Ok ok ok, I saw a tiktok the other day of a woman giving birth ON THE SIDE TOF THE ROAD because her contractions and everything came so fast. How do you think Bucky would react to this kind of thing? While he probably has med training from being in the Army/Avengers he's still also just a man worried about his wife and baby? Please please pleaseeee make me cry!
i saw a video like this the other day too! #new fear unlocked
-------
The first contraction hits while you’re still laughing.
It folds you in half mid-sentence, steals the air right out of your lungs, turns your spine rigid as your hand clamps around Bucky’s forearm. He goes still immediately, all humor draining from his face as he watches you, blue eyes sharpening into something alert and searching.
“Hey,” he says softly, already moving closer. “Talk to me, doll. What’s that?”
You try to brush it off, because it can’t be time yet, it’s too soon, you’ve got weeks, you’ve got plans, but then it hits again, harder, sharper, a deep, pulling ache that makes your knees buckle.
Bucky catches you before you can even think about falling.
“Okay,” he breathes, voice steady even as his hands tighten around you. “Okay, that’s not nothing.”
The next ten minutes are a blur of movement. He gets you into the car, one hand braced behind your head so you don’t hit the doorframe, the other gripping yours like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Your hospital bag gets tossed in the backseat, your phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, and then he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life.
He's too calm.
It’s the kind of calm that comes from years of training, from missions where panic gets people killed. His breathing is even, his voice low and controlled as he glances between the road and you, counting the seconds between your contractions like it’s second nature.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “In through your nose, slow. I’ve got you. You’re doing good.”
But underneath it, buried deep where he hopes you won’t notice, is fear.
Real, gut-deep fear.
Because you’re not supposed to be screaming in pain ten minutes into the drive. You’re not supposed to be gripping the seat so hard your knuckles go white. You’re not supposed to be gasping out, “Bucky, something’s wrong—this is too fast—”
And then your water breaks.
It soaks through your leggings, warm and sudden, and Bucky’s head snaps toward you so fast it’s almost violent.
“Okay,” he says again, but this time it’s tighter. Thinner. “Okay, that’s—okay.”
He presses harder on the gas.
The hospital is still fifteen minutes away when you cry out, a broken, desperate sound that rips straight through him.
“I need to push.”
The words hit him like a gunshot.
For a second he freezes.
Because he knows what that means. He’s been through enough emergency scenarios, enough battlefield triage, enough late-night briefings with medical teams to recognize it instantly.
There is no way you’re making it to the hospital.
“Shit,” he breathes, already scanning the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, vibranium fingers digging into the leather hard enough to crease it. “Shit, okay, okay—hang on, baby, just—”
Another contraction hits you, and your entire body curls forward with a sob.
That’s it.
He swerves the car onto the shoulder without hesitation, gravel crunching under the tires as he slams it into park. He’s out of the driver’s seat before the engine even fully dies, sprinting around to your side, yanking the door open.
“Look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands cradling your face. His voice is firm now, commanding in a way you’ve only heard on missions. “Hey. You stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
You’re crying, shaking, terrified, and he hates it.
He hates that you’re in pain. Hates that this isn’t safe and controlled and planned the way it was supposed to be. Hates that he can’t take it from you, can’t carry it the way he’s carried everything else.
But there’s no time for that.
Another contraction hits, and you scream.
He’s all instinct now, controlled precious of a soldier in combat. He helps you shift, supporting your back, guiding your breathing, murmuring constant reassurances even as his heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat.
“You’re okay,” he keeps saying, over and over, like he can make it true just by repeating it. “You’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good—”
You cling to him, nails digging into his shirt, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your body takes over.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you sob.
“You can,” he cuts in immediately, voice fierce. “You can, you are. You hear me? You’re doing it right now.”
His metal hand braces your thigh, steady and unyielding, while his other hand grips yours, grounding you through every wave of pain.
He talks you through it.
Every breath. Every push.
His voice is the only thing keeping you tethered until you both hear the cry.
Tiny, unmistakeable and entirely mad at life.
Everything stops.
For a moment, the world goes completely, utterly silent.
Bucky’s hands tremble as he lifts your baby, his breath catching hard in his chest. There’s blood, there’s chaos, there’s the distant sound of cars rushing past—but none of it matters.
Because your baby is crying.
Because you’re here.
Because you both made it.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before. “Hey, I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”
He places the baby against your chest with hands that are suddenly so, so gentle, like you’re both made of glass, then he looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Your tear-streaked face, your exhausted smile, the way you’re already reaching for your baby like nothing else in the world exists.
His throat tightens.
“You did that,” he says softly, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers. “You—God, you did that, sweetheart.”
His forehead presses against yours, eyes slipping shut for just a second.
Relief crashes over him so hard it almost knocks the breath out of his lungs.
He laughs then, hysterically, as he cups the back of your head, holding you both close.
“We gotta work on your timing,g” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Couldn’t wait for the hospital, huh?”
But his hand never stops trembling.
And neither does the way he keeps looking at you, like he almost lost everything.
Like he’s never going to take a single second with you for granted again.
but how does Bucky argue with reader? Just how angsty can things get
You know something’s wrong the second Bucky goes quiet.
It’s not the comfortable kind of silence—the kind you’ve grown to love, where his presence alone feels like warmth curling around your ribs. No, this one is tense. It stretches too thin between you, like a wire pulled to the point of snapping.
He doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t raise his voice. Bucky Barnes doesn’t fight like that.
He withdraws.
And somehow, that hurts more.
