Bucky figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.
The first time Bucky Barnes notices it, he almost wishes he hadn’t.
Not because it’s bad.
Because once he sees it, he can’t stop seeing it.
It starts small.
Tiny things.
The way you linger when people hug you goodbye, like you’re trying not to let go too quickly because you’re worried they’ll notice.
The way you sit too close to Alpine when the cat climbs into your lap at the Tower, burying your face in her fur with your eyes closed like the warmth means something vital.
The way you always seem surprised when someone touches you first.
A hand on your shoulder.
A quick squeeze of your wrist.
Natasha bumping her knee against yours during movie night.
Steve pulling you into a side hug after a mission well done.
You react every single time.
Not dramatically.
Just—
stillness.
Like your body pauses to absorb it.
Like you’re starving and trying not to look hungry.
And once Bucky notices, he starts paying attention in ways he probably shouldn’t.
Because Bucky Barnes understands hunger.
He understands deprivation.
He understands what it does to a person when they go too long without softness.
Too long without gentleness.
Too long without being held like they matter.
You come to the Tower after a HYDRA clean-up operation in Bucharest.
Former intelligence analyst.
Temporary consultant, Fury says.
“Temporary” becomes six months faster than anyone expects.
You’re clever enough to keep up with Tony, sarcastic enough to survive Sam, patient enough to tolerate Bruce’s nervous rambling, and somehow stubborn enough to call Natasha out on her bullshit without fear.
The team likes you immediately.
Bucky doesn’t.
At first.
Mostly because you’re too observant.
You look at him carefully.
Not fearfully.
Not pityingly.
Just carefully.
Like you’re trying to understand him without taking him apart.
He hates that.
Then he starts noticing things.
You don’t flinch around him.
You don’t stare at the metal arm.
You don’t ask questions about the Winter Soldier.
But sometimes he catches you watching him when you think he isn’t looking.
Not because he’s dangerous.
Because he’s alone.
That’s worse somehow.
The touch thing becomes impossible to ignore after a mission in Prague.
It’s ugly from the start.
Explosives.
Gunfire.
A narrow hallway collapsing before Clint can get civilians out.
You get trapped beneath part of a shattered support beam.
Nothing life-threatening.
Just enough to pin you awkwardly until Bucky and Sam can move it.
You laugh afterward.
Brush dust off your jeans.
Tell everyone you’re fine.
But your hands shake for almost an hour.
Bucky notices because he notices everything about you now.
Which is already a problem.
Then Natasha walks by and squeezes the back of your neck absentmindedly.
And you nearly melt.
It’s subtle.
Most people wouldn’t catch it.
But Bucky does.
Your eyes close for one second.
Your shoulders loosen.
Your breathing evens out instantly.
Relief.
Immediate and devastating.
Like your nervous system has been waiting for permission to settle.
Bucky stares.
You realize he saw.
Embarrassment flashes across your face so fast it hurts to witness.
You pull away immediately.
“I’m okay,” you say too quickly.
Bucky says nothing.
But something ugly twists in his chest afterward.
Not disgust.
Not judgment.
Something worse.
Recognition.
He starts testing theories after that.
Not intentionally.
At least that’s what he tells himself.
You’re sitting on the couch during one of Tony’s terrible movie marathons, half asleep beneath a blanket while everyone argues over which “Die Hard” movie counts as the best one.
Your feet are tucked under you.
Your head keeps drooping.
Without thinking, Bucky reaches over and brushes your hair away from your face.
Just once.
A small movement.
Barely anything.
You freeze.
Not frightened.
Just stunned.
Then slowly—carefully—you lean into his hand.
Like it’s instinct.
Like your body chose before your brain could stop it.
Jesus Christ.
Bucky pulls his hand back immediately.
You blink yourself awake, suddenly aware of what happened.
“Sorry,” you mumble automatically.
Sorry.
Like you did something wrong.
The word slices straight through him.
“For what?” he asks quietly.
You stare at the television instead of him.
“Nothing.”
Bucky doesn’t sleep that night.
After that, it gets worse.
For both of you.
Because now Bucky knows.
And now you know he knows.
The tension changes shape.
It becomes something alive.
Something breathing between you.
Bucky starts finding excuses to touch you.
Tiny things.
A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowded rooms.
Brushing shoulders in the kitchen.
His fingers tapping against your knee during briefings.
He tells himself it’s harmless.
Friendly.
Normal.
But he notices the way your entire body softens every single time.
And you notice that he notices.
One night you fall asleep in the common room while reading.
Bucky finds you there around two in the morning.
Curled sideways on the couch.
Blanket slipping off your shoulder.
Exhaustion written all over your face.
The Tower is quiet.
Everyone asleep.
He should leave.
Instead he kneels beside the couch and carefully pulls the blanket back over you.
Your eyes flutter open immediately.
Panic first.
Then recognition.
Then something softer.
“Sorry,” you whisper groggily.
Again.
Always apologizing for existing.
Bucky’s jaw tightens.
“You gotta stop saying that.”
Your brow furrows.
“For what?”
“For wanting things.”
The room goes completely still.
You look at him like he just reached into your chest and pulled something out barehanded.
Bucky realizes too late how honest that sounded.
You swallow hard.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He almost lets you get away with it.
Almost.
Instead he says quietly, “Nobody touches you enough.”
Your face crumples.
Not dramatically.
Not crying.
Just—
wrecked.
Like no one was ever supposed to notice that.
Bucky feels suddenly, horribly protective.
You look away first.
“I’m fine.”
“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”
The silence afterward feels intimate in a way that terrifies both of you.
Then, carefully—slow enough for you to pull away—Bucky rests his flesh hand over yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Gentle.
You stop breathing.
And then—
you turn your hand beneath his and hold on.
It ruins everything.
Because after that, neither of you can pretend anymore.
Touch becomes dangerous.
Addictive.
You start gravitating toward him unconsciously.
