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The Letter

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a HUGE crush on your fellow Avenger, but have never gotten the guts to tell him. Instead, you write letters that you keep to yourself. Until one letter goes missing...

Warnings: one-sided pining (turns out it was mutual), elevator confrontation, mostly fluffy but with a bit of angst that mainly comes from the unrequited feelings

WC: 3.5k

Masterlist

When you joined the Avengers, you expected a life full of danger, intrigue, secrecy, and maybe comradery if you were lucky.

You never expected Bucky Barnes.

#marvel #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader fluff #avenger bucky

we work- b. barnes

pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader

word count: 4.9k

summary: Bucky makes you coffee before every mission. You both pretend it doesn't mean anything. You're both lying.

Two times you almost let your feelings slip, and the one time he actually does.

warnings: terrible communication skills

Nobody told you that your house- the one you’d bought with your own money, thank you very much- was registered as a safe house for the team.

It was your blessed week off. Two months of being on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week had sucked you dry- countless bruises and sleepless nights later, Tony had approved your request for time off.

You’d worked mainly with Steve’s unit: Natasha, Sam, Clint, and Bucky.

Bucky was a problem. Or maybe you’d just been single too long. It was a toss-up.

Now, you were trying your hand at homemade pasta (and failing abysmally). Never Been Kissed echoed from your living room, providing the background noise for you as you covered every available surface in a layer of flour.

You were dressed to the nines: tiny pajama shorts and a t-shirt that said “Birthday Princess” in sparkly letters.

“Come on, come on,” you murmured, prodding the floor-egg abomination with sticky fingers. Eggshells from failed attempts piled up on the edge of your small island. Your phone buzzed next to you: Unknown Number.

You ignored it, shoving a strand of hair off your forehead. Your fingers left a streak of white. Your phone buzzed again: Unknown Number.

You poked the dough-esque lump more aggressively. Again, it buzzed and you relented, swiping it off the counter with the heels of your hands. You answered the call with your nose, careful not to touch your messy fingers to the screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, y/n,”

You recognized that voice- Natasha. She was supposed to be on extraction right now- surely she had no reason to call you. Right?

“Nat? What do you need?” you kicked into agent mode almost instantly.

A beat of silence. “I just wanted to give you a heads up,” she said, voice tight. “You’re about to have company.”

“Company? Nat, I’m off-duty. I’m not even on the grid.”

“That’s… the thing,” a cough. When she continued, her voice was pained. “Sorry to do this to you.”

“Do what?” you demanded. “Nat, what’s going on?”

“We need a safe house, and you’re the closest one.”

“Safe house?”

“I have to go,” she rushed. “But we’ll see you soon.”

The line went dead.

“This can’t be happening,”

You stared at your flour-dusted disaster of a kitchen. At your minuscule shorts and the glittering “Birthday Princess” across your chest. Your living room was a haphazard mess: gear strewn everywhere, mingling with blankets and books.

“Shit.”

You sprinted to the window, opening the blinds just in time to see the car rolling into your driveway- no headlights. The engine puttered to a stop.

The driver’s side door opened, and he was the first one out.

Bucky.

His hair was a mess. He was wearing his signature black jacket: leather, with tac straps cutting across his shoulders.

His eyes scanned your driveway for threats as he crossed to open the passenger door. They landed right on you. You yanked the blinds closed.

“Absolutely not,” you breathed.

The footsteps approached your door: three pairs. You stood frozen by the couch, not sure what you were waiting for. A knock? For someone to call your name?

The lock rattled briefly, then clicked open.

“You’ve got to get better locks on this place,” his voice echoed through your entryway.

You hadn’t moved from your position beside the couch. He appeared shortly, supporting Natasha. A dark stain bloomed through the fabric of her shirt. Sam appeared behind the pair of them.

You rushed to Natasha’s side. Bucky pushed past you and further into your house.

“I’m gonna clear the rooms.”

“Hello, how are you?” you demanded sarcastically, looping your arms under Natasha’s so you could help her to the couch.

Sam brushed past you next.

“Nice getup,” he grinned, eyeing your pajamas. You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain.

“Don’t start with me, Wilson.”

