you called me seven times

one, two, three, four on the line

[luvversrock]

𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

Alex ⋆.˚⭑.ᐟ 21, she/her, yearner, thunderbolts enthusiast. Asks and requests are open (I luv fluff <3), however please don't ask for smut. Thank you! Reblogs, asks, and comments are very near and dear to my heart <3 I'd love to hear your thoughts or just chat ✶ this is a sideblog! I can’t follow back :[

⤷ 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 (latest.ᐟ)

⤷ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

[luvversrock]

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

for him, from you

You get influenced by Bucky's friends, and he really, really doesn't like it. Fluff, wife!reader.

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

Bucky x sleepy gf!reader

[fawniswriting]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.

Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.

Word Count: 3.6k-ish

Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing. 

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it. 

No heads-up. No plan. 

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons. 

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending. 

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”. 

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better. 

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace. 

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks. 

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss. 

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.

[luvversrock]

Bucky who doesn’t know how to take naps x gf!reader who’s soooo sleepy all the time, always curled up on the nearest couch or in bed and fast asleep. Bucky who is always bewildered, but he likes to see you rest, anyway. (Before, in days so olden he barely remembers them, he used to indulge in naps, too—back when his sleep was dreamless and easy, a brief stretch of reprieve instead of just another place to be haunted by. But even then, he never slept as much as you did, or for as long). Your favorite spot to lay your head is often his thigh, warm and wide. It makes him feel involved, somehow, even though he can’t join you past the thin barrier of sleep; he feels your breaths soak through the threads of his sweatpants, the loose grip of your fingers curled around his knee. It calms him, to see you so at peace. You sleep like he’s the safest place you can be, all the weight of a trusting child leant against his side. You could sleep too, you tell him. Just close your eyes. But he knows he can’t. His body doesn’t know how to do it anymore. But sometimes, you’re insistent, and so sometimes, he indulges you and lets his eyes fall closed. He never sleeps, but every once in a while, he’d feel himself drift, jolting awake to the shift of your body against his, your fingers curling into his shirt, your hair tickling his chin. And Bucky would go on closing his eyes, in case it happens again

[urfavgirllll]

Saw this in a tik tok comment section beefy bucky we will always love you ❤️

[sebssoulmate]

Top tier Bucky look🗣️

[saintshigaraki]

a character very lovingly holding your head against their chest so you can feel their steady heartbeat …. gently cupping your other ear to muffle the sound of them shooting a man in cold blood

[luvversrock]

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x wife!reader

Tags: soft!bucky, also grumpy bucky (soft grump bucky?), fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, sliiight possessiveness, mentions of the thunderbolt team, no use of yn, petnames, reader has hair long enough to get stuck in a necklace

Summary: You get influenced by Bucky's friends, and he really, really doesn't like it.

Word count: 1k

── .✦

Bucky was never having them over again.

He would say he didn't know what possessed him in the first place, but that would be a lie—it was you, of course it was you. He still couldn't fathom it, why you were so keen on meeting his rag-tag, hastily stitched team of ruffians. And he said his—and also said team—very lightly, with a very, very generous grain of salt.

You were always asking about them—you never tell me anything about them, James. And he always more or less replied the same: sweetheart, trust me, they're not worth your time. But you didn't think so, and the universe agreed, and so, in some cosmic collaborative effort, you were placed in the direct path of not just one Yelena Belova and one Ava Starr, but one John Walker as well. It was a graceless, unavoidable collision, with Yelena's voice ringing out and Ava's sly gaze darting to where you had your arm looped around his.

Ambushed, Bucky hadn't been able to come up with something quick enough, and you already knew them—knew of them, at the very least—and hurried to introduce yourself. The three of them had perked up like a pack of dogs who'd just seen a bone. All the while he watched, helpless and glum not only as you exchanged pleasantries but also cheerfully invited them over to your home.

Your home.

In hindsight, he should've seen it coming.

"Oh, we'd absolutely love to." Yelena had drawled. Her voice was positively sunny, her grin wolfish and pleased. "Bucky never even thought to invite us over."

And he genuinely never would have. But you, his wife, wanted it, and so he made it happen, with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth stitched into a docile, agreeable smile. For you only, of course.

The others, not so much.