“You’re not even going to say anything?” you ask, your voice echoing slightly in the apartment. The city hums outside, indifferent, while you stand in the middle of your living room feeling like everything is tilting.
Bucky stands near the window, his back to you. His broad shoulders are stiff, muscles drawn tight beneath his shirt. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it filling the silence where his voice should be.
“I don’t have anything nice to say right now,” he mutters.
The words land harder than if he’d shouted.
You blink, taken aback. “Since when do you care about that? Just—just say it.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to bleed the anger out of himself before it can touch you. That’s the thing about Bucky, he’s always trying to protect you. Even from himself.
But tonight, it feels like he’s protecting himself from you.
“That’s the problem,” he says quietly. “If I say it, I can’t take it back.”
You swallow. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room. “So instead you just shut me out?”
His jaw ticks. You see it in the reflection of the window before he turns around, and when he does, his eyes are dark, stormy in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“I’m not shutting you out,” he says, a little sharper now. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“Well, congratulations,” you snap, the frustration finally spilling over. “You’re doing a great job anyway.”
That does it.
You see it the second it happens, the way something cracks in his expression, something raw and unguarded slipping through the careful control he clings to.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he asks, his voice low but suddenly rough. “You think I don’t hear myself every time I pull away like this?”
“Then don’t,” you say, your voice softer now, almost pleading. “Bucky, I can’t fix something if you won’t even tell me what’s wrong.”
His gaze drops to the floor, and for a moment, he looks smaller. Physicaclly he isn't, he’s still overwhelming in every way, but there’s something in the way he folds in on himself, like he’s carrying a weight you can’t see.
“It’s not something you can fix,” he says.
“That’s not your call to make.”
“It is when II’m the one who’s broken.”
The words hit you like a slap.
“Don’t do that,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Don’t turn this into—into that. This isn’t about your past, or Hydra, or anything like that. This is about us.”
“It’s always about that,” he shoots back, the frustration finally breaking through. His voice raises to an octave you haven't heard from him. “You think it just… stops? That I can flip a switch and be the guy you deserve?”
“I don’t want anyone else,” you say firmly. “I want you. All of you.”
He laughs then, but there’s no humor in it. It’s hollow. Bitter.
“Yeah?” he says. “Even the parts that push you away? The parts that think maybe you’d be better off without me?”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not your decision to make, Bucky.”
“Maybe it should be.”
Silence crashes down between you.
That’s the closest he’s ever come to saying it outright. To putting words to the fear that’s always been lurking under the surface—that one day, he’ll decide he’s too much for you and walk away before you can leave him first.
Your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort. “Do you have any idea how unfair that is?”
His expression shifts the second he hears the crack in your voice, the hurt he’s been trying so hard to avoid causing.
“I know,” he says immediately, stepping forward. “I know, I’m—”
“No,” you cut him off, backing up a step. “You don’t get to do that either. You don’t get to shut down and then come back like nothing happened.”
His face falls, guilt flooding his features. “I’m not trying to—”
“You are,” you insist, tears stinging your eyes now. “You push me away, Bucky. Every time things get hard, you just disappear. And I’m left standing here trying to figure out what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quickly, almost desperately. “This isn’t on you.”
“Then stop making it feel like it is.”
That lands.
You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him all at once. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts before finally stopping in front of you.
“I don’t know how to fight like this,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “Where I don’t lose control. Where I don’t say something I regret.”
You take a shaky breath. “Then learn. With me.”
His eyes flick up to yours, uncertain.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” you continue, softer now. “I’m asking for honest. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts a little. Just don’t leave me in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Then, slowly, he nods.
“I was scared,” he says, the words rough, like they’re being dragged out of him. “When you said you might take that job. The one across the country.”
Your breath catches. “Bucky—”
“I know you haven’t decided yet,” he rushes on, “but all I could think about was you leaving. And me not being enough to make you stay.”
Your heart aches.
“That’s what this is about?” you ask gently.
He nods once, his gaze dropping again. “I didn’t want to say it out loud. Made it too real.”
You step closer this time, closing the distance he created earlier. “You don’t get to decide what I choose,” you say softly. “But you do get to be part of the conversation.”
His eyes lift to yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.
You reach for his hands and squeeze. “Then stop pushing me away when you’re scared.”
He exhales, tension finally easing out of him as his grip tightens around yours.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“I know,” you whisper. “Just… try with me. Not against me.”
This time, when the silence settles between you, it isn’t sharp.
It’s heavy, yes, but softer. Something you can both carry.
Could you make a blurb/oneshot about reader being obsessed with Bucky's scent. Like absolutely obsessed. Even on missions, she just can't get enough. She'll nuzzle into him, almost wanting to crawl into his skin. And she's big on PDA, the thunderbolts will be having a movie night and she'll be practically in his shirt. Not paying attention in the slightest. Please and thank you
Really it's a small issue.
The first time Bucky really notices it, you’re coming down from a mission—adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, the quinjet humming low beneath your boots. You’d taken a hit, nothing serious, but enough to leave you shaken in that quiet, lingering way. He sits beside you without a word, broad shoulder brushing yours, metal hand resting heavy against his thigh.
You don’t ask before you lean into him.
At first, it’s subtle. Your head tipping against his shoulder, your breath evening out as you tuck yourself closer. He assumes you’re tired, that you need grounding, something solid to hold onto after everything. So he lets you. Always lets you.
But then your nose presses into the crook of his neck.
And you inhale.
Slow. Deep. Like you’re trying to memorize him.
Bucky stills.
“Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “you good?”
You hum in response, barely coherent, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “Yeah. Just… stay.”
