✦ PAIRING ⋮ 𝗕𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝘅 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲!𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 (𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽)
✦ WORD COUNT ⋮ 𝟯.𝟱𝝟
✦ SUMMARY ⋮ 𝗔 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼𝘂𝗯𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘀𝗺, 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗕𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗲.
✦ WARNING ⋮ 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 ·˚ ༘ 𝗻𝗲𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸 ·˚ ༘ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 ·˚ ༘ 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 ·˚ ༘ 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁 ·˚ ༘ 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁/𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 ·˚ ༘ 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ·˚ ༘ 𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆
✦ NOTES ⋮ 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝘂𝘆𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀. 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 !!
It was one of those days again. Except this time, you were standing in front of your bedroom mirror, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, as if pressing yourself inward could erase what you didn't like and rewrite every flaw you'd learned to see before anyone else had the chance.
Your eyes traced over familiar things: stretch marks that told stories of growth and change, the subtle hip dips that shifted when you walked, the curve of your lower stomach.
You turn slightly, angling your body, trying to see if it’s worse from the front. Or maybe it’s worse from the side. You couldn’t tell anymore. All you can see is how much space you take up, ow your thighs press together, how your hips curve wider than you remember. You pinch at the skin on your leg, watching it dimple beneath your fingers.
Why would he love this? How could someone like Bucky look at you and think you were enough?
You hated yourself for even thinking about it, but the thought lodged itself deep inside of you and refused to leave. He’s just trying to be nice. He has to be. No one could really feel that way about someone like you. It was too easy for him. Too generous. Too…forgiving.
You’re definitely not his type.
Did he notice? Of course he noticed. How could he not? You wanted to believe he didn’t notice. You wanted to tell yourself he loved all of you, but the intrusive thoughts kept crowding in, relentless: maybe he thought you’d be smaller. Maybe he hadn’t expected this. Maybe he’d tell himself it didn’t matter because he’s kind, because he’s good, because he doesn’t want to hurt you.
What if he looks at you and thinks you’ve let yourself go? What if he wonders how long you’ve been like this? What if he compares you—to people he’s loved before, to people he could have chosen instead?
You frowned at your reflection.
Maybe…maybe he’d get tired. Maybe one day he’d look at you long enough to see all the ways you weren’t perfect, all the ways you didn’t measure up. And maybe then, he’d stop being kind.
A single tear slipped before you even realized you were crying. You tried wiping them away, trying to stop it, but it only made it worse. Tears ran freely down your cheeks now as you pressed your palms harder to your eyes, trying to wipe them away, but they kept coming.
Bucky opened the bedroom door slowly, careful not to startle you. He had been worried all day—why you may ask? Well, you see, things have been different the past week, at least on your behalf. Bucky was a very good observer. He was always aware of his surroundings and paid attention to every little detail. He also noticed how he hadn’t seen you much, not that morning at breakfast, not even last night at dinner. It wasn’t like you to skip meals.
Something had felt off, and he couldn’t shake this feeling that was building inside his chest. Even the other night, when he came home from training, you had disappeared into your room almost immediately, leaving dinner untouched. You were usually so eager to be there when he came in.
He had thought maybe you were just tired, stressed. Maybe you needed space. He wanted to reach out, to check in, but he didn't want to push. Not yet, not until he could be sure you’d let him in. Now, standing in the doorway, he realized this was the time. He needed to know you were okay.
“Hey, sweetheart…” he said softly, voice low and cautious. “You’ve barely been around today. I…uh, I didn’t see you much. Is everything alright?”
You flinched, sniffled, trying to wipe away the tears. “I’m fine,” you murmured, voice trembling. “Just a very long day. Don’t worry about it.”
Bucky frowned and stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. “You don’t sound fine,” he said gently. “I can tell when something’s wrong. You’ve been avoiding breakfast, skipping dinner…you’re not acting like yourself.” His voice caught just slightly, concerned threading through every word. “I just…I just need to know you’re okay.”
You shook your head, stubborn, even as your chest ached. “I said I’m fine, Bucky. Really.”
He didn’t argue. He just moved closer, slow and deliberate, his presence grounding yet intense in that quiet way of his. “I know you too well to believe that,” he murmured, voice low but firm. His eyes searched your face—not demanding, just patient. “You can try to tell me you’re fine all you want, but you can’t say that when your eyes are telling me something else.”
You stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the floor instead of him, heart pounding so hard it makes your chest ache. The doubt sits heavy in your stomach, cold and sharp, curling tighter the longer the silence stretches.
