Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.
Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.
Word count: 1.3k+
A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.
Divider credits: @saradika
Night- 1:47 AM
You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.
No sound. Good.
You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.
He’d be asleep. He had to be.
You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.
You made it three steps down the hallway.
Then— “Don’t move.”
Shit.
His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.
You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."
A light flipped on.
Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.
His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.
He didn’t say a word.
You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Who did this to you?”
You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”
“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”
“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”
“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”
He was in front of you in three long strides.
His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.
“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”
“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”
“I’m not made of glass—”
“You’re made of everything I live for.”
Your breath caught.
He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”
“I should’ve.”
“Bucky—”
“Tell me his name.”
You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”
He didn’t deny it.
“And if I don’t?” you added.
“I’ll find him anyway.”
You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”
He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.
“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”
“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”
You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”
Twenty Minutes Later...
You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.
He hadn’t stopped touching you.
Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.
“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.
“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”
“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.
He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”
“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”
He paused. “Wait. You won?”
“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”
He stared.
Then—slowly—he grinned.
“That’s my girl.”
You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.
Still, he wasn’t done.
As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”
Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”
“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”
God.
You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Too late. You did. You always do.”
You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
He grinned and kissed your forehead.
Next Day – 2:00 PM
You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:
Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.
—B <3
You rolled your eyes.
And sighed.
And smiled.
He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.
You didn’t even have to ask.
“You found him, didn’t you?”
He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”
“Bucky…”
“And probably won’t be talking much either.”
You stared at him.
“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”
“Jesus—”
“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”
You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.
“You are so dramatic.”
“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”
“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”
He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.
“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”
The Next Morning – 9:07 AM
Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.
Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.
“You awake?” you mumbled.
“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”
“You’re creepy.”
“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”
You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.
“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”
“Bucky.”
He blinked.
“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”
“…Is that an option?”
You groaned and buried your face in his chest.
“You’re insufferable.”
He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.
“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.
You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”
“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”
You swallowed hard. “I get it.”
“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”
“Only a little?”
“I toned it down for your sake.”
You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”
“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”
You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.
✦ Pairing: husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader
✦ Genre: fluff, domestic married life, comedy, soft angst turned mush
✦ Summary: newlyweds you and Bucky get into your first dumb fight, and you decide to ignore him. He doesn’t take it well.
✦✦✦✦✦✦
You weren’t even sure what started it. Something small, something stupid. You’d been married less than six months, and it wasn’t even a fight so much as a flare of stubbornness that lit up between the two of you.
“You never listen,” you’d muttered, folding your arms after he rolled his eyes about how you loaded the dishwasher.
“Because you do it the wrong way,” he’d said with this infuriating shrug, like it was fact, not opinion.
And that was that. You stopped talking to him.
Bucky noticed immediately. At first, he thought you were joking. When you turned your head in silence as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, he blinked, confused.
“Uh… doll?”
Nothing.
“Sweetheart, c’mon, what is this?”
Still nothing.
It wasn’t until you walked right past him without a glance, grabbing your phone and curling up on the couch like he wasn’t even in the room, that realization dawned.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s givin’ me the silent treatment.”
The Winter Soldier, feared assassin, man who’d survived wars and Hydra’s torture chambers, could take a bullet without blinking but his wife not talking to him? That, apparently, was his breaking point.
The first hour, he hovered “You’re really not gonna talk to me?” he asked, leaning over the couch. “Over a dishwasher?”
Nothing.
“Doll, I fought Nazis. I fought aliens. You think I’m afraid of a little silence? Hah.”
The way he checked your face every thirty seconds gave him away.
The second hour, he started bribing you “Hey, uh, I ordered Thai food. Extra spring rolls. For you.”
You nodded thanks to the delivery guy, not to Bucky.
He narrowed his eyes. “Okay. That’s how we’re playin’ this.”
The third hour, he upped the dramatics.
You found him in the kitchen, standing with a bouquet of sunflowers he’d somehow gotten delivered. He held them like a man making a last plea.