Natasha groaned as you lowered her onto your couch.

“I haven’t cleared the living room yet,” Bucky lectured as he rounded the corner.

“Well where do you suggest we go?” you clipped. “The hall closet?”

He bit back whatever he was planning to say, continuing his inspection of your house- towards your bedroom. You forced your attention back to Nat, brain rushing at the thought of Bucky Barnes poking through your room.

Did I close my underwear drawer?

Did I leave my photo albums out?

“What happened?” you demanded, pulling up the hem of Nat’s shirt to see the nasty bruise creeping over her ribs.

“Extraction went sideways,” Sam muttered, settling on the couch next to you. He made a face, rummaged around behind him, and pulled out your still-loaded tac belt. He draped it on the coffee table next to one of your compacts.

“Bedroom clear,” Bucky’s voice floated down the hall, authoritative. Clinical.

He strode into the living room, taking in the sight: You, with your bare legs tucked under you as you bandaged Natasha’s ribs. Sam next to you, fiddling with a piece of your gear he’d snatched off a side table. He shocked himself and practically threw the gadget across the room.

“Care to explain why you broke into my house?” you asked no one in particular.

“Convenience and privacy, to name two.” Bucky answered. “And you really do need better locks.”

“Maybe you should knock instead of picking my locks,” you muttered, knotting off a bandage.

“What?”

You didn’t answer- you both knew his super hearing had picked up every word. You finished up with Natasha, pulling the hem of her shirt back down and ordering Sam to go get ice from the freezer.

“Of course, Birthday Princess.”

You glared at his back.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” Natasha murmured. “And your shirt.” Her eyes dropped, and she grinned. “And your legs. By the way, where are your pants?”

Your cheeks flamed. “I’m wearing shorts, and I didn’t exactly plan on having guests.”

You scrubbed your forehead to rid it of the flour, questioning every decision that had led you to this moment.

Bucky still stood behind you, observing. Always observing. He crossed to the wall, leaning against it and propping up one of his boots.

“Barnes, if you leave a footprint on my wall, I swear-“

He put his foot down. In the longer-than-necessary second you spent watching him, you noticed the stiffness in his posture.

“You’re favoring your right side,” you observed.

“You on my case now?”

“Contusion to the left ribs or upper shoulder. Which is it?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Shoulder.”

You sighed, standing from the couch and gesturing to where you’d been sitting.

“Sit. Let me go get ice.”

“It’s fine,” he started.

“Sit down, Barnes.”

He sat. You shoved down the voice in your head as you unzipped his jacket, exposing his injury. He didn’t meet your eyes as you worked. You didn’t meet his.

Never Been Kissed still played, drowning out the charged silence between you.

Thirty seconds, and you were finished.

Sleeping arrangements were…something. Your house wasn’t made for four people, and it showed. Nat’s injuries were worst, so she got your bed. You slept on your bedroom floor, much to her chagrin.

Bucky and Sam flipped a coin for the couch. Sam won. They combed through the living room, collecting all your stray gear and depositing it onto the coffee table.

When the neighborhood was quiet and everyone had settled, you laid awake. Cold, from the floor, seeped into your skin. Your brain refused to shut down.

The soft sounds of Nat’s breathing mixed with the ceiling fan.

Sleep gave up on you. You shoved your blanket away, easing out of your bedroom door. In the living room, you could see the dark outlines: Sam on the couch (snoring) and Bucky on the floor (silent).

Your pasta mess still decorated the kitchen. As quietly as you could, you began to clean, scraping lumps of half-formed dough off the granite. From your peripheral, you saw a figure in the doorway: Bucky.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked. His voice was low, barely guarded. How he talked to you when you were alone with him.

“No,” you managed, scraping at the layer of flour crust. “And I’ve gotta get the house presentable now, seeing as I have guests.”

The words came out more jaded than you wanted them to.

“I’m sorry. ‘S not fair to you.” he said.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you backtracked. “It just…caught me off guard.”

He smirked, looking around your kitchen. “I can tell,” his eyes scanned you. “I see you’ve figured out the outfit situation, though.”

