were sacred.

The lid opened.

His eyes dropped.

And time seemed to stop.

There was no explosion of expression.

No immediate reaction.

Just stillness.

A stillness so pure it made the room hold its breath.

The pregnancy test sat nestled inside, its two lines clear and unwavering.

Loki stared.

Not like a man in disbelief.

But like a man witnessing the divine.

“…Is this…?”

You nodded, your voice barely there. “Yes.”

Another long pause.

Then his hand came to his mouth, covering it.

Then his shoulders trembled—just once.

And a sound bubbled out of him that you’d never heard before.

A laugh.

Not loud or wild.

But weightless.

Joyful.

Disbelieving.

“Stars above…” he breathed, setting the box down with the utmost care. “We’re going to have a child.”

You blinked. “You’re not upset?”

“Upset?” His eyes snapped to yours—glassy, awestruck. “I’m ecstatic. I… I don’t have the words.”

You exhaled, the tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding spilling out in a rush.

Loki stood and immediately pulled you into his chest, lifting you off your feet like you were lighter than the moonlight pouring in.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, or—”

“You are the only overwhelming thing I will ever welcome with open arms,” he murmured, pulling back to cup your cheeks. “You carry my child. You honor me with this.”

His voice cracked.

“I thought I would live a thousand years alone, believing myself too broken to ever hold something so whole. But this—this is everything I didn’t dare ask for.”

You both sank back onto the bed, hands tangled, foreheads pressed together.

Loki rested his hand gently over your belly, eyes wide with wonder.

“There’s a life in there,” he whispered.

You nodded, tearful.

“Our life.”

“I will guard them with all that I am,” he promised. “They will never know a moment without love.”

You smiled. “They’re going to have a dramatic, overprotective father, aren’t they?”

He smirked. “Dramatic? Perhaps. But I make no apology for protection.”

You leaned into him. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Later that night, long after he’d finished pressing soft kisses to your skin and whispering secrets in Old Norse to your stomach, you found him standing near the balcony doors.

He was barefoot. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Hair loose around his shoulders.

And he was crying.

Quietly.

When you reached him, his arm immediately wrapped around you, drawing you into his side.

“I’m not sad,” he murmured. “I’m just… I never thought I’d be allowed this.”

You leaned your head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. Steady. Alive.

“You don’t have to earn happiness, Loki,” you whispered. “You just have to let yourself keep it.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“I intend to keep you. Both of you. For as long as the stars exist.”

Masterlist

Request

[kitty384]

Stay With Me

Summary: Y/N hides a serious injury during a mission, desperate not to slow Bucky down or be left behind. But as her vision blurs and her body gives out, she collapses at his side—and Bucky catches her just in time. Furious, heartbroken, and terrified, he carries her to medbay himself, whispering promises she doesn’t hear… yet.

Warnings: Injury, fainting/collapse, panic, Bucky being emotionally overwhelmed, protective/angry Bucky, guilt, soft medbay comfort, implied past trauma, hurt/comfort, angst with a warm resolution.

They’d barely cleared the final corridor when Bucky heard it.

Not the alarms still blaring behind them.

Not the pounding of boots as Sam and Natasha brought up the rear.

No—what Bucky heard was you.

The soft, sharp gasp that tore from your throat as your knees buckled and you went down hard against the concrete floor.

“Y/N!”

He was at your side in seconds, the rifle clattering to the ground as he dropped to his knees and caught you just before your head hit the floor.

Your face was pale.

Sweat dotted your brow.

And blood—so much blood—was seeping through the side of your tactical suit.

His heart stopped.

He hadn't even seen it happen.

“What—what the hell—why didn’t you say anything?” he choked out, hands shaking as they pressed over the wound. You flinched, just barely.

“I didn’t…” You were breathing fast, unfocused. “I didn’t want to… slow you down…”

Bucky swore, sharp and venomous, like he could spit the fear right out of his mouth.

“You’re bleeding out and you didn’t want to slow me down?! Are you kidding me, doll?!”

Sam’s voice crackled in his comm. “Extraction team’s outside. You guys close?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You whimpered, one hand weakly fisting the front of his suit.

“I just… wanted to finish the mission…”

“You are the mission,” Bucky snapped, pressing his forehead against yours for one brief, breathless second. “You’re the only goddamn thing I care about right now.”

The quinjet ride was a blur.

Bucky held you the entire time, arms locked around your body like he could will the blood to stay inside.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, head pressed to his chest, your breathing too shallow.

The moment the medbay doors opened, he carried you straight through them like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

It took everything in him to let the med team take you.

To step back, hands sticky with your blood, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Steve was at his side in a second.

“Buck—”

“Don’t.”

“She’s gonna be okay.”

“She better be,” Bucky ground out, voice raw. “Because I swear to God, if she—if she—”

He couldn’t say it.

Wouldn’t.

Hours passed.

Too many.

But eventually, Bruce emerged, surgical gloves off and face tired.