You don’t want to say it out loud. Saying it makes it real.
Bucky’s voice is gentle when he speaks again, careful, like he’s approaching something wounded. “Talk t’me,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You stand there with your hands clutched at your stomach as if holding it tighter could somehow make it all disappear. “I can't fit in my favorite clothes, I’m fat,” you whisper at first, barely audible. “I’ve gained weight. I’m…I don’t even know how to describe myself anymore…flabby, disgusting…” Your fingers dig into your sides.
You stumble backward, nearly collapsing onto the bed, hands pressed to your face, sobs breaking through your chest in sharp, gasping bursts. “I don’t understand how you could—I mean—I feel like I’ve ruined everything. You shouldn’t want me, not like this. Not…someone who is this chubby, this ugly, this—”
The sobs catch in your throat, shaking you from the inside out. You can’t stop the tears. Every breath feels jagged, sharp, like it’s scraping against your ribs. “I’m sorry,” you manage, voice muffled against your palms. “I’m so sorry I look like this…I feel like I’m a mistake. I’m…I’m too much.”
Before you can even realize it, you feel a pair of arms wrap around you. Strong, steady, grounding, but gentle; he’s careful not to smother you, letting your sobs spill into his chest while he anchors you in the moment. You cling on to him, letting yourself crumble entirely against the warmth and solidity of his body.
“I can’t—” you gasp between sobs. “You deserve better. Someone not like me. Someone…prettier. Thinner. Not…this.”
He rocks you slowly, side to side. One hand threads into your hair, tugging gently at the roots, fingers massaging and grounding you, while the other moves across your back in firm, steady circles. His voice is low and calm, but not dismissive, not patronizing—just tethered to you in the chaos.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Shh…I see you. I see all of it, and none of it is what you think it is.”
You press harder into him, chest heaving, the sobs wracking you. “I’m so ugly,” you choke out. “I’m chubby, disgusting…and I can’t stop seeing it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t…I can’t…”
His forehead presses to yours, breath warm against your temple. “Darlin’,” he whispers, “look at me.” You hesitantly shook your head at him. He lets out a gentle sigh. He wasn't disappointed, he knew how hard it was for you at this current state. “C’mon, sweetheart. ‘S just me.
Eventually you do, blinking through red, swollen eyes. Your hands are still clutching his jacket, fingers digging in as if your very existence could crumble away, but you meet his gaze.
“You are not disgusting,” he says, steady. “You are not fat in the way your mind is telling you. You are not unlovable. You are not something to fix or change. And I love every bit of you. Every curve, every little thing you hate so much—”
You collapse into him again, the sobs more desperate now, shaking your entire body. “I’ve let myself go,” you manage between ragged breaths. “I’ve…I’m…I don’t even recognize myself. I look awful. I feel…gross. And I can’t stop thinking…thinking about how wrong it is…how wrong I am.”
He leans back just enough to see your face fully, hands framing it, thumbs brushing away tears with tender precision. “You’re not wrong, darlin’. You’re not ugly. You’re not too much. You’re…you. You’re human. And you’re mine. I chose you. Every day. Any day.
Your chest shakes harder, sobs tearing from your throat, a mix of rage at yourself and grief at your own mind. “I hate it…I hate myself…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, and it’s okay to feel that way. But you’re not any of the things you say you are. None of it is true. You are not a mistake. You are not something to hide. You are everything I want.”
He keeps you in his arms, rocking you slowly and whispering. It is grounding, letting you fall apart completely. He reminds you with every gentle touch, every soft word, every circle of his hand across your back.
The crying doesn’t stop all at once. It fades unevenly—hiccups of breath, sharp inhales that catch in your chest, tears that keep coming even when you’re exhausted from them. Your face is hot, swollen, eyes burning from how hard you’ve been crying. You feel wrung out, empty in the worst way.
He doesn’t rush you.
He stays exactly where he is, arms still around you, weight solid behind you as you lean back into his chest. The rocking slows, barely there now—just enough movement to remind your body you’re not floating off the edge. One hand stays spread wide against your back, grounding, while the other continues to move through your hair. Your breathing stutters again, another wave threatening, and your shoulders tense instinctively.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you mutter, voice wrecked. “I don’t want you to look at me and think this is all I am.”
He exhales softly behind you. “I’m lookin’ at you right now,” he says, low. “And that’s not what I see.”