But at least it was over. And, he thought begrudgingly to himself, not entirely horrible. You were, for reasons unclear to him, utterly charmed. Yelena made you laugh, and Alexei tided you over with a barrage of nonsensical anecdotes. Bob brought some sort of dessert that turned your eyes to hearts. Ava was…Ava, which suited you just fine, and John wasn't too much of an asshole, so, okay, whatever. You were happy with how it went.

And he was very happy with the silence that currently reigned over the house, a blanket of complete and utter quiet save for the sound of Alpine's purring across his lap. That is, until your voice drifted out, muffled through the bathroom door.

"Bucky?"

His blood froze to ice. You sounded agitated, the syllables sharp and thorny through the wood. He immediately stood, crossed your bedroom in two long strides, and dragged his knuckles across the door in a cursory knock before pushing it open.

You were in those clingy, cotton pajamas of yours, frowning, lips pursed, one hand holding on to something at the nape of your neck.

"What?" He managed.

"My hair's caught in my necklace. Can you…?"

He nodded, once, a jerky cut of his chin through the air, and stepped in behind you. Bucky wet his dry lips. Gently, he nudged your hand away and took a look at the necklace. Its chain was trapped beneath a small knot made by your hair. He started unraveling it.

His fingers set to work, careful and steady, but his thoughts were occupied. Eventually, though, he worked the necklace free and unclasped it.

A sigh of relief left you. Bucky leaned over you to place the necklace on the counter; you turned to face him, your arms curling around his neck, mouth open in a smile that suddenly collapsed halfway through.

"What's with the frown, handsome?" You tilted your head, your own brows furrowing.

The petname put him a little at ease. He shifted, but couldn't get far with your arms around his neck. That eased him, too.

Bucky's voice was almost a whisper. "You're not upset with me, are you?"

"What—?" Your face scrunched in confusion.  "James, no. Why would I be?"

His spine went soft with relief. Exhaling, he took your face in both his hands. "Please," he breathed, "never call me that again."

"What?" You murmured again. The furrow then loosened between your brows, a laugh brightening your expression as you realized. "Bucky?" You guessed, grinning at the pained look on his face.

"Please, doll."

"You're so dramatic," you said fondly.

He made a low, wounded sound in his throat.

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "It's cute," you insisted. "Makes you sound all cuddly. All of your friends call you that."

"They're not my friends," he said automatically.

"I thought I'd try it, too," you continued as if he hadn't spoken, still grinning. He really couldn't see what was so funny. It was physically painful to him, an axe hacking its way through his chest.

You were the only one who called him by his given name; you always had been, since day one. He liked the sound of it in your mouth, private and sweet and just for him, just from you, your James.

Sometimes, when you were teasing, you called him Barnes. When he was getting a scolding, it was the whole, James Buchanan Barnes, just like his mother used to, and he'd find himself going so soft he'd have no rebuttal for whatever it was, only, yes Ma'am, sorry, sorry, sorry, dotted in kisses across your face.

"Don't call me that again," he begged quietly, a desperate, desperate plea.

You pressed your forehead to his, a softer smile tugging at your mouth. "Why not?"

"'Cause it's not my name," he murmured. "Not to you."

He felt your fingers sifting through his hair. Your lips ghosting over his.

"James."

He hummed, kissing you. "Baby. That's right."

Rewatched thunderbolts on a whim and I caught the bucky bug. Help. I’ve always been hopelessly enamored with the idea of reader being the only one to call him James lol. Anyway this is my first go at him, if you enjoyed pls lmk! And if you want more pls lmk too :DD

[johnwalkerrrrr]

[sweetheartbrina]

the bucky barnes’ secret wife trope (ex-avenger!reader)

my first time (sort of) writing for bucky ♡ 1957 words

"Doll?" Bucky calls out once he steps into the house. It comes out gruff.

Clearing his throat, he makes a strong attempt at softening his voice. He wants to sound sweeter for you, like you always try to be with him.

He takes his wedding ring from the table — where he left it in the morning — and slips it onto his ring finger. The vibranium of his hand immediately connects with the ring. "Thank you, Shuri," you hum sometimes when you trace the shape of it in bed.

“In here!” you call back from the kitchen. Despite the new situation he’s found himself in, he relaxes at the sound of your voice.

All the tension from the afternoon slowly dissipates from his body when he sees you with your hair up and a bit of flour on your apron.

“What are you doing home so early?” You look up when he rounds the corner, frowning when you spot the dirt covering his clothes. “I thought you were working all day, baby.”