Sitting beside him.
Leaning against him during briefings.
Falling asleep against his shoulder during quinjet rides.
And Bucky—
God.
Bucky becomes obsessed with taking care of you.
Not in a controlling way.
In a reverent one.
Like he’s trying to make up for every year nobody held you gently enough.
He tucks blankets around you.
Rubs your back when anxiety hits.
Lets you thread your fingers through his metal hand because you like the coolness of it against your skin.
One night after a nightmare, you end up outside his room at three in the morning.
You look mortified to be there.
“I can go,” you say immediately.
Bucky opens the door wider.
“You can stay.”
You hesitate.
“Only if you’re sure.”
He almost laughs at that.
Like you still don’t understand he’d hand you every broken piece of himself if you asked.
That night you sleep beside him for the first time.
No sex.
No kissing.
Just sleep.
Your head against his chest.
His arm around your waist.
You fall asleep in less than five minutes.
Bucky stays awake almost all night.
Because nobody has ever trusted him with softness like this before.
And because he realizes somewhere around four in the morning that he’s completely fucked.
The team notices eventually.
Sam notices first, obviously.
“You got heart eyes,” he tells Bucky over coffee.
“I’ll kill you.”
“You brush her hair behind her ear like she’s in a Jane Austen movie.”
Bucky glares at him.
Sam grins wider.
“She looks at you like you hung the moon, man.”
That shuts Bucky up.
Because that part scares him too.
You do look at him differently now.
Like he’s safe.
Like he’s home.
And Bucky has spent almost a century being neither of those things.
The first kiss happens accidentally.
Which is a lie.
Nothing between you has been accidental for months.
It happens in the kitchen.
Late.
Rain against the windows.
You’re wearing one of his henleys because you left your clothes in the wash downstairs.
Bucky is trying very hard not to think about that.
You’re standing close enough that your socked feet brush his.
Talking softly about nothing important.
Then your hand lands absently on his chest.
Just resting there.
Warm.
Trusting.
Bucky looks down at it.
Then at you.
And something in his expression must change because your breathing catches.
“Buck,” you whisper.
He gives you every chance to walk away.
You don’t.
You step closer instead.
His metal hand settles carefully against your waist like he’s afraid too much pressure will break you.
You tilt your face up.
And Bucky kisses you like a man dying of thirst.
Slow at first.
Disbelieving.
Then deeper when you make that tiny sound against his mouth.
The kind of sound that tells him this means something.
Your fingers clutch his shirt.
His heartbeat goes completely feral.
When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
The devastation is already complete.
Loving Bucky Barnes is not easy.
Loving you isn’t easy either.
You’re both too damaged in complementary ways.
Bucky gives touch like it’s survival.
You receive it like oxygen.
Sometimes that becomes dangerous.
There are nights he holds you so tightly it borders on desperation.
Nights you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.
You become each other’s comfort too quickly.
Too deeply.
But somehow—
somehow—it works.
Because neither of you asks the other to be healed first.
Months later, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor, Bucky comes back bloodied and furious and shaking with leftover violence.
You find him alone in the Tower gym at two in the morning.
His metal fist has cracked one of the punching bags clean open.
“Buck.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately.
Like he can’t bear for you to see him like this.
You walk toward him anyway.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
You stop directly in front of him.
His breathing is ragged.
Eyes wild around the edges.
Still halfway in combat mode.
Everyone else in the world might fear him like this.
You don’t.
Very gently, you take his flesh hand first.
Then the metal one.
“You came back,” you say softly.
The anger breaks instantly.
Just—
gone.
Bucky folds around the grief of it with a broken sound in his throat.
And suddenly he’s holding you so hard it almost hurts.
His face buried against your neck.
You stroke your fingers through his hair.
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
No one has ever held the Winter Soldier through his terror before.
No one except you.
Bucky thinks, not for the first time, that this is probably what love actually is.
Not grand gestures.
Not fireworks.
This.
Being known completely.
And held anyway.
The proposal happens almost a year later.
Quiet.
Private.
Perfect.
You’re half asleep in bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain taps against the windows.
Bucky’s tracing lazy patterns along your spine.
Your fingers are linked with his metal hand.
Comfortable silence.
Home.
Then suddenly he says, very seriously, “Marry me.”
You blink up at him.
“What?”
His expression turns nervous immediately, which is honestly absurd considering this is James Buchanan Barnes.
“I’m serious.”
“You’re asking me while I look like this?”
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m wearing an old Stark Industries shirt and one sock.”
“You still look beautiful.”
You laugh softly.
Then realize he isn’t joking.
Your chest aches instantly.
“Bucky…”
He brings your joined hands to his mouth.
Kisses your knuckles carefully.
“I spent a real long time thinking I was too broken for this,” he says quietly. “Then you walked in and started looking at me like I was worth something.”
Tears sting your eyes immediately.
“You are worth something.”
His thumb brushes beneath your eye.
“And you deserve to be loved out loud. Deserve to be held whenever you need it. Deserve somebody who notices.”
Your breath shakes.
“Buck—”
“I notice everything about you.”
That does it.
That destroys you completely.
Because he does.
He notices when you’re overwhelmed before you say anything.
Notices when you need quiet.
Notices when you’re touch-starved and crawling out of your own skin from loneliness.
Notices when you need his hand on the back of your neck to ground you again.
He notices.
And he never makes you feel ashamed for needing.
“Yes,” you whisper, crying now. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”
Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for decades.
Then he kisses you.
Slow.
Tender.
Certain.
The kind of kiss that feels like being chosen.
And afterward you curl into him instinctively, your face tucked against his chest while his arms close around you immediately.
Automatic now.
Natural as breathing.
Bucky presses his mouth against your hair and thinks, with something dangerously close to peace, that maybe ruin isn’t always a bad thing.