You had. The second you’d settled everyone, you’d discarded the t-shirt and shorts in favor of leggings and a sweatshirt.

“I’m running a classy establishment here. I have to look the part,” you joked. Something in the air was making your stomach flutter.

The light from under your cabinets was dim. Warm. It cast an almost-orange shadow over his face. He’d stripped off his jacket in exchange for one of the biggest t-shirts you had: a navy NASA shirt you’d bought as part of a disguise. The sleeves could probably fit four of your arms each, yet he filled them out. You didn’t like the effect it was having on you.

“You need help?”

“I’ve got it,” you answered all too quickly. “You should go rest. I’m sure it’s been a long day for you.”

“No, no, I wanna help,” he pushed off the doorframe. “Give me a job.”

“Come help me scrub.”

He got a rag and got to work by your side. The small counter forced him to work close—too close. His shoulder brushed against yours, warm and steady, and you could feel the slight press of his chest when he leaned just enough to reach the stubborn streak of dough.

His voice dropped to a murmur, low and teasing. “Remember that time we were in Lisbon… and you totally ate it in front of that fountain?”

You didn’t have to see his smirk to know it was there.

“I did not eat it,” you hissed, trying to sound indignant—but your heart rate betrayed you.

“You totally did,” he countered, laugh quiet, shaking against you in a way that made your stomach flutter. “You practically ripped my sleeve off.”

“I needed something to grab on the way down!”

He tilted his head, eyes catching yours in the dim light, face inches from yours. “And you grabbed me?”

“Yes!” you insisted, trying to keep your voice down. “What else was I supposed to break my fall with?”

“You’re ridiculous, doll.”

He’d taken to calling you that sometime over the last month. Natasha and Sam insisted it was flirting. Hell, even Steve insisted it was flirting. You’d vehemently denied it, yet your stomach flipped every time.

“Not as ridiculous as your hair after that night in Madrid.”

“A grenade went off three feet from my face. It’s a miracle I even have hair.”

“Tony gave you so much shit for that,” you giggled.

“Speaking of Tony, we should set up a comm link. You have a desktop?”

He crossed his arms again, annoyingly stretching your t-shirt.

“Yeah,” you agreed, ripping your eyes away from his chest. “This way.”

In your haste to lead him out of the kitchen, you knocked a metal bowl off the counter. It hit the floor with a deafening clang.

Both of you winced, freezing like statues. In the living room, Sam shifted.

Then, a groggy: “Shut the hell up!”

A quiet giggle shook your chest as you grabbed Bucky’s forearm, leading him to your office.

Your hand stayed wrapped, albeit loosely, around his forearm as you pulled him into your office and shut the door. His chest tightened at the contact- something that had been happening more and more lately, something he couldn't quite explain away anymore.

Bucky Barnes was a man in trouble.

The second he’d opened the database of safehouses and your name popped up less than five miles away, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He’d been trying to ignore you since you joined the team last year. You’d walked in, tossing that damn braid over your damn shoulder and flashing him that damn smile, and he was finished.

The last two months were the worst of it- your mission assignments had been nearly identical. That meant two months of training together, fighting together, and eating stale safehouse rations together. The only “new” experiences he could have with you would probably get both of you banned from any team space.

When you’d finally gotten your long-awaited week off, he was happy for you. Told you to relax and enjoy it. He didn’t tell you that a tiny piece of him was dreading losing your presence by his side, if only for a couple days.

Maybe a month ago, you’d been sparring. It was more traded insults and laughing than actual fighting, yet you’d managed to sweep his knees. He took you down with him and you’d rolled, refusing to let him pin you.

He’d won once you’d started laughing at one of your own jokes, gently pressing both of your shoulders into the mat, leg locked between yours. This close, he could feel the warm shake of your laugh. When your laughter settled, you were pink-cheeked and breathless. Your face was inches from his. He was staring at your eyes, alive with mischief, and he knew.

He liked you.

One month of tripping over himself, simultaneously in denial and trying to hide it from the team- from you- had him more hyperfixated on you than ever. So when he found out he was crashing your house and he saw you in a ridiculous outfit, covered in flour, and seemingly pissed at his presence, he couldn’t let it go.