He doesn’t move for the rest of the flight.
---
It escalates from there.
Not all at once. Not in a way that feels strange at first. It becomes a habit, something natural, something instinctive. You gravitate toward him in every room, every hallway, every quiet moment between missions.
But it’s not just closeness.
It’s him.
His scent—clean soap, something faintly earthy and woodsy, a trace of gun oil that never quite leaves his skin no matter how hard he scrubs it away. There’s warmth there, too. Something unmistakably him. Grounding. Safe. Addictive in a way you don’t even try to fight.
You start seeking it out without thinking.
In the kitchen, you’ll slip behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing between his shoulder blades. He’ll pause mid-sentence, metal fingers tightening slightly on the counter as he feels you breathe him in.
“You’re doing it again,” he says once, not unkindly.
You don’t even bother denying it. “You smell good.”
A beat.
Then, softer, quieter, almost shy despite the words, “You always do.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to process that.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod against him, already nuzzling closer.
He doesn’t push you away.
---
On missions, it gets worse.
Or better, depending on who you ask.
After fights, after close calls, after the kind of moments that leave your hands shaking and your chest tight, you seek him out before anything else.
You’ll grab his vest, drag him down just enough to press your face into his neck, inhaling like you’ve been starved of it.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one arm coming around you automatically, metal hand hovering at your back before settling carefully against your spine. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”
You don’t answer.
You just breathe him in again.
And again.
Like if you stop, something terrible might happen.
At first, the others pretend not to notice.
Then they stop pretending.
---
Movie night is when it really becomes a problem.
Or not, again, depending on who you ask.
The Thunderbolts are scattered across the living room, the lights dim, some action movie playing on the screen that no one is really paying attention to. Popcorn’s half gone, someone’s arguing about plot holes, and Bucky is seated on the couch, broad and solid as ever.
You are, quite literally, in his shirt.
Not wearing it.
In it.
You’d started the night curled against his side, but at some point, you’d tugged his shirt open just enough to slide your arm inside, pressing your cheek flat against his chest. One of your legs is thrown over his thigh, your fingers loosely hooked into his waistband, keeping yourself anchored.
Your face is buried against his skin.
Breathing him in.
Completely oblivious to everything else.
“Are you even watching the movie?” Yelena asks from across the room, one brow raised.
You don’t respond.
Bucky glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself. “She hasn’t seen a single second.”
“I’m comfortable,” you mumble, voice muffled against him.
John snorts. “Comfortable? She looks like she’s trying to fuse with you.”
“Wouldn’t blame her,” Alexei adds, grinning.
Bucky shoots them a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. His hand comes up instead, brushing gently through your hair, smoothing it back from your face. You lean into the touch immediately, pressing closer.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, just for you. “You good?”
You nod against him, inhaling again, slower this time. “You smell like home.”
It hits him harder than he expects.
His chest tightens, something warm and unfamiliar settling deep in his ribs.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
You hum. “Yeah. Makes everything feel… quiet.”
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Then his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, if that’s even possible.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, even tthough you’re already there. “Stay as long as you want.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
---
It’s late when the movie ends, the others filtering out one by one until it’s just the two of you left in the dim glow of the television. You haven’t moved an inch.
Bucky glances down at you, a soft huff of amusement leaving him. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”
“No,” you answer immediately.
He huffs again, but there’s fondness in it. “Figured.”
You shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press your nose back against his neck, inhaling deeply.
He stills for a second then relaxes.
“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice low, thoughtful, “I don’t mind it.”
You blink up at him. “You don’t?”
“Nah.” His thumb brushes lazily along your arm. “If that’s what you need, doll… you got it.”
Your chest warms at that, something soft and heavy settling there.
“You’re stuck with me, then,” you tease lightly.
His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you just a fraction more. “I think I’m okay with that.”
You nuzzle back into him, breathing him in like you always do.
Bucky doesn't think there will be a time he ever wont.
Can we get a fluff dad!bucky fic where someone else on the team get's his kids a karaoke machine for whatever reason and it's just bucky simultaniously loseing his mind and plotting his revenge😂
Bucky knows something is wrong the second he walks into the compound and it’s… quiet.
Not the mormal quiet either. This is the kind of eerie, suspicious silence that sets off every alarm in his brain. The kind that used to mean ambush. Trap. Danger.
Now it usually means his kids are up to something.
He drops his keys into the bowl by the door and narrows his eyes down the hallway. “Alright,” he calls, voice low and cautious. “What’re you two doin’?”
No answer.
That’s strike one.
He steps further inside, boots heavy against the floor, scanning like he’s clearing a building. The living room looks fine. Couch intact. No suspicious glitter explosions. No suspicious paint.
But then—
A faint crackle of static.
Followed by—
“Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh—Lila, press it again!”
“And then what? Does it make it louder?!”
Bucky freezes.
He turns slowly toward the kitchen.
Strike two.
Because whatever that is? That is not normal kid chaos. That is… amplified chaos.
He rounds the corner and stops dead in the doorway.
There, sitting proudly on the kitchen table like it’s some kind of sacred offering, is a bright pink karaoke machine. It’s got blinking lights, two microphones, and a speaker that looks way too powerful for something designed for children.
And behind it are his girls.
Six-year-old Lila Barnes is gripping one microphone like she’s about to address a stadium, curls bouncing as she hops in place. Her younger sister, four-year-old Rosie, is holding the other, pressing buttons with reckless abandon.
The machine screeches as feedback rings through the room.
Bucky flinches.
Hard.