Because figuring out you were touch-starved ruined both of your lives.
bonjour
je suis lucie. bienvenue sur mon blog.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
hello
my name is lucie although you’ll see me answer to lou, lucille, and beth.
i’m an english major and french minor, aspiring novelist, chronic daydreamer, and collector of stories. i’m also an infp-t. most days you’ll find me with a book in hand, a half finished manuscript, and a cup of something warm nearby.
this blog is a collection of things i love:
writing
fanfiction
bucky barnes
maybe some poetry
marvel, period dramas, and men who make questionable choices.
currently:
reading too many books
working on multiple drafts
pretending that i know what i’m doing
favorites:
coffee order: hot caramel, vanilla, cupcake latte
season: fall
flower: red carnation
book: pride and prejudice
fandoms: marvel, star wars, asoue, inheritance games, x-men
you can find me on spotify, tiktok, and pinterest.
requests are open and messages are always welcome
thank you for stopping by <3
hey!! first of all: i just read "laundry room" and loved your writing! idk if you take requests like this one, but i was listening to "doors" by noah kahan and couldn't help but link it to bucky. so here are my thoughts:
bucky and the f!reader already have a healthy and stabilished relationship, but one random day something trivial turns to be a big deal and they fight about it. hot-headed, he says things to her that are not that nice (yk, like noah kahan sings about the doors and all) but those things are just reflexions of his own insecurities.
the reader gets sad and overthinking if he is not happy by her side, but ends up saying nothing and just lets him take his time to get over the fight. so, at night, after it all, when bucky understands that he is just taking out his frustrations and vulnerabilities on her, they lay together on bed, say their apologizes and decide to talk sincerely about their feelings on what happened and make it up.
thats is all, i guess... sorry if it is too long, thx!!
- 🪿
omg i love this!!! as soon as I get out of finals week i will pour my heart into this one :3
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: husband!bucky barnes x fem!reader
ᴡᴄ: 2553
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: girldad!bucky, fluff, pregnant!reader, literally its all just cuteness
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky has his 2 favorite girls with him, he doesnt need anything else
ᴀ/ɴ— bucky is such a girldad. alsooo first post!! i decided to start with fluff before going into smut ! 𑣲⋆
The sunlight in the Brooklyn brownstone was thick and honey-colored, catching on the stray dust motes dancing over the living room rug. Bucky was sitting on the floor, his back against the velvet sofa, looking every bit the man who had traded a century of war for the quiet chaos of fatherhood. He was still the same Bucky Barnes—the broad shoulders, the heavy, watchful gaze, and the deliberate way he moved—but the jagged edges had been sanded down by years of peace and the steady rhythm of a life he never thought he’d get to keep.
Clara, barely three years old and a whirlwind of mismatched socks and messy curls, was currently treating his prosthetic arm like a high-end salon station. She had a pile of colorful, plastic butterfly clips scattered between her knees, and she was concentrating with a ferocity that mirrored her father’s own focus.
"Steady, doll," Bucky murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that lacked any of its old bite. He kept his metal arm perfectly still, resting his palm flat on the rug so she could reach the plates of his forearm.
"Don't move, Daddy. I'm making you pretty," Clara insisted, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth. She snapped a neon pink clip onto the edge of the vibranium, the tiny plastic click echoing in the quiet room.
Bucky caught your eye from across the room where you were tucked into the armchair. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew he was being absolutely played by a toddler and didn't mind one bit. His gaze dropped momentarily to the curve of your stomach, visible beneath your soft shirt, and his expression softened into something so profoundly tender it was almost ache-inducing.
"I think I’m plenty pretty already, Clara," Bucky teased, though he didn't pull away when she reached for a glittery purple clip.
"No," she sighed, exasperated in the way only a toddler can be. "You need more. For the baby."
Bucky’s hand—the warm, human one—reached out to steady Clara as she leaned a bit too far forward. His touch was light, seasoned by a lifetime of knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep something from breaking. He wasn't the kind of dad who did "baby talk"; he spoke to her with a grounded, calm respect, treating her like the most important person in the room.
"The baby can't see the clips yet, Peanut," he reminded her gently.
"But she knows!" Clara insisted, patting his metal shoulder before turning her attention back to her handiwork.
Bucky let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning his head back against the cushions. He looked content, his frame relaxed in a way that had taken years to achieve. In this light, with his daughter decorating his arm and his wife resting nearby, the Winter Soldier felt like a ghost from a different lifetime. Here, he was just Bucky—the man who made sure the house was warm, the man who read bedtime stories with a tired but devoted patience, and the man who was currently becoming a very shiny, very decorated canvas for his favorite girl.
Bucky shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Clara's "workstation" as she started trying to weave a stray ribbon through his thumb joint. His gaze drifted back to you, settling on the way you were resting your hand over the baby. There was a quiet, heavy groundedness to him—the kind of presence that made the whole room feel sturdier just because he was in it.
"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice dropping into that private, intimate register meant only for you. "You okay? Need another pillow?"
Before you could answer, Clara stood up, admiring the metallic arm now covered in a chaotic array of neon plastic and silk bows. "All done! Daddy is a princess."
Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at his daughter with a perfectly deadpan expression. "A princess, huh? Do I get a crown, or is the butterfly clip on my wrist enough for the royal title?"
"You need a wand," Clara decided, already scouting the room for a suitable substitute.
Bucky caught your hand as you moved to get up, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle but firm pressure. "Stay put," he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. "I've got the wand-finding under control."
He stood up with a slow, fluid grace, the clips on his arm jingling slightly. He didn't look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man who finally had something worth protecting. He scooped Clara up into the crook of his human arm, settled her against his hip, and leaned over to press a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.
"Go back to your book," he said softly, his eyes reflecting the late afternoon sun. "The princess and his advisor are going to go find a wand in the kitchen. Probably one that looks suspiciously like a wooden spoon."