He’d barely meant to get off the floor and follow you into the kitchen when he’d seen you pass by. But now your hand was wrapped around his arm as you snuck him through your dark house, and he couldn’t ignore the way his chest tightened.

There was no denying it. He was whipped.

You let go of his wrist and plopped into your desk chair, wiggling the mouse to wake up your desktop screen. He drank in the space: the tiny succulents on the windowsill, your light pink mousepad, the bag of rainbow Goldfish by your keyboard. Your voice replayed at the sight: “They’re superior to the normal ones, Buck. Here, try some.”

Your silhouette glowed in the screen lighting as you typed. Your fingers moved furiously, yet your face remained bored. Casual. Your hair was in a bun. He’d only seen you in a bun once. Usually, it was in one, semi-neat braid for missions, tied with a black hair tie. There was the occasional ponytail, but you didn’t like ponytails as much because they didn’t fit easily under bike helmets. At least that’s what you’d said in Barcelona.

His eyes tracked the curve of your nose down to your lips. A wave of something reckless and stupid nearly pulled him under: what would happen if he leaned down and kissed them? You’d probably deck him in the face, but he couldn’t be sure, could he? It wasn’t like he’d never thought about it before- lord knows he had. But here, right now-

“-ucky? Buck. You there?”

He snapped back into focus, very aware that you were grinning roguishly up at him and that the back of his neck was suddenly really hot.

“You’re zoning out on me,” you teased.

“Just thinking,” he responded softly.

“And what,” you shifted in your chair, tilting your head. “Are you thinking about?”

Oh, nothing. Just mentally cataloguing every hairstyle I’ve ever seen you in. And imagining what would happen if I finally kissed you.

“Nothing much.”

“Well, I need location info to set up the comm links. Come fill this out.”

You slid the keyboard towards him, and he shook off the image of your instigating grin before leaning down to fill out the docs.

Four days later, your “week off”- if you could even call it that- came to an end. Like dozens of mornings before, you found yourself in full gear, strolling into the tower kitchen.

It was pre-mission routine: Bucky would make too much coffee “by accident” and you would be so relieved because you’d “run out of time” to make your own. Then he would make fun of you for taking it iced instead of hot, and you would roll your eyes at him.

You’d been anticipating that coffee all morning. Sharon Carter beat you to it.

Your boots thumped softly against the tile, rhythmic with the soft clinks of your tac belt and suit buckles as you approached the kitchen. You heard the warm, deep tones of Bucky’s voice and smelled the specific roast of coffee he always made. You refused to admit that it made you want to walk faster, because then that would mean you missed it. And you were not attached to the coffee. Or him.

The girlish, playful tones echoing down the hall caught you off guard. It wasn’t Nat’s wryness or Wanda’s directness- you had a visitor.

You sped up.

You rounded the corner to see Bucky sliding a mug across the countertop towards Sharon, and immediately noticed two things:

First, the mug was steaming. She drank her coffee hot, just like he did.

Second, he was smiling. So was she. Something about it pissed you off.

So when his eyes landed on you and he threw out his standard “Hey, doll,” you didn’t respond with your standard “Morning, Buck.”

You offered a curt “Bucky. Sharon.”

Sharon smiled at you over a sip of coffee. “Hey, y/n. I hear you’re about to head out.”

“I am,” you replied, tone clipped.

Maybe Bucky noticed the way your gaze hardened on the mug in Sharon’s fingers, because he offered to put another pot back on.

“I know you always have some before we leave on missions.”

Wrong, you thought. I always have some when you make it for us. Not us and Sharon.

“I think I’m okay this morning. See you on the jet. Bye, Sharon.”

You turned on your heel, posture crumpling slightly when you were out of their viewline.

Why are you being so rude?

You passed Sam in the hangar.

“Who shoved a stick up your ass?”

“Shut up, Wilson.” It came off your tongue cold. Venomous. The guilt-fueled pit in your stomach opened wider.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just messing with you.”

You didn’t respond, just kept storming past him with your arms crossed. His expression flipped from joking to concerned as he turned to follow after you. You made it two steps up the jetbridge before he spoke.

“Y/n, you okay? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened, Sam.”