“I was… long story,” he says casually before pointing at your chopping board. “You’re cooking? What are you making?”

His voice is suddenly a little too light, you recognise it immediately. It’s the voice he uses to put you at ease before he tells you some news that won’t make you very happy. You see right through him but you play along anyway.

“Apple pie,” you say, matching his tone as you tilt your head suspiciously.

“Really?” he says before making his way behind you. He dips his finger into the jar of honey in front of you, bringing it to his lips and humming at the taste.

“James, that’s disgusting,” you scold, swatting at his hand. He grins.

You eye him cautiously when he draws nearer. The soft sound of metal whirring fills your ear as he wraps his arms around your from behind. He works at the knot of your apron until it's untied. He pulls it off over your head before smoothening the shirt you're wearing underneath.

He brushes your hair to the side and places a gentle kiss to the side of your neck, then he mumbles against your skin.

"What are you doing-"

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

A smile sneaks its way onto your face but you settle your lips into a thin line before he can see. You huff out an incredulous laugh.

“Have I mentioned how bad you are at buttering me up?”

He isn’t surprised that you've figured him out. Perks of being married to an ex-spy, he supposes. Though, it may just be a wife thing.

He simply chuckles, tucking his head into your shoulder.

“I think I’m pretty good at it,” he murmurs low in your ear. To his credit, you do almost melt. Almost.

You frown, putting down the knife and turning to face him.

“Do you remember talking about missing fighting last night?” he says, bringing a hand up to your face.

You grab it and push it away, not letting him distract you.

“No,” you say blandly.

“No? We were in bed and I was using my metal—”

“James,” you warn, he purses his lips.

“Okay, honey, listen—”

“Don’t honey me and spit it out,” you narrow your eyes.

He opens his mouth, about to charm you or soothe your potential anger a little more, before sighing.

“Will you come with me?” He tilts his head to the other room. You nod, letting him guide you.

“If you got another cat without telling me, I’m going to…”

The end of your sentence dwindles off when you spot four battered (and slightly bloody) soldiers sitting on your couch.

One of whom is John Walker.

You tense immediately. Your first instinct is to wring his neck, your hand clenches by your side.

You turn to see your husband standing next to you with a tired — but unsurprised — look on his face.

“James?” you mumble in a daze, keeping your eyes locked on the strangers in your living room. “What is this?”

James? John mouths with a deep frown to a brunette girl next to him, she hits him hard on the arm without even looking at him. You decide at the very least that you like her, for now.

“Meet the — what did you call yourselves again?” Bucky says, closing his eyes and punching the bridge of his nose. Nursing an oncoming migraine, probably.

You take his flesh hand in yours, placing pressure on the Hegu point in an attempt to relieve some of his pain. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the soldiers, an older man’s eyes widen as he nudges a blonde woman not very subtly.

“We’re not, like, a team or anything—” John starts before being cut off by the older man.

“We are the Thunderbolts!” he says proudly when no one else is willing to supply a name. He even pumps his fist in the air to punctuate it, narrowly missing the Blonde woman's head. You suppress a snort. Cute, they're like a soccer team.

“No, Alexei, we are not called—”

“Meet the Thunderbolts,” Bucky says, turning to you, very much resembling a tired dad. Under different, less confusing, circumstances, you’d tease him for it.

“Thunderbolts, meet—"

John cuts him off, your old superhero alias slipping from his lips. It sounds a little too condescending coming from him. He — like most of the world — seems to know who you are. Well, were.

The name makes you feel uneasy. It takes you right back to some darker times. You furrow your brows, body tensing. You hate that your body reacts like this still, like an obedient soldier at everyone’s beck and call.

Bucky catches your change in mood and squeezes your hand. He glares at John.

“Careful,” he warns.

“Yeah, well, we know who she is,” John says then he shuffles to face you. “What are you doing here? Is this some sort of retired Avengers safe house or something?”

“If it was, you wouldn't be welcome,” you say dryly, in no mood for pleasantries with this poor excuse of a man.

John scoffs, seemingly baffled by your clear one-sided hatred towards him.

“This is my house, she's my wife,” Bucky says simply and coldly. You blink at him in shock. So much for secrecy.

“You’re married?” the brunette woman says, eyes wide as a bug. It seems the only thing these four have in common right now is their surprise over the information.