He shifts slightly, guiding you so you’re turned just enough that he can see your face when he leans down. Not forcing eye contact—just making space for it if you want it. “You don’t owe anyone a better version of yourself,” he says. “You don’t owe me one either.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I feel like I do.”
“I know,” he replies. “But feelin’ something doesn’t make it true.”
You close your eyes, lashes damp. His thumb brushes gently beneath one eye, wiping away a tear that escaped anyway. He lifts your chin just slightly, enough that you’re not staring at the floor anymore. “I need you to know this,” he whispers. “I don’t look at you and see something that needs fixing,” he continues. “I don’t see a body you should be apologizin’ for. I see someone who feels safe t’me. Someone I want close.”
Your breath wobbles. “When you walk into a room,” he adds, quieter now, “my first thought isn’t about what you look like. It’s that you’re here. That I get to be near you.”
He rests his forehead against yours briefly, grounding himself as much as you. “And yeah,” he murmurs, “I know you don’t believe that right now. That’s okay, don’t have to.”
His hands slide up again, cupping your face. He brushes your cheeks with his thumb, not wiping this time—just holding you there.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he says, simply. No buildup, grand speech. Just the truth as it sits with him. “Not in a ‘convince you’ way. Just…the way I see you.”
Your lips tremble, and another tear slips free despite yourself. “I don’t feel beautiful,” you admit.
“Tha’s alright,” he says. You sag forward, forehead pressing into his chest , exhaustion finally overtaking the spiral. He wraps you up again immediately, gently rubbing your back once more.
He doesn’t pull away when you go quiet. If anything, he holds you a little closer, like he can feel how fragile that silence is—how easily it could tip back into something worse if he lets go too soon.
His hand slides from your back up to your shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the tension there. You didn’t even realize how tight you were until his touch makes you aware of it. He exhales slowly, deliberately, right against your hair.
“You don’t gotta do anything right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t gotta explain yourself. You don’t gotta be okay.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt again, softer this time. “I hate that my mind does this,” you whisper. “I hate that it ruins everything. Even…even when you’re being good to me.”
His hand stills for half a second, then resumes. “It’s not ruining anything,” he says quietly. “It’s just hurt talkin’.”
You shake your head faintly against his chest. “It feels ugly.”
“I know,” he says. “But you aren’t.” He shifts so you’re more fully facing him now, not forcing you upright, just angling you so you’re not folded inward anymore. His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing under your chin, grounding without demanding.
“Hey,” he says softly, waiting until you lift your eyes just a little. “When I tell you I want you, I mean it. Not someone else. Not someone who weighs less or looks different.”
Your throat tightens again, but it’s not the same kind of pain. It’s slower. Heavier. “You don’t disappear from my attraction just because you’re hurting,” he continues. “You don’t lose your place with me because you’re feeling insecure.”
His thumb brushes over your cheek again, lingering. “I love the way you feel in my arms,” he says, quieter now. “I love the weight of you against me. I love the way you fit here.”
He presses you back into his chest, hand splayed warm and solid between your shoulder blades. His chin rests lightly on the top of your head.
“You feel real,” he murmurs. “You feel like home.”
Your breath shudders. “I don’t feel worthy of that.” He huffs out a small breath—not a laugh, not annoyed. Just tired of that thought hurting you.
“Worthiness isn’t a thing you earn,” he says. “It’s not somethin’ you lose when your body changes or when your head gets loud. You’re allowed to be loved as-is.”
His fingers slide back into your hair, slow and absentminded, nails barely grazing your scalp. The motion is soothing in a way that sinks deeper than words. “I love you,” he adds, almost casually. “I love you for who you are. I love how you make me feel like I'm at home. I love that you’re here with me.”
You swallow hard. “Even when I’m like this?”
“Especially when you’re like this,” he answers without hesitation. “Because this is when you need it most.”
He rocks you again, just enough to keep you tethered. Every so often, he presses a quiet kiss into your hair. “You don’t have to see yourself the way I see you,” he murmurs. “But you don’t get to tell me I’m wrong either.”
A shaky breath leaves you, half a laugh, half a sob. “You’re stubborn.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “About you.” Your body finally slackens against his, exhaustion settling in where the spiral used to be. The thoughts haven’t vanished, but they’re quieter.
He holds you like there’s nowhere else he needs to be, thumb tracing slow, grounding lines along your arm.
“You’re safe with me,” he says gently. “You’re wanted. You’ll always be beautiful t’me. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Bucky’s hands were warm as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks in slow, gentle circles. His eyes searched yours with that unwavering intensity that always seemed to see right through the layers of doubt you tried so hard to hide behind.