“Look, I panicked,” he admitted, pushing the flowers toward you. “They didn’t have roses, and I thought maybe sunflowers are brighter, and you love bright things, and I love you, so—”
You took the flowers, set them in water, and walked away. Without a word.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
By dinner, he was a wreck.
You were scrolling your phone at the table, eating calmly. He hadn’t touched his plate. He just sat there, chin in his hand, staring at you like a kicked puppy.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, like the word itself might save him. “Please. Just yell at me or somethin’. Don’t just… not talk. I can’t—” He broke off, sighing. “I can’t stand it.”
You raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
That night, when you went to bed, you half expected him to sulk on the couch. But when you slid under the covers, you felt the mattress dip, then a heavy arm wrap around your waist.
“Not lettin’ you sleep without me,” he mumbled against your neck. “Not happenin’.”
You didn’t push him away. But you didn’t answer either.
He groaned dramatically, tightening his hold. “Doll, this is torture. Actual torture. You could stab me and it’d hurt less. Say somethin’. Anything. Please.”
Still, you stayed quiet.
The next morning, you woke up to a surprise.
Coffee brewed, pancakes on the table, bacon crisped just right. Bucky stood there in an apron that read “Kiss the Cook,” holding a mug out toward you.
“I googled ‘how to apologize to your wife after being a stubborn jackass,’” he confessed sheepishly. “This was step three. Step four was jewelry, but I thought maybe that was overkill.”
You bit back a smile, taking the coffee without a word.
Bucky’s eyes widened like he might actually die on the spot. “You’re killin’ me here. I’m not kiddin’, sweetheart, I’m losin’ years off my life. Just tell me I’m an idiot. Tell me you hate me. Tell me the sky is blue. I don’t care what it is, just—say something.”
You let the silence stretch, sipping your coffee with exaggerated calm.
Finally, his jaw set, and he stomped over, grabbing your face in both hands.
“Fine. You wanna play hardball? Then listen up.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I can’t stand when you’re mad at me. I hate it. It makes me feel like I can’t breathe. You don’t talk to me, and it’s like I’m right back where I used to be—alone. And I can’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t go back to that. Not with you. So if I gotta beg, if I gotta crawl, if I gotta spend every day provin’ I’ll never take you for granted—I’ll do it. But don’t shut me out, sweetheart. Please.”
You blinked up at him, stunned by the rawness in his voice.
And then, finally, you smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
Bucky froze. Then his face broke into the brightest grin you’d ever seen. “She speaks!”
“You are ridiculous,” you repeated, smacking his chest lightly. “Flowers, pancakes, puppy eyes? All because I didn’t talk to you for one day?”
“One day too long,” he said seriously, before crushing you into his chest. “Don’t ever do that again. My heart can’t take it.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” you teased, laughing into his shirt.
“Drama king,” he corrected smugly, pressing kisses all over your face. “Mr. Barnes, drama king, husband of the year whatever you wanna call me, doll, I’ll take it, as long as you’re talkin’ to me again.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. And when he kissed you again, soft and slow and so very Bucky, you decided maybe next time you’d let him win an argument faster.
After all, watching your super-soldier husband unravel like that? Kind of adorable.
Pairings: bucky barnes x reader. Bucky x wife!reader. Bucky x fem!reader.
Tags: husband bucky. Fluff & comfort. Secret marriage. New Avengers!bucky. Thunderbolts spoilers. Short fic until I finish chapter iii of my main series.
Synopsis: Bucky has kept his marriage secret for three years now. He always intended to keep it that way. That was until a mission went sideways, and he found himself having to resort to the one person he swore to protect.
Warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Not proofread. No use of y/n. Worse than my usual work, something quick & written w my phone.
I do not consent for my work to be uploaded onto other platforms or translated. Reblog to support. PART TWO
James Buchanan Barnes had a secret—scratch that, he had many secrets. His past as the Winter Soldier and his time in HYDRA had caused so. However, there was one peculiar secret that nobody could ever imagine the Sergeant held.