"Since when?" John asks.

You roll your eyes, not answering out of sheer pettiness, at the same time Bucky says, "August 23rd, 2024."

You look over at him in slight surprise, affection and warmth filling you at the pride that seeps through his cold voice. His eyes dart over to yours, softening as well.

“You've been married to her for three years?” John says incredulously, breaking the moment between you and Bucky. You turn back to him in annoyance. He's a little slow, it seems.

He points at you, you're about to bite his finger off. “Where the hell were you during the whole Flag Smashers thing, then?”

You narrow your eyes.

“There were bigger fish to fry. New York’s not the only city constantly under attack,” you snark. “Those other cities don’t have Sam and Bucky to save your ass, you’re lucky they were free to babysit you-”

You feel Bucky’s hand make its way to the small of your back, you sigh and stand down.

Before John can retort, you turn to your husband.

“What the hell is going on?”

“So much for retirement,” you huff, crossing your arms.

He’s just explained everything to you as quickly as possible and, frankly, you’re having trouble wrapping your head around it. All these names and new information circle around your head.

Familiar ones like Valentina and Yelena stay at the forefront. You remember quieter days in the old Avengers Tower where Natasha used to tell you stories about her life before the Red Room and her psuedo family. Your heart aches a little for Yelena at the reminder of the sister you both lost.

New ones like Sentry and Bob (?) fly over your head.

Still, by now, you’re used to having to think quickly. Especially in any business regarding assassins and super soldiers. Especially when said assassins and super soldiers are still in your living room while you hide out in your bedroom with your husband.

“You’re sure you want to risk so much to help them?” you murmur. You don’t just mean his new political career, this could very much derail his mental state and send him reeling again. You sigh inwardly. All this work to keep him out of war just for him to put himself right back on the frontlines.

That's your husband, you suppose. As much as he grumbles about it, he can't help but help people.

Whatever he decides, you have his back one hundred percent and he knows that. You just want to make sure he’s willing to risk this new, safe life the two of you were building, far away from all of this.

“It’s not just about saving them,” he says. “I can’t let Valentina get away with her corrupt bullshit.”

You smile a little, it’s times like these you remember who your husband is. Your smile falters a little when you hear arguing coming from the living room.

“How can you be so sure they’re… good?” you murmur.

He touches your face gently, eyes fixated on yours.

“Because Steve was right about us.”

The crease between your brows relax, your eyes full of knowing.

Maybe it's a terrible idea, one that could jeopardise everything. So much for trying out that "life" Steve and Tony talked about. It seems you’ll never escape what’s so deep in your bones, though.

You nod once and he lets out a breath of relief.

“Did you really have to bring them here?” you say in a hushed voice. He kisses your pouty lips, chaste and apologetic.

“I’m sorry, doll, I didn’t know anywhere else safe,” he replies honestly.

Your eyes soften. He’s right, this is a safe place. Maybe the only one in New York far away from aliens and terrorists. It's your home.

“You’re gonna have to help me reach my suit,” you gesture to the box tucked away at the very top of your wardrobe.

He grins and nods. You bring your hand to the dog tags around his neck.

“I guess we’re doing this again,” you murmur.

“Guess so,” he says, looking down at you.

You bring your hand up to the side of his face, your thumb gently rubbing the deep bags under his eyes.

“After this, we’re taking a real vacation,” you say. “No more Congressman Barnes, just the Bahamas and sleep.”

“Nope, no Bahamas,” he shakes his head. “I hate the beach.”

You furrow your brows. “What do you mean you hate the beach?”

“It’s too sunny and the sand gets everywhere,” he grumbles, you roll your eyes.

“You’re such an old man,” you say.

He turns his head away from you in annoyance and you laugh, tilting his head back to you.

“Fine, after this, we can take a nice, nowhere-near-the-beach, staycation,” you coax, interlocking your hands. One hand of yours touches his flesh and the other touches cold metal.

Your wedding rings clink together. You see it happen, the way he melts — his hands grasp yours, his look turns tender. You tiptoe and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Deal?”

He shifts his head slightly to kiss you properly.

When he pulls away, his eyes flicker between yours. The sound of arguing outside sounds distant with his deep blue eyes on yours.

“Deal.”

sorry if he’s a little out of character… i haven’t written for him in a longgg time (we're talking quarantine times, before this blog — look at me going back to my marvel roots !!)