“Is this about us crashing your house? Because we’re all really sorry about that-”

“Forget about my house, okay? I said nothing happened.”

His warm eyes scanned over you briefly: the hard set of your jaw, your rigid shoulders, the irritated tilt of your hip. You screamed at yourself to stop being so cold, to get it together. You didn’t even have a reason to be upsrt. It was childish, honestly.

“Okay,” he settled. “Just…let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

The jet cabin was dark, except for the under-seat lighting casting a sea-like glow over the space. You settled in your usual spot, pulling one of your electroshock batons from its holster and scrubbing at it furiously.

Sharon’s face- her coy smile, specifically- burned into your brain. The moment Bucky had slid the mug of coffee for you over to her, acting casual. She was standing in your spot, taking part in your routine, but she wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Bucky had let it happen, treated the whole exchange exactly the same as he did with you.

You were stupid to expect him to act differently around her- it was just coffee. Sure, he’d been making a cup for you nearly every day for months, but it wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like she’d taken it from you.

He’d offered to put another pot on. You really didn’t know why you felt the need to be so irrational.

Your scrubbing had turned vigorous, bordering on vicious.

The thud of Bucky’s boots with the swish of leather caught your attention- like it always did- as he ducked into the cabin.

“You ready to roll?”

His voice was light, how it usually was with you. He didn’t turn to look at you as he did his final checks of the space. Standard protocol. The bitterness you’d carefully dissected resurrected itself instantly.

He probably has no idea.

The only noises between you were the deep whirring of the engine and the focused scrubbing as you worked harder than necessary on your baton. He moved through everything else you did together- locking down the doors, checking the armory- as if he hadn’t thrown your unspoken tradition to the wind twenty minutes ago.

When the jet took off, he took his usual spot across from you. You kept your mouth shut, eyes trained on the baton.

“Those are clean, by the way.”

“I didn’t clean them.”

“I did. Sam and I were collecting all your gear everywhere and we got bored.”

You continued scrubbing, letting out a small “hm.”

He looked bothered, shoulders tense with the indecision of a man who couldn’t choose between beating around the bush and being direct.

He chose direct.

“Hey, y/n.”

“Hm?” you responded, eyes glued to your work.

He didn’t continue until you looked up at him. When you saw the look on his face: concerned, a little hesitant, your desire to continue being pissed at him was slightly punctured by shame. Slightly.

“You…okay? You seem a little stressed.”

“It’s nothing.” you responded, slipping the baton back into its holster.

“I didn’t say anything about…anything. I mean you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This,” he gestured towards you vaguely. “You just seem off.”

“I’m not off, Bucky.”

He mentally noted the change in names. It was usually “Buck”, which meant you were relaxed. It was “Barnes” when you were scolding him, which was also often. The way you said his name just then was cold- a message to drop it. He didn’t.

“I’ve worked with you a lot. Something’s off.”

You shot him a look.

“Was this about the coffee earlier?”

“I said nothing happened-”

“Because Sharon’s just a friend.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

He looked like he wished he could grab the words and shove them back into his mouth. You stared him down, silently demanding he elaborate.

“There isn’t anything…going on…between me and Sharon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Why would I have any reason to care if there were? Your love life isn’t my business,” you clipped.

I wish it were my business.

The unbidden thought caught you in the chest with a pang.

Shit.

He stiffened a little. Pulled back. “Can’t you just tell me what I did, doll?”

“You didn’t-”

“No, no.” He cut you off. “There’s something. What’s got you all worked up?”

I don’t know, maybe the fact that our traditions clearly don’t mean as much as I thought they did. Maybe the fact that I’m jealous because you had a simple conversation with Sharon.

You forced yourself to relax. “I’m fine, Buck. Promise.”

He hummed, but dropped it.

The mission had gone smoothly—almost suspiciously so. You and Bucky had extracted the asset, secured the perimeter, and made it back to the tower without a single hiccup. Which meant the team had nothing to focus on except the fact that you two could barely look at each other without something dangerous flickering between you.

Natasha had raised an eyebrow when you'd passed her in the hallway. Sam had made some comment about "tension thick enough to cut with a knife" that you'd pointedly ignored. Even Steve had given Bucky a look that suggested he knew something was going on.