Bucky Barnes was married. Had actually been married for three years now. He had never made too much of a fuss about it; given the life he held, it was better to keep it private.
The ceremony had been held on a small garden, not many witnesses; just Sam, Isaiah Bradley, and your brother—who was why you had met Bucky in the first place.
Your brother worked for SHIELD and the Avengers for some time, mostly managing files and taking care of debriefs. He had, somehow, managed to get on Bucky’s not-unfriendly side.
You had so happened to be visiting your brother at work when you stumbled upon the man himself. You had apologized, fixing your hair, and picking up the lunch you had brought for your brother.
Despite being fully aware of whom the Winter Solider had been, you had treated him with a rare amount of normalcy. Not as a weapon, not as someone to pity, and not as someone to be scared of.
Through a combination of your kind smiles, witty jokes, and the rush of the moment, the ex-assassin had found himself utterly charmed.
You baked, and you sold flowers. You smelt of petals and vanilla extract. Despite what anyone may have thought, Bucky had been completely softened. In your presence, at least.
Gone was the brooding super soldier the moment he stepped into the apartment. He would come home, kiss your temple while whispering “Hello sweetheart,” and proceed to sit on the dinner table with his Congress files while you cooked dinner.
Thanks to you, he had found it possible to sleep in a bed. Most nights, he wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat. He got to feel the warm sun in his face, the weight of your head of your head on his chest, and the little white paws at poked at his face and begged to be fed.
The almost comical domesticity of his day-to-day life was something the rest of the team couldn't ever fathom. The 'New Avengers' knew Bucky for his brooding persona and skillful fighting. He was the one with the most years of experience on him.
The doting husband was a sight reserved for you and only you.
His plans of keeping you a secret of his heart shattered the moment he realized exactly how much the mission had gone to utter shit.
Bucky pressed his eyes shut, fists clenched and rested on his hips. The team was bursied and tired. Nothing major, but they were being chased. They all needed to gather their strength.
Yelena held her side, and Alexei was surprisingly running out of jokes. The tension between Ava and John grew by the second—if Bucky didn't intervene now, they would likely jump one another.
This was probably a terrible idea, and Bucky already knew he would hate himself for what he was about to do. But, damn, he cared about that dysfunctional group of criminals.
He sighed, stepping closer to the group, "I know a place," he huffed, catching the team's attentions. "You know a safehouse?" John asked, clearly exhausted. "Hm, yeah, let's say that."
They all followed him through the empty streets of New York—all civilians had left, the team had made sure nobody would be injured.
It didn't take too long until they arrived in the driveway of a small, baby-blue house with a fence and gardenias in handmade flowerpots.
Everyone couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the certainly strange choice for a safehouse, but none of them dared question Bucky.
The moment he rang the doorbell, the door swung open, you jumping into his arms. "You're okay! I saw the news—" your husband lightly cut you off, patting your back. "We're alright, sweetheart, just need somewhere to stay for a bit."
The Thunderbolts started at you, mouths shut, body still. You bit your lip, and glanced at Bucky, who sported an expression of resignation. "Come on in..." you managed to voice, moving to the side, and allowing everyone to step into your beautiful house.
Immediately, a fluffy white cat jumped off the kitchen counter, sniffing the shoes of all these new visitors. "Alpine, darling, careful," you moved to pick the small furrball up.
Bucky cleared his throat, "Cat's out of the bag, I guess. This is, uhm, my wife." Everyone went quiet, taking their time to process the information they had just been given. "You are married?" Ava asked incredulously.
"I am, yes. Have been for three years," the ex Solider's answers were short and dry, not wanting to spend a second longer than necessary indulging in his personal life. "Stop asking questions and get yourselves cleaned up."
Cotton and wraps lied scattered across the coffee table, the team having taken different locations across the couch as they cleaned their wounds.
You were by the kitchen, cleaning the last few bits of flour off the counter, making sure it was all gone before Alpine managed to lick it all away.
The room was quiet, tense, until Alexei decided to break the silence, an attempt to soothe the strain. "Well, isn't this a nice house, Mr Soldier." He mused, elbow rested on his knee.