“…what,” he says slowly, “is that?”
Both girls spin around like they’ve been caught red-handed.
“Daddy!” Rosie squeals, completely unbothered by the sonic assault she just unleashed. “Look what Uncle Sam got us!”
Strike tree.
Bucky closes his eyes for a long, suffering second.
Of course it was Sam.
Of course it was.
Because this has Wilson written all over it—bright, loud, and specifically designed to test Bucky’s patience.
“Oh, he did, did he?” Bucky mutters, already filing this away under revenge pending. “That was real nice of him.”
“Isn’t it amazing?!” Lila says, bouncing on her toes. “We can sing into it and it makes us sound like pop stars!”
Rosie slams another button.
Music explodes out of the speaker.
Bucky physically recoils.
The opening beats of some aggressively upbeat kids’ pop song fill the kitchen, and before he can even process what’s happening, both girls lift their microphones.
“LET IT GOOOO—”
They are not singing the right song. They are not singing on key. They are not even singing the same words.
But they are loud.
So, so loud.
Bucky presses his lips together, staring at them like he’s trying to remain calm in the face of psychological warfare.
“Doll,” he says carefully, voice tight, “maybe we don’t need it that loud—”
“LOUDER?!” Rosie gasps, delighted.
She presses something.
The volume increases.
Bucky watches his life flash before his eyes.
“—that is the opposite of what I said,” he mutters weakly.
But it’s too late.
Because now Lilaa is spinning in circles, hair flying, belting into the microphone with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted herself.
Rosie joins her, marching in tiny dramatic steps, waving her arm like she’s on stage.
“AND IIIIIII—”
“WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUU—"
Different song. Wrong again.
Bucky drags a hand down his face.
Somewhere in the distance, he can practically hear Sam laughing.
“Oh, you’re dead,” Bucky murmurs under his breath. “You are so dead, Wilson.”
“Daddy, sing with us!” Lila demands, shoving the microphone toward him mid-spin.
Bucky leans back like it’s a weapon.
“Nope. Nope, I don’t—”
Rosie grabs his hand, tiny fingers sticky and insistent. “C’mon, Daddy! You gotta!”
He looks down at her.
Big eyes. Gap-toothed grin. Absolute excitement vibrating out of her.
Then he looks at Lila, who’s practically bouncing out of her skin waiting for him to join.
Bucky exhales.
Because of course.
Of course this is his life now.
“Alright,” he sighs, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle. “Alright, fine. Gimme that thing.”
The girls erupt in cheers.
Rosie shoves the second microphone into his metal hand like she’s arming him.
The music is still blasting—wrong song, wrong pitch, wrong everything—but the girls don’t care.
And apparently neither does he.
Bucky clears his throat.
“Okay,” he says, trying to figure out what the hell they’re even singing. “What’s the song?”
“Just sing!” Lila yells.
Helpful.
Real helpful.
The next verse starts, something about dancing and sunshine, and Bucky goes for it.
He doesn’t know the words.
He doesn’t know the tune.
But he sings anyway, voice rough and deep, completely mismatched with the bright, chaotic music.
The girls lose their mind over it. They laugh, shrieking as they spin around him, grabbing his hands, pulling him into their little performance.
Rosie jumps onto his foot, using it as a stage.
Lila grabs his arm, dragging him into a clumsy spin.
“DADDY’S SINGING!” Rosie screams like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened.
Bucky laughs so hard his chest aches, letting himself get pulled into their orbit, into their joy, into this ridiculous, noisy, overwhelming moment.
The kitchen is chaos.
The music is too loud.
The singing is objectively terrible.
And it’s perfect.
Absolutely perfet.
Hours later, when the machine finally runs out of battery and the girls collapse into a giggling heap on the floor, Bucky leans against the counter, catching his breath.
Rosie climbs into his arms, already half-asleep, while Lila curls against his side.
“Best present ever,” Lila mumbles.
Bucky presses a kiss to the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he says softly, voice warm despite himself. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
But as he glances at the silent karaoke machine, his eyes narrow just a little.
Kenny darlin I neeeeed you. I’m lonely and making stupid decisions over a younger man — I NEED a meet-cute with Bucky to cure my insanity. Give me the fluffy give me the cute give me Bucky pleeeeeeeease
It happens on a Monday.
Not a good Monday. Not even a neutral Monday. The kind of Monday where your coffee tastes burnt no matter how much sugar you dump into it, your phone keeps lighting up with messages you absolutely should not answer, and your judgment, already questionable lately, feels like it’s hanging on by a thread.
Case in point: the younger man.
You stare down at your phone where his name is still sitting at the top of your messages, thumb hovering over the screen. There’s a draft reply typed out—something witty, something a little flirty, something you’ll regret approximately five minutes after sending.
“Don’t,” you mutter to yourself, locking your phone with a decisive click and shoving it into your bag. “We are not doing that today.”
Growth. Maturity. Healing.
You repeat the words like a mantra as you push open the door to the little corner bakery you’ve started frequenting lately, the one with the crooked chalkboard sign out front and the soft golden lighting that always makes everything feel calmer than it actually is.
The smell hits you first. Warm bread, sugar, something cinnamon-y. It wraps around you like a hug, easing the tight knot in your chest just a little.
“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, stepping into line. “New plan. Carbs instead of bad decisions.”
Progress.
You’re so busy trying to decide between a croissant and a muffin (or both, let’s be honest) that you don’t notice the man stepping back from the counter at the same time you step forward.
You collide.
Hard.
“Shit—!”