You were trying very hard to pretend nothing was different.

The training room at 10 PM was empty—your favorite time to work the heavy bag when your brain wouldn't shut down. You'd been at it for twenty minutes when the door opened.

Bucky.

Of course it was Bucky.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, moving toward the equipment rack.

"Needed to burn off some energy," you replied, not stopping your assault on the bag.

He was quiet for a moment, wrapping his hands with deliberate slowness. You could feel him watching you. Then:

"So. You got jealous."

You froze mid-punch, the bag swinging gently.

"What?"

"Sharon. The coffee. You got jealous." There was something almost teasing in his voice, but it had an edge to it. Like he was testing something.

"No, I did not."

"Yeah, you did."

"I was having a bad day, Bucky. It has nothing to do with-"

"Then why are you denying it so hard?"

You turned to face him, hands still wrapped. "Because there's nothing to deny. You can make coffee for whoever you want. I don't care."

"You absolutely cared."

"Fine. Maybe I was irritable. That doesn't mean-" You stopped yourself, but it was too late. The words were already forming, already dangerous. "We aren't even anything."

He went very still.

The silence stretched between you like something alive. You could see it land in his chest, see the way his jaw tightened. When he spoke, his voice was quieter.

"We work."

"What?"

"This. Us." He stepped closer, and you had to fight the instinct to back away. "It works."

"Oh, very astute, Barnes. I think you'd have to work with someone for months to figure that out," you said, sarcasm sharp like teeth.

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

He was right in front of you now, and you could see the frustration written all over his face- frustration at himself, at you, at this whole thing.

"I mean that when we're together, everything else disappears. I mean that I think about you when we're not on missions. I mean that I made you coffee every single day for months because it was an excuse to see you in the morning." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated that he wasn't saying this right. "I mean that I like you."

Your brain short-circuited.

"I think you'd have to like me to keep talking to me after I totally ate it in front of that fountain in Lisbon and then blamed it on you," you blurted, your voice too high. Your hands were shaking. This wasn't happening. This was not—

"No." He stepped even closer. "I mean it."

The words hung there, undeniable and raw and real.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was doing something catastrophic in your chest. This was Bucky. Bucky. The one person who'd made the last year unbearable and perfect in equal measure.

"I..." You swallowed. "I need to think about this."

"Okay," he said softly, and there was something in his voice that told you he'd known you'd say that. Like he'd prepared himself for rejection, had already made peace with it. Which somehow made it worse. "But I'm not taking it back."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. He grabbed his jacket from the bench and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to look back at you.

"For the record, I'm glad you got jealous. It meant you cared." And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the heavy bag and the thundering of your own heartbeat. Your phone buzzed: a mission update. You were being sent to Stockholm tomorrow at 0815 with- big surprise- Bucky.

Sleep evaded you that night.

Part of you was giddy- he liked you. Wanted you. You weren’t imagining things.

The agent in you evaluated: if this went sour, your time with the team would be finished. You’d never be able to show your face around here again.

But then: This is Bucky.

You knew it would work- he’d said so himself. So why were you still so scared?

Your fingers trembled slightly as you buckled your suit and strapped on your gear. Your stomach turned as you walked to the kitchen, unsure if you were being very wise or very stupid.

The smell of coffee beckoned you forward.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he didn’t mean it after all.

You could turn back. Fake sick. Nobody would know.

The dagger you’d been fiddling with slipped from your fingers, clattering against the floor. The damn thing had decided for you.

One shaky inhale later, you strode into the kitchen. Bucky was in full gear- your favorite of his jackets- with his back turned as he poured out the coffee.

Two cups. One with ice.

“So,” you began shakily. You saw the muscles in his shoulders tense at your voice- he was listening. “I’ve…thought.”

A beat of silence. Come on, y/n. Spit it out.

“And I agree. It works. And I want it to work. To be something.”

You practically tripped over the words, but the tension leaving his shoulders was practically tangible. At last, he turned, pushing your glass over to you. His fingertips brushed against yours as you took it.

“Does this mean I can kiss you?”