Clara giggled, burying her face in his neck, and Bucky's smile was small, private, and entirely whole as he carried her out of the room.
The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic clatter of Bucky opening drawers, his movements steady and purposeful even as Clara directed him with the authority of a tiny commander. You followed the sound, leaning against the doorframe while folding your arms over the top of your stomach.
"I don’t know, Clara," you teased, watching Bucky hold up a silicone spatula with a look of extreme skepticism. "A princess usually has something with a bit more... sparkle. That looks like it's for pancakes."
Bucky turned his head, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes as he took in your expression. "Listen to your mother, Clara. The Queen has spoken. This is a culinary tool, not a magical one."
Clara huffed, squirming down from his hip to begin her own frantic search through the lower cabinets. Bucky took the opportunity to close the distance between you. He didn't say much—he never needed many words to get his point across—but he stepped into your space, his presence warm and grounding. He reached out with his human hand, his palm coming to rest gently over the curve of your belly. He waited, his breath hitching just a fraction, until he felt that familiar, sharp little kick against his skin.
"She’s active today," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that always felt like a secret shared between just the two of you. "Must have heard us talking about her."
"She’s probably just protesting the 'princess' title," you joked, though you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long breath. "She’s been doing gymnastics in there since breakfast."
Bucky’s thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your shirt. His focus was entirely on you, his brow furrowed in that characteristic way that showed he was checking in, cataloging your comfort the same way he used to catalog threats. He wasn't hovering, but he was there, a constant and unwavering anchor.
"Are you tired?" he asked, his gaze searching yours. "I can take Clara to the park for an hour. Give you some actual quiet."
"And leave you alone with a toddler who thinks your arm is a jewelry box?" You laughed, reaching up to adjust one of the butterfly clips that was hanging precariously from his wrist. "I think I'd rather stay and watch the chaos. Besides, you're doing a great job, Your Highness."
Bucky caught your hand, holding it against his chest for a second. The metal of his other arm was still adorned with pink and purple plastic, a stark contrast to the man who had survived more wars than he cared to count.
"I found it!" Clara shrieked, emerging from the pantry with a long, wooden pasta spoon. She brandished it toward Bucky's knees. "Daddy, kneel! I have to make you magic."
Bucky looked from the spoon to you, a resigned but soft smile playing on his lips. "Duty calls," he sighed, though he didn't move to let go of your hand just yet. He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips—one that tasted like home and the promise of a future he was finally allowed to keep. "Don't get up. I'll handle the knighting ceremony."
He moved away, dropping to one knee on the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bowing his head as Clara tapped the wooden spoon against his shoulders with all the solemnity of a true coronation.
Bucky took the "blow" of the wooden spoon to his shoulder with more grace than he’d ever taken a hit in the field. He kept his head bowed as Clara moved the "wand" to his other side with a look of extreme concentration.
"I dub thee... Princess Daddy," Clara announced, tapping him firmly on the head.
Bucky let out a small, huffing sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh. He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think that’s a promotion," he said, shifting his weight to sit back on his heels. "Though I’m not sure the guys at the gym would agree."
"I think it suits you," you said, leaning against the counter and rubbing a hand over the small of your back. "The pink butterfly clips really bring out your eyes."
He stood up, the metal plates of his arm shifting with a faint, familiar whirr. He reached out to scoop Clara up before she could find another household object to turn into a weapon. "Alright, Princess Daddy is retiring for the afternoon. I think it’s time for someone to have a snack and then maybe a nap."
"No nap!" Clara protested, though she was already leaning her head against his shoulder, her energy finally starting to flag.
"We’ll see about that," Bucky murmured. He turned back to you, his expression shifting from playful to that quiet, observant intensity he saved just for you. He noticed the way you were shifting your weight. "Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring her back in once she’s settled with some apple slices."
"I can help, Bucky, I'm just pregnant, not incapacitated," you reminded him with a small smile.
"I know what you are," he replied, his voice softening as he stepped closer, the toddler a solid weight in his arms. He used his free hand to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But I've got this. Let me take care of my girls, okay?"
There was no arguing with that look—the one that said he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. You nodded, giving his arm a quick squeeze—avoiding the neon clips—and headed back toward the living room, leaving him to navigate the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and his favorite little girl in the other.
A few minutes later, the quiet of the living room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s boots on the hardwood. He emerged from the kitchen, having successfully navigated the snack transition. Clara was trailing behind him, clutching a small bowl of apple slices like it was a prize, her focus now diverted to a picture book she’d left on the coffee table.
Bucky sank onto the sofa beside you, his presence like a warm weighted blanket. He let out a long, grounded exhale, his metal arm—still sporting a few stubborn butterfly clips—resting behind your shoulders on the cushions.
"She’s finally slowing down," he noted, watching Clara flip through pages with a look of intense concentration. "I think the knighting ceremony took a lot out of her."
"It's a lot of responsibility being the Royal Advisor," you joked, shifting your position to rest your head on his shoulder. "You handled it well, though. I think your form was excellent."
Bucky’s hand dropped to your arm, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I’ve had a lot of practice taking orders. At least these ones come with snacks."
You let out a soft laugh, feeling the baby give a gentle nudge against your side. "I was talking to Natasha earlier," you mentioned, your voice trailing off into a comfortable hum. "She called while you were in the middle of the 'hair salon' session. She said she’s dropping by tomorrow with some more baby clothes she found. Apparently, she’s convinced this one is going to be just as much of a handful as Clara."
Bucky’s lips quirked into a real, albeit tired, smile at the mention of his friend. "Natasha just likes having an excuse to teach Clara how to pick locks with hairpins. I’m still finding bobby pins in the floorboards from her last visit."
"She calls it 'essential life skills,'" you reminded him, tilting your head up to look at him. "And you know she’s probably right. Between the two of you, these girls are going to be the most over-protected, highly-skilled toddlers in Brooklyn."