“Oh—sorry, I—”
It’s chaos. Your bag slips off your shoulder, your phone tumbles out, and the iced coffee you’d been holding tips dangerously, sloshing over the lid and straight onto him.
You freeze.
There’s a moment—a long, horrible moment—where you just stare at the spreading stain across his dark henley, your brain short-circuiting as panic floods your system.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I didn’t— I wasn’t looking and—”
“I stepped back,” he interrupts gently, already reaching for napkins. “That’s on me.”
His voice is low. Warm. Calm in a way that immediately slows the frantic spiral in your chest.
You blink up at him and then promptly forget how to breathe.
He’s unfair.
That’s the only word for it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that looks like it never quite behaves and eyes so blue they almost don’t seem real. There’s a softness to his expression, though, something careful tucked beneath all that intimidating size, like he’s worried about startling you.
You, meanwhile, are actively dying.
“No, that is absolutely not on you,” you insist, grabbing napkins and dabbing uselessly at his shirt. “I assaulted you with coffee. This is—this is a crime, actually.”
That gets a small huff of laughter out of him.
“It’s not that bad.”
“It is,” you say firmly. “It’s cold brew. That stuff stains souls.”
He smiles at that and something in your chest does an unfortunate little flip.
“It’ll wash out,” he assures you. “Promise.”
You finally manage to look away, crouching to scoop up your phone before you can embarrass yourself further. “Still. I owe you. Dry cleaning, at least. Or… a new shirt. Or… emotional damages.”
“Emotional damages?” he echoes, amused.
“I’ve ruined your morning,” you say, straightening. “That counts.”
His gaze lingers on you for a second, something soft flickering there before he shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
You huff a quiet laugh, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re being very nice about this for someone who just got baptized in caffeine.”
“I’ve had worse mornings,” he admits.
You don’t ask.
Instead, you gesture toward the counter, where the barista is watching the entire exchange with open curiosity. “At least let me buy your coffee. Replacement coffee. Non-weaponized this time.”
He hesitates just for a second.
Then, “Only if I can buy yours.”
You blink. “That feels like a scam.”
“Compromise,” he counters, one corner of his mouth lifting.
You study him for a moment, suspicion warring with something much softer, much more dangerous.
“Fine,” you say finally. “But if you try to Venmo me later, I’m blocking you.”
He laughs again—quieter this time, but just as warm. “Deal.”
You step up to the counter together, placing your orders side by side. It feels easy. Weirdly easy, considering you just committed accidental coffee-based assault.
While you wait, you shift your weight, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He’s watching the barista, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed now that the initial chaos has passed.
“You come here a lot?” you ask, immediately wincing internally. Wow. Original.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s close to my place. Good bread.”
“Strong argument,” you nod. “I come here when I need to make better life choices.”
He glances at you then, brow faintly furrowed. “Better than what?”
You hesitate.
Your phone feels heavy in your bag, like it’s listening.
“…questionable texting habits,” you admit vaguely.
Understanding flickers across his face—surprisingly quick, surprisingly gentle.
“Ah,” he says. “Yeah. Been there.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Once or twice.”
Something about that—about the way he says it like he’s not proud of it, like he’s learned from it—makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.
Your name is called.
You step forward, grabbing the drinks before turning back to him and holding one out. “Here. Peace offering.”
He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m Bucky.”
You repeat your name, and it feels strange, like it matters more than it should.
You linger by the counter for a second too long, both of you sipping your drinks, neither quite moving to leave.
“Well,” you say finally, gesturing toward the door. “I should probably go make more responsible choices.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Me too.”
Neither of you move.
Then he clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Hey, uh—”
You look up.
“If you ever need a distraction from those questionable decisions,” he says, a little tentative now, “I come here most mornings.”
Your heart does something very inconvenient.
You glance down at your coffee, then back up at him.
“…carbs instead of bad decisions,” you murmur.
He smiles. “Sounds like a solid plan.”
You hesitate for half a second longer, just long enough to feel the weight of your phone in your bag, the ghost of that unfinished message still waiting.
Then you make your choice.
“Tomorrow morning?” you ask.
His smile softens, something warm and almost relieved settling into his expression.
“Tomorrow morning.”
And just like that, the Monday doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
I have a thot of u will? Bucky finishing in u, liking where he is so much he's getting hard again before pulling out. Guess we're going for round two already hunni 🫢
The heat between you and Bucky had been building for hours—slow kisses that turned hungry, hands roaming with desperate need, clothes shed in a frantic trail from the living room to his bedroom.
Now, you were lost in the rhythm of him, his body pressed flush against yours on the rumpled sheets. His metal arm braced beside your head, cool vibranium a stark contrast to the fevered warmth of his skin. His flesh hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in just enough to anchor you as he thrust deep, each stroke dragging a broken moan from your throat.
"Bucky..." you gasped, nails raking down his back, feeling the corded muscles shift under your touch.
He was relentless, the super-soldier stamina turning every movement into a perfect, devastating glide. His cock filled you completely, thick and hard, stretching you in that way that made your toes curl and your vision blur at the edges.
Sweat slicked his forehead, dark hair falling into those storm-blue eyes as he watched you, intense and unblinking.
"That's it, doll," he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. "Take me. Just like that."
His hips snapped forward harder, the wet sound of your bodies meeting obscene in the quiet room.
You clenched around him, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.
You were close and he knew it.
Bucky always knew, reading your body like a mission briefing.
One hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with practiced precision.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let go for me."
The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you with white-hot intensity. Your back arched, walls pulsing around him as you cried out his name. Bucky groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.
"Fuck—I'm—" He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt.