The laugh burst from your chest unexpectedly. A mix of satisfaction and hope glimmered in his eyes.

“Yes, it does.”

He crossed to you, threading a hand into your hair.

“Good. Because I’ve been wanting to for a month.”

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #bucky fluff #marvel #bucky fic #avenger bucky #bucky angst

a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #avengers tower fic #sebastian stan #sebasitan stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts spoilers #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #fic series #the new avengers #mcu #marvel #avengers #avenger bucky

every thunderbolts gif has a special place in my heart ok

#james bucky barnes #pretty boy #his hair #bucky barnes #avenger bucky #my husband

One touch

Part 1 // Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life carrying pieces of others—memories, emotions, pain. A single touch is all it takes. You never meant to fall for Bucky Barnes. Not when one touch showed you the full weight of his past—every wound, every scream, every drop of blood spilled. But the problem with avoiding someone is that it only makes you want them more. And Bucky is just as drawn to you as you are to him.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Bucky's memories, kinda slow burn.

Note: Might be inspired by that one POV I saw ages ago. Finally, wrote smth on it.

You’re careful, always. Gloves in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, avoiding unnecessary contact. But you weren’t expecting to meet him that day. You weren’t expecting his steel-blue eyes, the hesitant way he reached for you, the calloused warmth of his palm.

James Buchanan Barnes. You thought maybe it would be something vague, like the usual flickering memories you caught from strangers—forgotten birthdays, the feeling of laughter in their ribs, the taste of their last sip of coffee.

But the moment your hand slipped into his, you knew you had made a mistake.

Pain.

#writers on tumblr #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #breaking heart #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky marvel #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky slow burn #slow burn #avenger bucky #enchanced!reader #Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Masterlist

Started: 4/11/21

Updated: 4/15/21

Bucky Barnes

One-shots

From the Shadows - angst, fluff || 2k

meet me in the hallway - light angst, fluff || 5.1k

Headcanons/Blurbs

first date with 40s!Bucky - light angst, fluff || 3.6k

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Shrinkyclinks | 36K | Mature

The world was full of things no one could have expected.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes never expected to fall from a train into decades of torture and killing.

HYDRA never expected their perfect Winter Soldier's programming to shatter.

And Bucky, who'd once been the Winter Soldier, who was now an auxiliary to the Avengers, never expected to look down from a rooftop in New York City, where he was keeping watch over the world's most ineffectual aspirant supervillains, and see a tiny ball of angry sunshine. Fierce and fearless, he loosed feelings in Bucky that he'd thought were gone forever.

Bucky was determined to see him again. The better thing would have been to introduce himself. Not to stealthily follow him as he leapt across the rooftops, strong and agile, feet touching down like he was doing gravity a favour.

The world may have been full of things no one could have expected, but Bucky probably shouldn't have been surprised when his tiny ball of fierce, angry sunshine dumped him on his ass.

I’m usually more of a Shrunkyclunks person, but this Shrinkyclinks fic is truly amazing! I absolutely love Steve and Bucky’s relationship in this :)

#stucky #stucky fic #stucky fanfic #stucky fanfiction #stucky fic rec #stucky canon divergent #shrinkyclinks #avenger bucky #no serum steve #post avengers

Funerals aren’t meant to be a pleasant event, so Bucky doesn’t bother to put on a show.

His face could be carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys, and his muscles are tense, coiled, trembling faintly with the desire to grab his gun and pull the damn trigger.

Bucky isn’t sure if he’d stop shooting once he starts though. Not with how many tempting targets currently surround him. Not with how it would finally shut Fury the fuck up. People tend to talk a lot less after you’ve emptied a magazine or two into them -- and Bucky has always been a man who appreciates silence.

Fuck, Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s here for. He doesn’t attend mandatory events. It simply isn’t done. The few weeks of the year that Bucky spends in his own country, he wastes drinking and sleeping around, usually both. What’s to stop him from walking straight out of this impersonally sterile room filled with people he doesn’t trust, and go back to his favourite rundown bar to knock back vodka until he can’t feel the cold on his skin anymore?

Oh right. His best friend just got himself killed in action. Lucky bastard.