Bucky didn't argue. He just pulled you a little closer, his gaze softening as it moved from Clara back to you. The weight of the world felt very far away from this living room. "As long as they're safe," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. "They can learn whatever skills Nat wants to teach them. But for now, I think I'd settle for them just staying this small for a little bit longer."
You smiled, leaning into the solid warmth of his chest. "I don't know, Bucky. I think Nat is just excited to have more 'recruits.' She already told me she’s bringing over a tiny leather jacket that matches hers."
Bucky groaned, though the sound was fond. "A leather jacket. Great. She’ll be wanting a motorcycle next." He looked over at Clara, who had finally abandoned her book in favor of leaning her head against his knee, her eyelashes fluttering as sleep started to win the battle.
"She’s almost out," you whispered, watching the way he instinctively adjusted his posture so she’d be more comfortable.
"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his metal arm—the one still decorated with Clara’s clips—and then at your stomach, where the baby was finally settling down for a nap of her own. "I used to think the quiet was the hardest part of being back. The silence felt... heavy."
He shifted his human hand to cover yours, his skin warm and slightly calloused. "But this? This isn't that kind of quiet. This is the first time in a hundred years I feel like I can actually hear myself think."
You squeezed his hand. "And what are you thinking, Sergeant Barnes?"
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, grounding second. "That I'm a very lucky man," he murmured. "Even with the pink hair clips."
He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in the scent of the house—old books, apple slices, and the soft, clean smell of a home that was finally, truly his. The war was over, the Winter Soldier was a memory, and Bucky Barnes was exactly where he was supposed to be: right here with his girls.
paring: husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader
warnings/tags: postpartum exhaustion, sleep deprivation, crying baby, overwhelming tenderness, bucky being a good husband and father
wc: 1.5k
summary: six month old sleep regression is real, and you're feeling the brunt of it.
a/n: inspired by the very specific ache of loving someone so much that you run yourself empty for them :(
"Hon?" Bucky gently calls out as he unties his boots
The house is eerily quiet. The usual tired cries of the six month old girl were hushed and you are no where to be found.
"Honey?" he tries again walking into the kitchen. Dinner is halfway done. The dishes that had been in the sink are now washed and put away. And Alpine sits in front of her bowl crying for food. "Hey girl," he bends down to pet her. "Where's your momma?" She butts her head into his hand, clearly annoyed by the lack of food she's receiving. "Okay, okay. I'll go get you something to eat." he laughs.
He stands up with a groan, walking towards the laundry room. The door is slightly ajar and the light is off. The low rumble of the washing machine and the steady hum of the dryer fills his ears as he steps closer. Pushing open the door, he hits something that won't let it open past a sliver. Alpine slips in before him. Maneuvering around the door, he makes his way into the room, flipping on the light to see what is blocking the door.
There you are, asleep with your six month old daughter, Rebecca, sleeping on your chest. It had been a long two months of sleepless nights and a baby that would not nap during the day. To say it had put a strain on you both was an understatement. He felt bad that he went to work during the day, and he offered time and time again to take a day off to take care of the baby, but every time you gave some reason as to why you can't leaver her.
"She's still nursing."
"What if she won't settle for you."
He always tries his best to dispel your fears, but he knows that as much as you need a break, you aren't ready to be separated from your baby girl.
Kneeling down beside you, he gently rubs a hand on your cheek, "Honey." A shuddering breath fills your lungs and your eyes flutter open. A look of confusion spreads across your face; once your eyes adjust a wide, sleepy smile replaces it. "Hi." he whispers.
"Hi," you reply.
"How long have you been down here?" he questions, settling down next to you.
"What time is it?"
"4:34."
"Around forty minutes I think." your hand traces Rebecca's cheek gently. "She wouldn't stop crying unless we were in here. I guess the sounds of the machine was soothing to her."
Bucky looks at the girl and chuckles. "Of course… why don't I take her and you go relax on your own. I'll finish dinner and you, my beautiful wife, can take time for yourself.
As you open your mouth to protest, he presses a kiss to your lips. "No arguments. I'm her father and I want to take care of both of my girls."
"Baby—"
He takes the sleeping infant from your chest. "I can handle it, honey. Please go relax, you need it."
You let out a sigh that is followed by a yawn. You hesitate for only a second longer, eyes still heavy and fingers reaching out instinctively to Rebecca's small head.
"She's okay," Bucky mummers, shifting her slightly to hold her closer to his chest. "I've got her." The way he says it, so gentle and certain, loosens the your resolve to continue caring for the infant in your state.
You slowly sit up. The ache in your shoulders reminds you how long you had been curled up on the floor. The laundry room feels too bright after drifting in the darkness for so long. Alpine circles your feet and nips at your big toe.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep." you admit, exhaustion wound into your voice.
"I know," he replies with a kiss to your forehead. "You've been running on empty."
Bucky stands up and extends his right hand toward you. "Come on, its us three against you." He brushes a thumb on your cheek and pushes a strand of hair out of your face. "Let me help you."
That makes your throat tighten. He sways gently with the baby, rocking her out of instinct. She barely stirs in his arms. Her tiny fist curled around his shirt, and the sight of it pulls something soft and aching through your chest.
"I should be doing more." you whisper.
Bucky's eyes flick to yours immediately. "Hey, you're doing enough. More than enough," he whispers. "You're keeping her alive, loving her, feeding her, and living on no sleep. If that's "not enough" then I don't know what is."
"I'm her mother, that's what I'm supposed to do." you reply. You run a finger across Rebecca's dark hair. You look at her. Sure you're tired and sure you could use a break, but something inside you can't let go of caring for her.
"And I'm her father and your husband and it's my job to take care of both of you." he kisses your forehead. "You're so strong all of the time; for me and for her. Let me take care of you for once."