You felt the hot spill of him inside you, pulse after pulse as he came hard, filling you completely.
His body shuddered against yours, metal fingers curling into the sheets beside your head with a soft metallic creak.
For a long moment, he stayed there, cock twitching with the aftershocks, buried deep where he belonged.
Bucky didn't pull out.
Instead, he let out a shaky breath, lips brushing your collarbone as he savored the heat of you around him.
The feeling was addictive—the slick warmth, the way your body still fluttered faintly from your climax, milking every last drop.
He shifted slightly, just enough to make you both gasp at the sensitivity, but he stayed nestled inside, unwilling to break the connection.
"Goddamn," he murmured against your skin, voice husky with satisfaction and something darker, hungrier. "Feels too good to leave. So warm... so perfect."
His hips gave a lazy roll, testing, and you felt him—still half-hard, but already thickening again, the length of him growing firmer with each subtle movement.
Bucky's breath hitched, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as realization dawned. He lifted his head, blue eyes meeting yours with a wicked, boyish grin that made your stomach flip.
"Looks like I'm not done with you yet," he said, nipping at your lower lip. "Guess we're going for round two already, baby"
You laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a moan as he rocked forward again, slower this time, deliberate.
The oversensitivity made everything sharper, every inch of him dragging along your walls in a way that bordered on too much and not enough. His hand slid down your side, cool palm cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled under his touch.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice laced with awe and lust.
"Already getting hard again just from being inside you. Can't help it. You're ruining me, doll."
Bucky kissed you deeply, tongue exploring as his hips began to build a new rhythm.
This time it was unhurried, savoring—long, deep strokes that had you wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The wet slide of him, slick with both your releases, made each thrust smoother, filthier.
You could feel the evidence of his first orgasm leaking out around him, but he didn't seem to care. If anything, it spurred him on, a possessive growl escaping as he fucked his cum deeper into you.
Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. "Bucky... yes—"
He shifted angles, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
The metal arm hooked under your knee, spreading you wider for him, opening you up completely.
"Mine," he breathed, the word a vow against your throat. "All mine."
His pace quickened gradually, the bed creaking under the force of his powerful body. Flesh and metal hands worshipped you—gripping, caressing, pinning you down in the most delicious way.
Pleasure built again, slower but no less intense, coiling in your belly like a live wire. Bucky's forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling as he drove into you.
"Wanna feel you come around me again. Wanna stay right here... fuck, just like this."
You shattered for the second time, clenching hard around his now fully hard cock. Bucky cursed, hips snapping forward with renewed urgency, chasing that edge once more. But this round, he didn't hold back—he fucked you through it, drawing out every cry and whimper until you were a trembling mess beneath him.
Only when you were both gasping, bodies slick and spent, did he finally slow. But even then, he lingered inside you, softening gradually while pressing lazy kisses along your jaw.
"Round three?" you teased weakly, fingers tracing the scars where metal met flesh on his shoulder.
Bucky's laugh was warm, genuine. "Give me five minutes, sweetheart. I'm not pulling out anytime soon."
Bucky Barnes always comes home smelling like smoke.
Not the harsh, suffocating kind that burns your lungs, but the faint scent that lingers in the heavy fabric of his turnout jacket even after it's been washed twice. It mixes with cedarwood soap, fresh laundry detergent, and something that's simply him. Somewhere along the way, it became your favorite smell in the world because it always means the same thing.
He's home.
The apartment door swings open just after eight in the morning, and before Bucky can even get both boots inside, Duke is barreling across the hardwood floors. Your golden retriever practically launches himself into Bucky's chest with enough force to knock over most people, but your husband barely rocks back on his heels. He laughs, catching the oversized dog with one arm while struggling to shut the door behind him.
The dog answers with an excited whine and a frantic wag of his tail.
"Yeah," Bucky grins. "Missed you too."
You watch the reunion from the kitchen, coffee warming your hands as you lean against the island. It's unfair how good he looks after a twenty-four-hour shift. His navy station shirt clings to his broad chest, the department logo stretched slightly over muscles earned through years of carrying hoses, ladders, and people to safety. His turnout pants still hang low on his hips with the suspenders pushed down, soot smudges streak one cheek, and flattened curls peek out from where his helmet had been sitting all night.
He looks exhausted.
He also looks ridiculously handsome.
The second his blue eyes find yours, every bit of fatigue softens into something warmer.
"Hi, sweetheart."
Your smile comes without thinking.
"Hi, firefighter."
The sleepy grin that spreads across his face could melt glaciers.
"Come here."
You abandon your coffee immediately, crossing the room until he opens an arm for you. You fit yourself against his chest as naturally as breathing, wrapping your arms around his waist while he buries his face against the top of your head. His embrace is heavy, warm, and familiar, the kind that always makes the rest of the world disappear.
"You smell," you mumble into his shirt.
"I know."
"You smell really bad."
"I know."
You wrinkle your nose dramatically before smiling against his chest. "...I kinda like it."
His laugh rumbles beneath your cheek, shaking both of you.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
His metal hand drifts slowly up and down your back while his flesh one cradles the back of your head, holding you close as though he hasn't seen you in weeks instead of one shift. These moments have become sacred over the years. No matter how exhausting the calls were or how little sleep he managed to steal between alarms, he always comes home and finds you first.
Bucky loves being a firefighter. He loves the chaos that somehow feels organized inside the station, loves cooking meals with his crew between calls, loves teaching fire safety to elementary school kids who stare at him like he's stepped straight out of a comic book. Helping people gives him a purpose he'd spent decades believing he'd never deserve.