"Thank you," you smiled, walking towards your husband. "I really tried." You placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder while the other ran through his hair. Unable to fight the comfort, his eyes fluttered shut.
There was something about watching the apparently stoic and unfeeling Bucky Barnes melt under a woman's touch. Perhaps he was even more human than the team thought.
"How about I make some food, hm?" You chimed in, leaning down to place a gentle peck on your beloved's scalp. "She makes amazing food," and then, a smile. Not just for you to see. But for the entire team to admire.
Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and your husband are trying for a baby.
Disclaimer: Mentions and descriptions of potential infertility, slight smut, brief mentions of dangerous missions, fluff, Bucky being a caring husband who can cook, angst, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending.
“What if it’s negative?” You turned around to face your husband, nervous as hell to even look at the test.
“Then we’ll keep trying.”
“But what if it is?” You pressed, too afraid to look.
Bucky took you by the shoulders, leaning down to keep his eye level with yours. “Then we’ll keep trying. Not a lot of couples have success the first time.”
You nodded. “Okay. Yeah, okay. We can keep trying.”
Bucky nodded before pulling you in and kissing your head.
You’d been married just over two years, and had been trying for a baby for around three months. Each time, you’d gotten your period so there had been no point in testing. Until now.
The timer rang from Bucky’s phone. “Do you want me to look?”
You stayed still for a moment, debating it. “No, I’ll look.”
It took you a minute, but Bucky remained patient. For a moment, he leaned against the bathtub as you walked closer to the counter.
One line.
Negative.
You shook your head and turned around with the test in your hand. “Negative.”
There was a punch to his heart, but he stood nonetheless. “We’ll keep trying.”
You nodded before swallowing the sadness and looking at your husband. “Yeah.”
“Hey, I love you.”
You smiled. “I love you, too.”
Pressing three kisses to your lips, he wrapped you in his arms and lifted you from the ground for a moment.
It was another two months before you tested again.
You used to be thankful to see your period. Now it just felt like it was Mother Nature’s way of mocking you.
Bucky was in the kitchen cooking dinner when you came in from work. “Hey! Just in time,” Bucky said. “Sam finally gave me the recipe for his-”
“I think I need to do another test.”
The sentence just fell out of your mouth. It had been on your mind all day and you’d stopped off at the drugstore on your way home.
Your period was two weeks late. You’d never exactly been spot-on when it came to your cycle, but it had been getting better. So fourteen days overdue had to be a sign, right?
Bucky tried not to seem too excited since he could read the fear across your face. “Oh, okay.”
“I just- it’s been on my mind all day and I’m late and…I don’t know.”
Folding the heat-proof pan squares away, Bucky turned to you. “Do you want me to run down to the store-”
You held up the box from your bag.
Bucky nodded. “Let’s go and see.”
Bucky watched as you paced up and down the bathroom as the timer ticked away. “We’ll be okay.”
You chewed on your nail, keeping the test in the corner of your eyes. “Yeah.”
Your mind was somewhere else.
Standing in front of you before you sent both yourself and him dizzy, he held you close to him. “It’s gonna be okay.”
You looked at your husband, a little dejected. “We’ve been trying for almost six months and it’s not…what if something is wrong with me?”
Bucky felt like he’d been stabbed in the heart. He’d rather take all of Hydra’s torture again than see you feeling hurt.
Bucky shook his head. “There’s nothing-”
“But what if there is?” You stepped out from your husband’s arms for a moment, trying your best to keep your tears at bay. “What if I can’t have children?”
Bucky didn’t fully know what to say. “We don’t know that. If there is something wrong, and that is a big ‘if’,” Bucky stepped closer to you and you held onto him. “Then there’s a chance it could be me.”
“Shuri did your labs. You’re as healthy as a horse.”
Bucky shook his head. “It’s not like they tested me for fertility issues.”
You closed your eyes for a moment. “What if this doesn’t happen for us, Bucky?”