“She’s stable,” he said gently. “Lost a lot of blood, but she’s going to be fine.”

Bucky didn’t wait for permission.

He was in your room seconds later.

You were asleep—pale, hooked up to an IV, bandages wrapping your side.

But alive.

Breathing.

Still you.

He sat down in the chair beside your bed and just… stared.

For a long time.

Until your eyes fluttered open.

“…Buck?”

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing the hair off your forehead. “Hi, baby.”

You blinked slowly. “…Did we finish the mission?”

Bucky almost laughed—but it caught in his throat like glass.

“Yeah. We did. But you—Jesus, Y/N, you scared the hell out of me.”

Your eyes welled up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “Just—why didn’t you tell me? You collapsed in front of me and I had no idea you were hurt.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

Bucky’s chest cracked open.

His hand found yours instantly, gripping it with everything he had.

“Y/N, look at me.”

You did.

Tired. Soft. Still scared.

“You are not weak. You’re the strongest damn person I know. But if you ever—ever—hide something like that from me again, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“I didn’t want to be a liability,” you whispered.

“You’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re my partner. My girl. My heart. And I can’t protect you if I don’t know you’re hurt.”

You blinked, and a tear slipped down your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re everything to me,” Bucky whispered. “Don’t ever make me carry you into a medbay like that again. Just tell me. Please.”

You nodded, tears spilling now.

“I promise.”

Later, when you were curled against him in your recovery bed, one hand resting over your healing ribs, you whispered,

“You stayed with me the whole time?”

“All night,” he murmured, kissing your temple.

“I’m sorry you had to worry.”

He shook his head, voice thick.

“I’d rather worry a thousand times than lose you once.”

You didn’t hide anything from him after that. And Bucky never let you forget: You weren’t a burden. You were the reason he fought in the first place.

Masterlist

Request

[kitty384]

Even in Silence, I'm With You

Summary: The baby hasn’t moved. Not all day. And you haven’t said a word—not wanting to panic Loki, not trusting your own voice. But that quiet dread has taken root deep inside you. It’s only when Loki touches your bump and feels the same stillness that the illusion breaks. What follows is fear, magic, and the most fragile kind of hope. Because your child isn’t gone. They’re just waiting—for their father’s voice.

Content Warnings: pregnancy fear (baby not moving), emotional distress, mild panic, healing magic, resolution with movement, soft fluff after heaviness

You didn’t mean to keep it to yourself.

At first, it was just a few hours.

Then five.

Then seven.

No flutters. No rolls. No gentle nudges against your ribs.

Just silence.

Just… stillness.

You told yourself it was fine. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they’d changed positions. Maybe you were overthinking it. After all, everything was fine yesterday. Everything had been fine.

But as the sun began to set and shadows crept in, so did fear.

And you still didn’t say anything.

Not when Loki brought you tea.

Not when he curled behind you on the couch.

Not when he kissed your shoulder and asked softly, “How are my loves tonight?”

You smiled.

Nodded.

Lied.

It wasn’t until later—when you climbed into bed and adjusted the blankets over your bump—that he finally noticed.

He was brushing his fingers lightly over your belly, whispering in Old Norse, the way he always did before sleep.

And when there was no response, he paused.

Frowned.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said softly, eyes on your stomach.

You froze.

Then, quietly, brokenly—

“They haven’t moved.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

You swallowed hard. “Not since I woke up. I didn’t want to… say anything. In case it was nothing.”

He was already reaching.

Already pulling the blankets down.

Already pressing his cool, steady hand over your skin.

And when he felt it—that same, hollow stillness—you saw the fear ripple across his face.

Raw. Real.

“Lie back,” he said gently, already moving. “Let me try something.”

Loki knelt beside the bed, both hands cradling your belly now.

His magic shimmered faintly beneath his palms, icy blue and gold.

Runes lit the air, ancient and protective.

You closed your eyes, clutching the sheets as tears slipped free.

“What if something’s wrong?” you whispered.

His voice cracked as he answered, “Then we will face it. Together.”

He began murmuring again—softer now, ancient words humming low in his chest like a heartbeat.

His magic sank deeper.

Searching.

Seeking.

Calling.

And then—

A flicker.

Like a whisper.

Then another.

Kick.

You gasped.

Loki froze.

Then smiled—small, stunned, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“They’re here,” he breathed. “They’re with us.”

You covered your mouth as your chest heaved.

The baby kicked again—stronger this time, like they’d been waiting to hear his voice.

And suddenly, it all came rushing out of you—the fear, the relief, the weight you hadn’t even known you were carrying.

You sobbed, and Loki was already holding you.

Cradling your bump from behind, kissing your cheek, whispering thank yous into your hair.

“They just needed me,” he murmured. “They needed us.”

You didn’t sleep right away that night.

You lay awake for hours, hands joined over your belly, waiting for every little movement.

And Loki never stopped touching you.

As if he could keep them safe through sheer will alone.

As if loving you both hard enough could hold the stars in place.

And maybe…

It could.

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