On a fucking nightmare of a mission in France of all places. If it had been Russia, or Iran, or North Korea or even just Sokovia (and really, it takes skill to be wanted by all four sides of the conflict), Bucky could have dealt with it.

But France? Bucky takes that as a personal offence.

Avengers don’t get killed in France. Avengers get killed the way they kill: brutal and messy, with no one left behind who’d bother to avenge them. Because justice is a fairy tale, and every act of peace is built on the actions of someone smart enough to wash the blood of their hands before they step in front of a camera.

At least the acknowledgements are short and free of false sentimentality. A whole lot of bullshit, sure, but it’s not like there is another choice. Not when the truth amounts to Steve Rogers died on a mission we weren’t authorised to give, in a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, over intel that we won’t admit exist.

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Barely huffs a a breath, but the people on both sides of him twitch tellingly.

Like all Avengers, Bucky has sought out the back of the room, where he can keep his back to the wall at all times, has clear view on all available exists and a good excuse to keep an eye on the crowd of mourners.

The thought that one of them -- multiples, possibly -- are faking it makes Bucky clench his fingers against the urge to start an interrogation right now, Avenger style.

“Don’t kill anyone you might need to sign you off on field work again,” Barton mutters to his left, the word barely audible.

Bucky forces the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax, adopts an at-ease position that won’t fool the other Avengers, but at least won’t traumatise the attending techies and lawyers. The psych department always makes such a fuss when you break the employees.

There’s no point in fooling his colleagues though -- if the Avengers can be called even that. They’re the elite of a internationally operating spy organisation for a reason, and it’s certainly not their ability to play well with others.

Just hours after having one of their own killed in a SHIELD issued safe house, all the Avengers are on edge even more than usual. That the entire op smells like foul play from seven states away does about as much to deescalate the situation as throwing a hand granate into a room filled with weaponised uranium.

Someone from inside SHIELD sold out an Avenger.

That was their first mistake. Their second was taking Steve out without killing Bucky as well.

There’s a shift in Bucky’s peripheral vision. Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, looks as affected of recent events as she always does: not at all.

Is she the traitor? Bucky wonders as he tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The rivalry between Black Widow and Steve is no secret. It isn’t a friendly one either, not that any of them are the sort of person that one might call “friendly” anyways. She had betrayed the Red Room at eighteen. What offer would it take for her to turn on a fellow agent? An Avenger at that? Is she tense because she expects be to do this country a favour by murdering Pierce or is she afraid to be found out?

The service lasts barely twenty minutes -- unsurprising, considering how much isn’t said, can’t be said, because living within the spectre of the highest security clearance makes for a shoddy eulogy -- but to Bucky it feels like forever.

It doesn’t help that half the people around him are waiting for him to fly off the handle in grief or blind rage. It doesn’t help that the other half must suspect him as the traitor -- who better to kill Steve Rogers than his best friend, after all? Especially when Avengers so clearly don’t have best friends -- though Bucky can’t fault them.

He’d suspect himself too. The black hole that is four years of being held as POW hasn’t left him with what one might call a solid standing within the agency. Or a stable life in general.

Bucky has just been lucky that Avengers don’t have much use for stability as it is.

He’s been lucky that he’s too useful to be killed.

That might change now -- Steve Rogers’ death happens to change a lot of things -- but Bucky will take the traitor with him, if it comes that far. Another option isn’t acceptable.

And Bucky is very, very good at getting what he wants.

But first, he needs to find someone clean -- meaning unaffiliated with SHIELD in any way -- who can take a look at the USB flash drive he’s found in one of his dead drops two days after Fury declared Steve KIA.

Fuck, but the first thing Bucky will do when he sees Steve again is punch him in his fucking face.

What do you think about a WinterIron Secret-Avenging-Agent-Bucky, Clueless-But-Scarily-Smart-Soon-Catching-On Tony thingy?

Never mind, say, what do you think about a Stuckony Secret-Avenging-Agent-Bucky, Clueless-But-Scarily-Smart-Soon-Catching-On Tony, with Steve thrown in for good measures because that boy doesn’t understand the meaning of being subtle when you’re supposed to be dead?