Your husband hugged you and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on for dear life. “Then we’ll look into it. And, you know, there’s always IVF and adoption. Something this century grants us is more options. You know, back in the 40s, it was sex or going down to the docks.”
You chuckled, hitting him on the arm. “Stop trying to make me laugh.”
Bucky smiled, leaning back to look at you. “Can’t help it. I love your laugh.”
You smiled before he wiped away your tears.
“I love you.”
You smiled, kissing him. “I love you, too.”
The kiss broke when the timer went off. “You look this time. I don’t think I can.”
You moved away from the counter and stood away from your husband before he reached out for the pregnancy test.
One line.
Negative.
He held it up to show you. “Negative.”
You knew. You’d had the feeling in the back of your head. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you, giving a little sigh for both of your frustrations. “Come here.”
He pulled you in, holding you tight.
You’d both keep trying. And if that didn’t work, there were always other options.
Three weeks later whilst you were at work, Bucky made a call.
“White wolf,” Shuri said as she answered. “In need of a new suit? I’ve just made a discovery that if I-”
“I-I need you to run some tests.”
Shuri’s voice dropped a little as she turned at her desk. “Is everything okay?”
Bucky sighed. Shuri had been the first person he’d properly talked to about this. “Y/n and I…we’ve been trying for a baby.”
Shuri sounded excited. “Really? I expect to be Godmother. You know, I could make it a suit for it’s first-”
Bucky chuckled. “Might be getting a little ahead. Uh, we…we’ve been trying for a while and I just…I want to make sure there isn’t an issue with…me. Us, even. Y/n’s really worried and if it is me, I just…I want to know…”
Shuri nodded. “I’ve got you. I’ve still got some of your DNA samples in my lab. I’ll start running the tests now. It’ll be okay, Bucky.”
“Thanks, Shuri.”
“How many people know?”
Bucky scratched his head. “Uh, Sam…kinda. He knows we’ve been talking about having kids soon. But no-one knows we’re trying yet.”
“Well, your secret is safe with me. You know, maybe you and Y/n could come to visit soon. I can run more developed tests for both of you and, you know, a bit of relaxation has never killed anyone.”
Bucky nodded. “That…that actually sounds great. I’ll talk to Y/n when she gets home.”
“It’ll be okay, Bucky.”
“Thanks.”
He hung up the phone not too long after and by the time you got home from work, you’d agreed before he could even finish telling you.
Bucky was on annual leave anyway since his last mission had taken up more case hours than anyone had been expecting. And you needed a break from work.
Yourself and Bucky ended up spending three months in Wakanda. Shuri ran every test she could think of.
“You’re both incredibly healthy. I can’t find anything.”
You and Bucky had looked at each other, shocked more than anything. “So, what? It’s just the universe’s way of saying, ‘no, you can’t have a child’?”
Shuri kept her eyes on the medical tablet. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“But…we can have children?” Bucky asked.
Shuri looked up and nodded. “Yes. By all means, your egg shouldn’t reject the sperm.”
“Even with the serum?”
Shuri nodded again. “Have you ever been pregnant before?”
You shook your head. “Never.”
Shuri hummed and started walking around her lab. “It’s just a theory, but it could be that your body has to get used to the chemical difference. As everything is being done, I assume, naturally.”
Both yourself and Bucky felt a little embarrassed but nodded anyway.
“It could possibly be down to something such as that-”
“Or it could just be down to timing.”
“Mother.”
Yourself and Bucky bowed. “Your highness.”
“Having children is a wonderful thing, but often, it can simply be down to timing. The universe will let you know when you’re ready.”
Yourself and Bucky kept trying. And trying. And trying. And trying.
“Have you been testing?” Yelena asked you one girl’s night.
You shook your head as you stirred the cookie dough and she snacked on it. “I think I’m just gonna wait until one pops out of me. I just feel like my period is mocking me. And everytime I see that one line…it hurts too much.”
“Well, whenever it does happen, you and Bucky will make great parents.”
You smiled at her. “Thanks, Lena’.”