You love that he found that purpose.
You just hate everything that comes with it.
Every news alert about a structure fire makes your stomach twist before you can stop it. Every siren echoing through Brooklyn has you glancing instinctively toward your phone. You never tell him how often you check the department's incident reports or how your heart pounds whenever his shift runs longer than expected. He already carries enough weight on those impossibly broad shoulders. He doesn't need yours too.
A week later, you're halfway through making dinner when your phone buzzes across the counter.
The screen lights up with one word.
James.
Your stomach immediately sinks.
He never calls during a shift.
"Bucky?" you answer, already abandoning the cutting board.
"Hey, doll."
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Liar."
He sighs softly, and you hear voices in the background before he speaks again.
"We had a warehouse fire."
Every muscle in your body locks.
"I'm okay," he says quickly. "Before you ask, I'm okay."
"You got hurt."
"A little."
"Bucky."
"It's smoke inhalation."
Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you grip the counter.
"Bucky..."
"They're just making me get checked out."
"You sound awful."
"I probably do."
Your voice softens into something dangerously quiet.
"Which hospital?"
Silence.
"...James."
Another sigh.
"Brooklyn Methodist."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"You really don't have to—"
The call ends before he can finish the sentence.
You find him sitting on the edge of an emergency room bed looking deeply irritated by the entire situation. A pulse oximeter clips onto one finger, oxygen rests beneath his nose, and someone has convinced him to trade his smoke-soaked shirt for a hospital gown that's hanging open across his broad shoulders. Despite all of it, he still looks more embarrassed than injured.
The second he sees you, his expression softens.
"Oh, honey."
"I told you I'm fine."
"You have oxygen in your nose."
"It's precautionary."
You don't bother arguing. Instead, you walk straight over, cup his soot-streaked face between your hands, and search every inch of him for something worse than he's admitting. His skin is warm beneath your palms. His breathing is steady. His eyes are bright.
He's here.
The tears hit before you can stop them.
"I'm mad at you," you whisper.
"I know."
"You scared me."
"I know."
"You always tell me to answer your texts because you worry, and then you call me from the emergency room like that's somehow less terrifying?"
His mouth twitches despite himself.
"I didn't think that one through."
"No."
"You gonna keep yelling at me?"
"I might."
"I think you'd look pretty cute doing it."
A watery laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"You're impossible."
He reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together carefully.
"I'm okay," he says again, quieter this time. "I promise."
The doctor tells you exactly the same thing a few minutes later. Minor smoke inhalation. A few hours of oxygen. Plenty of water, plenty of rest, and no lasting damage.
You believe the doctor.
But hearing Bucky promise he'll be okay somehow settles your heart in a way nothing else can.
Three days later, he's on mandatory leave.
Which sounds relaxing in theory.
In reality, it's driving you insane.
By lunchtime, he's reorganized the spice cabinet, fixed the squeaky bathroom door, vacuumed twice, folded every towel in the apartment, alphabetized your tea collection, and somehow decided the pantry shelves were inefficient.
"Bucky."
"Hm?"
"Sit down."
"I am sitting down."
"You're reorganizing paprika."
"It was next to the cinnamon."
"So?"
He looks at you as though you've committed an actual crime.
"So?"
You blink.
"...They're spices."
"They're completely different spices."
You dissolve into laughter.
"You spend your days running into burning buildings and somehow this is what bothers you?"
"Organization is important."
"You climbed onto the roof yesterday."
"The gutters needed cleaning."
"We live on the third floor."
"I borrowed a ladder."
"You borrowed a ladder because you couldn't sit still for one afternoon."
He can't even argue with that.
Instead, he simply smiles sheepishly as you walk over until you're standing between his knees. His hands settle instinctively on your hips, thumbs rubbing absent circles through your shirt.
"You spend every day taking care of everyone else," you murmur. "You save people. You carry seventy pounds of gear into burning buildings. You deserve to rest."
For the first time all week, he doesn't immediately come up with another project.
Instead, he lowers his forehead against yours and quietly admits, "I don't really know how."
Your heart aches.
Wrapping your arms around his neck, you smile softly before brushing your nose against his.
"Then let me teach you."
His blue eyes lift to meet yours.
"How?"
"By reminding you that you don't always have to be everyone's hero."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"What if I only wanna be yours?"
You kiss him before he can see the tears gathering in your eyes, slow and lingering, pouring every unspoken feeling into the gentle press of your lips. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his once more and smile.
"You already are."
For perhaps the first time since the warehouse fire, Bucky Barnes lets himself stop trying to save the world for just a little while—and allows someone else to take care of him.
Pregnant!reader getting nauseous while her and Bucky are running errands and Bucky being the best husband ever comforts her through it🥺🩵
The morning had started so well.
You'd managed to keep your breakfast down, your energy was surprisingly decent for twenty-two weeks pregnant, and after spending the last few weekends hiding at home because morning sickness refused to understand the word morning, you finally felt human again.
Human enough to convince Bucky that the two of you could tackle your errand list.
"It'll be fun," you'd insisted while pulling on your sneakers. "We need groceries, I want to stop by the bookstore, and I promised my mom I'd pick up those candles."
Bucky had looked at you over the rim of his coffee mug, unconvinced.
"You sure, doll?"
You'd nodded eagerly. "I'm good."
He'd smiled, unable to deny you anything. "Okay. But we're taking it slow."
Now, three stores later, you were beginning to regret every ounce of confidence you'd possessed that morning.