Reluctantly, you sigh. the ache in your bones and throbbing in your head are both now more pronounced than before. He rubs your arm with his right hand. "Doesn't a bath sound so nice without the eyes of our daughter watching you? And you can use that fancy epsom salt that Sarah bought you. Then you can eat dinner without a baby on your hip. It sounds wonderful, right?"
A smile pokes at the corners of your lips. "You're awful."
"I'm right."
"…I'll go. She ate an hour ago, and if she starts fussing there's a bottle in the—"
His hand goes to the small of your back and he moves you towards the door. "I can figure it out, babe. Do you trust me?"
Your eyes meet his blue ones. "I do."
A smile erupts on his face. "Go, I've got her."
You linger in the doorway.
Bucky notices.
As he always does.
"Hey," he whispers, softly. "You're not leaving her. You're just… taking a minute."
You know that he's right, but your feet still don't move. He kisses your forehead, lips lingering to seal it there.
"I've got her."
Your eyes flick down to the baby a final time. Her small chest rising and falling in small breaths. She lays completely still in her fathers arm.
The sight of her so content makes the tightness in your chest dissipate. "If you need me, call me."
"I will."
You step out of the bathroom, feeling more refreshed than ever. Stepping out into the living room, you hear a chorus of baby giggles and Bucky laughing along with her.
You watch as he blows raspberries on her stomach as she grasps at his hair.
You lean against the doorway, not wanting to interrupt the scene.
Rebecca is sprawled across Bucky's lap, her tiny pajamas bunched around her kicking legs and a toothless smile on her face as he attacks her stomach with another exaggerated raspberry.
The sound that leaves her is pure joy. Bright, breathless, baby giggles that you wish you could bottle and keep forever.
"There it is," Bucky says. "There's the laugh I've been working for all afternoon.
Rebecca squeals, grabbing a fist full of his hair with surprising strength.
"Ow—" he yelps, carefully trying to pry her fingers away. "Okay, okay. You'll grow hair eventually. I promise. There's no need to steal mine."
Your lips turn up in an effortless smile.
He finally looks up to see you and freezes. Rebecca, now cradled against his chest.
"There's my girl." he says with a smile.
Warmth spreads to your chest.
You walk over to the couch and sit next to him, curling into his side. Rebecca notices you and lets out an excited squeal, her arms flailing in your direction.
"Oh, now you remember I exist." you tease.
"Please, she was starring at our bedroom door like she knew you were in there."
You laugh, a real laugh, for the first time in months.
Rebecca joins in with those excited little squeals and a wide smile that reaches her eyes.
Something tender settles over Bucky's face as he looks between you and the baby.
"You look better." he tells you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
The bath had helped. And so did the clean clothes. But you know that's not what he means.
For the first time in weeks, you don't feel like you're drowning alone.
Your hand reaches for his instinctively, fingers threading through his metal ones carefully.
"Thank you." you whisper, head resting on his shoulder.
His thumb brushes over your fingers. "Anytime."
Rebecca lets out an impatient squeal. Demanding that she be the center of attention again.
Bucky grins immediately. "Our third wheel."
"She's your daughter."
He rolls his eyes, "She's also clingy. I wonder who she got that from?"
The house is still a mess. The dishes in the sink are still piled up, and laundry is resting in the machine. But neither one of you want to get up and ruin this moment.
Peter is actually the strongest avenger just because he didn’t immediately kill himself after Tony said “this isn’t a hug im just grabbing the door for you”
pairing: dad!tony stark x daughter!reader
warnings/tags: angst, hurt no comfort, you might find a little comfort if you squint, family angst, father daughter relationship, tony stark angst, major character death, reader dies but not really, no use of y/n for reader insert, not beta'ed
word count: 3k
summary: after a dight with your dad, you get dusted. five years later you have five minutes to take it all back
based off of "Unsaid Emily"
“I am Iron Man”
The color drained from your face as you ran toward him. Technicolor energy coursed through his arm. The blood in your ears drowned out all of the noise around you. Your sight was narrowed on your father. You tried to run toward him, but the air became thick and your shoes were suddenly made of lead.
“Dad, you’re being so unfair!”
Tony didn’t look up from the console in front of him, fingers flying across the screen at a maddening pace. “It’s unfair to want to protect my daughter? That’s rich.”
“You let Peter fight.”
“I’m not letting him fight this time.” He flicked another command into the air, jaw tight. “Do you want to do everything that Parker does, or just the dangerous shit?”
Your face burned. You knew he could see it without even looking.
Arguments between the two of you were brutal. Neither one of you wanted to admit your faults or concede to the other. A fight that only lasted one night was like pushing the north side of two magnets together; impossible.
He had spent months helping you build your own iron suit and now he wouldn’t even let you use it. Peter always got the fun missions. He got to actually do things and you were left coding his suit upgrades.
“Dad, I've built my own suits. You’ve taught me-”
“You’re not coming with me. This isn’t some little fight; this is the entire human race.”
“You’re unreasonable!”
“It’s final. You’re not going.”
“Dad!”
“You’re sixteen. I’m not putting you in danger!” he snapped.
Your nails dug into your palm. “I could handle it.”
“Quite frankly, I don’t care what you can and can handle,” Tony said sharply. “I’d like a daughter to come home to.”
“That’s if you come home.” you shot back, turning on your heel. Hair whipped around your face in a gust of unbridled anger.
The slam of your door echoed through the house. You crumpled onto your bed.
Anger burned hot in your chest.
You almost got up.
Almost.
Pride pinned you to the bed. Unable to get over that he thought of you as small, or weak, or worse— incapable.
Your eyes filled with tears that poked and prodded and burned while they threatened to fall. You wiped them away with the back of your hand.
Gosh.
Every time he did this, it only upset you more. You’re tired of dust collecting on the things he helped you create for the better of the world, while you implemented them into his and Peter’s suits. It was like watching your life from the shelf and worst of all he let you watch the mission footage to show him you know how to diffuse situations.
Why can’t I go out there? Why don’t I get to be the hero?