“I want you to know,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate, “that every little part of you—the real you, all the details—are beautiful to me. Every expression, every line, every mark tells a story I don’t want to miss.”
Your lips trembled, and a soft, unsure smile threatened to emerge. He leaned in slightly, nudging it forward with his hands, and his eyes softened. “Your freckles, the little crinkles when you smile, your lashes—they’re impossibly long, by the way,” he said, and you couldn’t help but giggle, pressing your hand to your mouth, trying to hide it.
“Your mouth,” he continued, nudging your hand down gently, “it shares these little smiles and laughs that I could never get tired of. I could watch you all day.” His thumb swept over your cheek again as he watched your blush deepen. “And the rest of you…your body,” he said softly, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “all those parts you think are flaws? They’re all remarkable. Every curve, ‘s all yours, and I love it.” He pinched your hip lightly, making you flinch, and he chuckled, loving the reaction more than he probably should.
“You know,” he murmured with a fond grin, “even I have parts I wish were different. Most people do. And you know what? That’s fine. It’s human. And somehow, it’s adorable.” He pinched your side again, earning a squeaky giggle from you, and his grin widened. “But maybe, just maybe, I need to show you how incredible your body really is.”
Your voice carried a warning tone, instinct pushing you to back away, but before you could, he swept you up effortlessly, carrying you to your bed. As he landed you gently, he sat beside you. “I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he teased. His hand began to move, gentle at first, brushing and pressing in ways that made you scrunch up and squirm, trying to push him away while secretly not wanting him to stop. His touch was warm, intentional, and entirely affectionate.
“I sure did miss that smile of yours, love.” He shifted his technique, moving from light scribbles to gentle squeezes around your sides, eliciting bursts of helpless laughter from you. He looked so naturally content, so joyful at your reactions.
“Lemme tell you something,” he murmured, voice low but filled with conviction as he pressed and squeezed gently around your stomach, earning a squeal from you. “You’re worthy of everything, and I mean everything.” His hand lingered, squeezing your lower ribs lightly to emphasize his point, and you dissolved into hysterical giggles, breathless and helpless.
When he slowed, he rubbed your sides soothingly, trying to settle the tingling sensation, letting you breathe through the overwhelming sensations of both laughter and affection.
“You promise me you’ll tell me next time you feel that way?” His voice was soft and patient.
“I promise, ” you managed, still catching your breath, feeling the warmth of his presence.
He eased back, plopping down beside you, arms wrapping you in a comforting embrace. You felt the tension in your chest finally begin to release. And just when you thought you were safe from his playful attack, a glint of playful mischief appeared in his eyes.
“C’mere you,” he growled, and before you could even react, he pounced on top of you gently, rolling you onto your back on the bed. He leaned over you, hovering playfully, one arm supporting his weight as his gaze swept over you with that familiar teasing warmth.
He had noticed your shirt had ridden up slightly from tackling you and kissed the small patch of skin he discovered, making you flustered and squeak out a protest. “Bucky! Noho!” you gasped, breathless, but he shook his head playfully, grinning menacingly down at you.
“I…I can’t,” he whispered, voice soft but firm. “I need to remind you…you’re perfect, and I love every part of you.”
He held your waist gently, thumb brushing over your hip, before tightening his grip just enough to keep you in place. His playful assault continued—light scribbles at your sides, followed by exaggerated raspberries. You wriggled helplessly under him, but he persisted, letting his stubble tickle your stomach in the most absurdly affectionate way until you dissolved into hysterical giggles.
And then, he started to laugh with you. Not teasing—just quiet, genuine laughter. Hearing his joy, seeing his happiness reflected so openly in his smile, made your heart lift even as you collapsed against him, breathless from the laughing fit. All the panic, all the self-doubt, felt lighter in that moment, replaced with warmth, playfulness, and the unshakable reassurance of being fully seen and completely loved.
He slowed the teasing, letting his hands rest gently on your sides, fingers brushing softly as he leaned down, his voice dropped into something tender.
“You’re incredible. Don’t ever forget it. I love you—everything about you. And you make me so damn happy.”
You couldn’t help the fresh giggles that bubbled out—half disbelief, half joy—but this time it was different. It wasn’t chaos. It was soft. Safe. Entirely full of love. The kind that made even your insecurities feel a little less heavy.
𐔌 © 𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚. please not copy or steal my work. ᭪