The grocery cart rattled quietly over the polished floor as Bucky pushed it beside you, humming absentmindedly while comparing two jars of pasta sauce. You'd wandered a few feet away to grab cereal when it hit you suddenly.
One second you were debating between cheerios and cinnomon toast crunch.
The next, your stomach rolled so violently your mouth filled with saliva.
"Oh."
Your hand immediately flew to your lips.
Bucky looked up before you'd even said his name.
"What is it?"
"I..." You swallowed hard. "I don't feel very good."
The pasta sauce was forgotten instantly and his entire attention shifted to you.
"Nauseous?"
You nodded once.
His expression softened with immediate concern.
"Come here."
He abandoned the cart right where it sat and gently guided you toward the edge of the aisle, away from the bright lights and the stream of people passing by. One large hand settled against your lower back while the other brushed loose strands of hair away from your face.
"Need to throw up?"
"I don't know."
Your voice came out embarrassingly shaky.
"I think maybe."
"Okay."
Bucky didn't panic or look frustrated. His calm eased you in the moment.
"The bathroom's up front. Can you walk?"
You nodded again.
He slipped one arm securely around your shoulders, keeping you tucked against his side as he slowly led you through the store.
"You don't have to apologize," he murmured when you started opening your mouth.
"I wasn't—"
"You were about to."
"...maybe."
His lips twitched.
"I know you."
Your eyes stung unexpectedly.
"I'm sorry we came."
Bucky suddenly stopped walking before he turned you toward him, both hands cradling your face.
"Hey."
You looked up reluctantly.
"Don't apologize for being pregnant with our baby."
A watery laugh escaped you.
"I know, but—"
"No buts."
He kissed your forehead.
"Your body's working overtime growing our little one. If it decides grocery shopping is offensive today, then grocery shopping can take it personally."
Despite the nausea clawing at your stomach, you laughed.
"There she is," he whispered warmly. "That's my girl."
The bathroom was thankfully empty.
Bucky waited just outside the door while you leaned over the sink, breathing through another wave that never quite became sickness.
When you emerged a few minutes later looking pale and exhausted, he was exactly where you'd left him.
Holding a bottle of water.
Crackers.
Peppermint gum.
And one of those tiny ginger chews you'd become mildly obsessed with during the first trimester.
You blinked.
"When did you—"
"I multitasked."
"You were gone for, like, thirty seconds."
He shrugged.
"Super soldier."
You couldn't help smiling.
He unscrewed the water bottle before handing it to you.
"Small sips."
You obediently took one.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He unwrapped one cracker and held it out.
You gave him an amused look.
"I can feed myself."
"I know."
"So..."
"So let me take care of my wife."
Your heart melted before you opened your mouth, letting him feed you the cracker.
"There," he said proudly after you'd managed half of it. "Progress."
"You look way too happy about me eating a saltine."
"I am."
With more nibbles of the saltine and a few sips of water, the color slowly returned to your cheeks.
"You wanna head home?" he asked quietly.
You sighed.
"We still have so much to do."
"Doll."
"I know."
He rested his forehead against yours.
"Nothing on that list matters more than you."
"But—"
"I'll come back later."
"You've already spent your whole morning with me."
His eyebrows furrowed.
"That's exactly how I wanted to spend it."
Your eyes filled again.
Pregnancy hormones really were something.
"Oh, sweetheart."
He immediately gathered you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar and clean laundry.
"I keep ruining things," you mumbled.
His hand rubbed slow circles over your back.
"You haven't ruined a single thing."
"I wanted today to be normal."
"I know."
"I hate feeling sick all the time."
"I know."
"I just wanted one day where I felt like myself."
He held you tighter.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you are yourself."
You frowned against his shirt.
"You laugh at my terrible jokes."
A kiss landed in your hair.
"You still steal my hoodies."
Another kiss.
"You still reach for my hand every time we walk somewhere."
His thumb brushed gently across your shoulder.
"The only difference is now you're carrying our baby while you do all those things."
A tear slipped down your cheek.
"You don't think I'm... different?"
"Oh, you're different."
You looked up.
"You've somehow gotten even prettier."
"Bucky."
"You have."
"I have pregnancy acne."
"I don't care."
"My ankles swell."
"I know."
"I threw up brushing my teeth yesterday."
"You sure did."
You groaned which led to him grinning.
"And I have never loved you more."
The sincerity in his voice stole every remaining argument.
"I wish I could fix this for you," he admitted softly.
"If I could take every second of nausea so you never had to feel it again, I would."
"I know you would."
"I hate watching you hurt."
You reached up to cradle his face this time.
"I'm okay."
"I know."
"I've got you."
His eyes softened impossibly.
"You do."
"And our little bean."
His metal hand immediately found your stomach.
Right on cue, a tiny kick pressed against his palm.
Both of you froze.
"There they are," Bucky whispered.
Another little kick.
He laughed quietly, his entire face lighting up.
"I think that's their way of telling us to go home."
You smiled.
"Probably."
"Maybe they're craving ice cream."
"They're definitely your kid if they're interrupting errands for dessert."
"My kid?"
"Our kid."
He corrected himself instantly.
"Our perfect little troublemaker."
You intertwined your fingers with his.
"So..."
"So?"
"Can we go home?"
He smiled like you'd offered him the greatest gift imaginable.
"I thought you'd never ask."
The abandoned grocery cart could wait.
The bookstore would still be there tomorrow.
The candles could be picked up another day.
Right now, all that mattered was getting his wife home, tucked beneath her favorite blanket on the couch with ginger tea, crackers, and whatever strange pregnancy craving appeared next.