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up with the sun shining bright through the window. Your clothes from yesterday crumpled. Hair matted and eyes trying to adjust to the light.
There's a stillness around the house. Pepper wasn’t moving around. You checked the time. 1:17.
Great there went half of the day.
Something heavy settled in the air, like the tension of a cloud before a storm breaks. A pounding in your head brought back the argument of the previous night. The burning embers of anger had cooled into regret. The argument played over and over again like a broken record. You stared at the ceiling, analysing the plaster, every word you said sounding sharper than a knife in hindsight.
You’re unreasonable.
I’d like a daughter to come home to.
You sat up and scrubbed a hand over your face, trying to get the memory out of your head.
Maybe you should go downstairs.
Maybe you should apologize.
The thought had barely crossed your mind when the house began to shake violently.
Alarms began to scream.
You threw your door open as you rushed into the hallway. “FRIDAY?!” You called out, voice echoing in the empty house.
“Emergency protocols have been activated, Miss.” the bot responded in a calm tone. “Hostile extraterrestrials identified. For your own safety…”
Your stomach dropped as you drowned out the voice of the AI with your own thoughts.
Outside the sky looked so wrong. The sun hidden behind red clouds. Smoke twisted through the air and the bursts of light popped in the sky.
The battle had already started.
“Dad?” you called out, grabbing the railing and peering over the balcony.
No response.
With every passing second your heart beat faster, slowly rising up your throat. It became harder and harder to breathe, as you pulled up the Stark comms Tony had installed into your watch with shaky fingers.
“Dad, come in.”
Static.
You tried again, “Dad, please.”
Nothing.
The world felt like it was spinning too fast. A million thoughts ran through your head.
Suddenly everything went oddly quiet causing your mouth to turn downward.
A strange warmth crept up your arms. It felt like sunlight had been injected into your veins. When you looked down, flakes of ash began to flutter away from the tips of your fingers. Your breath stopped in your throat,
“No. No. No. Please no.”
Your knees buckled as more of your hands crumpled into dust.
The last thought on your mind wasn’t fear, no. It was the argument.
That’s if you come home.
The words you most regret are the ones you never meant to say. If he returned home, he wouldn't have a daughter waiting for him. You let out a scream.
“Dad—”
The word never finished.
And then you were gone.
Pepper knew something was wrong the second the house went quiet. The alarms had stooped. The tremors faded into nothingness. But the stillness that enveloped her felt more sinister than comforting.
“FRIDAY?” she questioned, stepping into the hall.
“Multiple casualties are being reported, ma’am.”
Her stomach twisted like it was a rag being wrung out. She moved towards the staircase, one hand gripping the railing as she looked down into the main living area. “FRIDAY where is—”
The words died in her mouth as she spotted the pile of light grey dust by the balcony railing. It wasn’t debris, it was ash. Ash that couldn’t have been caused by an explosion. It was something else, but her mind wouldn’t let her name it.
As she stepped forward slowly, her heart pounded against her ribs, blood rushing in her ears silenced the sound of her feet on the floor. “No…” she whispered.
The dust scattered slightly under her shoes. She lifted her eyes to the railing where a faint handprint caused tears to prick in her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth as a choked noise tried to escape. “FRIDAY,” she said, her voice shaking now. “Where is she?”
There was a pause. She knew the answer.
“Miss Stark is not appearing on any internal sensors.”
Pepper’s knees nearly gave out. For a moment she just stood there, an impassive look on her face as she stared at the spot where her daughter had been just moments before. Then she looked at the grey dust, the pieces of you, once more.
That’s when the realization hit her; she’d have to tell Tony. He was out there fighting, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was expecting to come home to an angry, but safe daughter. And that made her chest ache. They had lost you.
It’s late when Tony gets home. In the hours he had been gone, it looked like he aged a lifetime. His shoulders sag under the weight of everything the Snap had taken. He walked into the house. The only light was on in the living room. Pepper sat, curled on the couch, staring at the dark television screen.
“Pep… I lost the kid…” he said quietly, voice cracking as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. She didn’t look up at him.
A soft sniffle escaped her, as he frowned and ran a hand down her tear soaked cheek.
“I- I’ll have to tell her…” he whispered as he knelt down in front of her, trying to catch her gaze. “She’ll want to know about Peter.”
Pepper’s hands trembled in her lap.
“Pep, where is she? I knew she was mad, but I-”
A sob tore through her before she could stop it.
Tony froze, his face draining all color.
Pepper couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell him that the dust on the upstairs balcony was his daughter. She couldn’t tell him because she knew the last thing you two had said to each other was out of anger.
Slowly she lowered her eyes to his. The moment that Tony saw tears there something in his chest broke. His arms wrapped around her out of instinct and the faint hope that you would walk out of your room and jokingly chastise them flickered softly. But he knew that wouldn’t happen.
“She didn’t make it.” he said hoarsely. The words felt like a blade driving through his heart.
Neither one of them brought you up for a week. They barely spoke and when they did, they both knew the careful steps to dance around your name. Your room sat untouched for nine months. The bed is unmade and homework scattered across your desk exactly where you left it. A thin layer of dust settled over everything.
Eventually life moved forward the way it always does.
Pepper and Tony got married. They had another daughter. One you would never meet. Tony could often be found at her bedside at night, telling stories about you. Not the sad ones.
He told her about the time you hacked the Stark security system when you were twelve years old, just to prove that you could. About the first time you helped him build a suit prototype. About how you used to argue with him and Pepper like you were already running the company.
He told her about your brilliance. Your stubbornness. Your laugh. The way you could make him feel like the luckiest man alive just by walking into the room.
He never told her about the last argument, but it haunted him all the same. What he wouldn’t give to go back. To turn around before you walked away. To tell you the truth he wasn’t able to say that night. That all he wanted was to keep you safe, because he loved you.
The battlefield was chaotic. Portals opened across the ruined landscape, golden light spilling out as people who had been lost stepped through them. It worked.
Tony didn’t notice. His chest heaved as he leaned against a piece of shattered metal, trying to steady himself. All around him voices shouted, regrouping, calling out the names of people who had suddenly returned. Someone yelled that the plan had worked.
Tony didn’t move. Five years of grief didn’t disappear that easily. He knew what he had to do, and if you had returned too, then he wouldn’t make it home this time to see you. That’s when he heard it.
“Dad?”
The word cut through the noise like a blade.
Tony froze.
Slowly he turned around, hoping that it wasn’t his imagination again.
You stood several yards away, surrounded by chaos, still fifteen and in crumpled clothes. Confused. A little shaken. But very much alive. Looking just like you did the night of that godforsaken argument.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Tony’s heart slammed violently in his chest. “Kid?” his voice came out weaker than he expected. It was barely louder than a whisper. You blinked at him, eyes wide.
“Dad… what’s going on?” He crossed the distance between the two of you in seconds. His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. He couldn’t speak, and neither could you. He just held you. Five years of grief, regret, and sleepless nights poured out in a single breath and kiss to the top of your head.
“I thought–” his voice cracked. “I thought I lost you.”
Your arms slowly wrapped around him. “Dad…?” Then all of your memories came rushing back. The argument. The slammed doors. The words you spit out in anger. Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t mean it,” you said quickly, your voice shaking. “What I said that night, I didn’t mean it. I was just mad and I–”
Tony pulled back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were glassy and the smile on his lips wobbled slightly. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey. None of that matters now.” But it did. You felt it in the way his grip tightened on your shoulders, like you might disappear again.
“I should have turned around. I should have apologized.” you whispered.
Tony shook his head as soon as the words left your lips. “No.” His hand went to cradle the side of your face. “I should have told you something that night.”
You swallowed past the tightness in your throat. “What?”
His expression softened in a way you had never seen before. You watched as his eyes darted across your face, mapping it out like it was the first time he had seen it.
“That everything I did, every rule, every stupid argument…” his voice wavered. “...was because I loved you.”
Your vision blurred. “I love you too, Dad.”
For a moment, the battle didn’t exist. Only the two of you standing in one another's embrace mattered in this fragile moment.
The battle roared back to life and you barely had time to let go of Tony before he was pulled back into the chaos of the fight. Explosions lit the sky. Metal clashed. Voices shouted through comms. You took cover and watched it all go down, still trying to process the impossible fact that you were alive again.
Then you saw him.
Across the battle field, Tony stood with the infinity stones on his hand, burning with blinding light, their power crackling through his armor.
Your breath caught. “Dad–”
His head turned immediately at the sound of your voice. The world paused as your eyes locked with his. You saw his face soften when he looked at you, and in that moment you knew what was going to happen. You knew that look. The one he gave you when you solved a problem he thought would take you days. The one he gave you when you stepped into your first prototype suit.
Pride. Love. And now peace.
Your heart began to race, something was wrong. He lifted a hand slightly toward you, as if he could reach across those several yards to hold you again. Your stomach dropped. “Dad…?”
Across the battlefield, he gave you the smallest nod of his head. He schooled his expression back to the fierce avenger, raising his hand and preparing to snap.
“And I… am… Iron Man.”
The color drained from your face as you ran towards him. Technicolor energy coursed through his arm. The blood in your ears drowned out all of the noise around you. As Thanos’ army dusted away, your sight was narrowed on your father. You tried to run toward him, but the air became thick and your shoes were suddenly made of lead.
“Dad.” you choked out in a sob. As he collapses to the ground, you make it to his body. Everything that happens next is a blur. You’re crying over his body next to Peter. “You were supposed to make it home. You have to make it home.”
Dr. Strange put a hand on your shoulder as Pepper approached. You hear her tell him to rest and you hold back another sob. His breathing comes to a stop and the familiar blue glow of the arc reactor flickers until it shuts off.
“I love you.” you whispered as you moved to kneel by his body next to Pepper. She pulled you in tightly against her chest. There was no time for a good bye, just a final I love you.
The lake was quiet.
The water barely moved, reflecting the soft blue sky above it. Everyone stood in silence along the edge of the dock, all dressed in black. You stood beside Pepper, hands clasped tightly together to keep them from shaking. The tip of your nose was painted with the faintest red and the skin under your eyes burned like hell.
A small wreath with Tony’s first arc reactor bobbed on the water, drifting gently away from the dock. Away from you.
Your chest felt hollow.
Five minutes. You had gotten five minutes with him. Five minutes to hug him. Five minutes to say all of the words that almost went unsaid forever. You tried to hold onto that.
Beside you, Pepper reached over and squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.
Behind you were people who you barely remembered now; heroes, friends, people who had fought alongside your dad. But your eyes drifted to the small girl in front of you; your sister. She couldn’t have been more than five years old.
It’s later in the day when she found you sitting on the porch. She looked at you curiously, head tilting slightly as she assessed you. “You’re the one from Daddy’s stories.” she said quietly. Your throat tightened. Tony used to tell her about you. Even after you were gone.
You knelt down in front of her slowly. “Yeah.” you managed to croak out.
Morgan smiled a little. “He said you were really smart,” she continued. “And stubborn.”
A weak laugh escaped you, despite the ache in your chest. “That sounds like him.”
Morgan reached out and slipped her small hand into yours. “Are you staying now?”
The question hit you hard. Your gaze flicked to the wreath in the water that kept moving further and further away from you. Then it went back down to the girl in front of you, who was looking up at you with hope.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m staying.”
Morgan squeezed your hand. And for the first time since the battle, the ache in your chest felt a little bit lighter. She sniffled beside you staring out at the lake.
You nudged her gently with your shoulder.
“C’mon,” you say softly. “I think Uncle Happy said something about cheeseburgers.”
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