A week later, you were standing in your bathroom looking at the opened box of pregnancy tests. From where you were standing, you could see Bucky. He was fast asleep on his front, his arms wrapped around his pillow.
But as you pulled one test from the box, your phone started to ring. And so did Bucky’s.
Haphazardly, you threw the box and test back under the sink and answered. “Sorry to call so late- early.” Yelena stopped herself. “This is an all hands on deck situation. Are you okay being in the field with us?”
Bucky had groggily pulled his phone to his ear. You could hear Sam’s voice talking.
Two hours later, you were cleaning your weapons on the jet whilst Bucky tightened your holster to your side and your thigh.
“Promise me you’ll be safe?”
Bucky nodded. “Always. Same goes for you.”
“I won’t let anything happen to her, Bucky.” Yelena said as she passed you both by.
Bucky stood up, pressing a kiss to your lips as you cupped his cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes. “I love you.”
You did the same. “I love you, too.”
The next fourteen hours were spent running and fighting for your lives, whilst also fighting for others.
At one point, something had rocked the earth as it exploded to the south of you. Exactly where Bucky had been running to when you’d seen him last.
“Bucky?! Bucky?!”
The relief that came over you after two minutes of dead silence, hearing the crackly voice of Bucky over your comms. “I’m okay, doll.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Sam’s voice spoke next. “I’m heading your way, Buck. Be ready.”
With helicarriers packed full, you and Bucky had gotten separated.
“He’s with Sam. He’s okay,” Yelena assured you.
You didn’t relax until you finally saw him. Having gotten back at different times and helping those to the medical bay that needed it, Yelena had sent you home.
“When he gets here, I’ll send him home, too. Go.”
You couldn’t relax. The dead silence over comms kept running through your mind until you finally heard the door unlock. Within seconds, you were running towards the door.
“Hey,” Bucky felt the weight get lifted from his chest once he saw you. But he didn’t talk much after that since you planted one on him, immediately.
“We’re never doing that again. I thought I lost you.”
You kissed him again.
“I promise,” Bucky said between the kisses and as he moved you further into your home. “We’ll stick together next time.”
“We work better as a team anyway.” You said quickly, feeling Bucky’s hands grip your hips steadily before softly kissing your neck.
His mumble of a Russian, “Agreed,” rippled through your skin.
You needed him.
And he was more than happy to provide.
Peeling the jacket from you once he’d hoisted you onto the side cabinet, you unbuckled his belt and jacket. And somewhere between the rough kisses, the strewn clothes and the scuff marks being made against the floor and walls, Bucky fucked you like you were both on borrowed time.
Your relationship was loving, slow and filled with soft kisses. He’d spent a lot of his life being the tortured pet for Hydra, being forced into the brutal being they created him to be.
Hard, fast and rough was rare in your relationship.
But when it was…
You pulled him in closer to you as you climaxed, Bucky finishing as you whimpered into his ear.
Between heavy breathes, Bucky’s tongue dragged across your collar before you felt his teeth beside your neck.
“We both need a shower,” you eventually said.
“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet, doll.”
As dirty handprints were washed away from the shower glass with the rest of the blood, ash and dirt, you fell asleep against your husband’s bare chest, his arms wrapped around you and his fingers tracing your spine.
A few weeks later, you woke up in a similar position, only fully clothed.
When Bucky had gotten back from work, he’d joined you on your bed and both of you had been asleep within minutes. However, when you woke a few hours later, you managed to peel yourself from his grip without waking him so you could go to the bathroom.
As you were looking for a spare roll of toilet paper, you saw where you’d previously thrown the box of pregnancy tests. You hadn’t tested in a few months, and you’d hadn’t fully been keeping track of your cycle.
Just as you were waiting to surprisingly give birth, you decided to just wait for Mother Nature to send Aunt Flo your way when she was ready.
From the bathroom, you could see Bucky’s sleeping frame. It was probably going to be negative, but you decided to take one anyway.
Only after three minutes had passed and you’d washed your hands and tidied the bathroom counter, you decided to look at the test.
Two lines.
Two…lines.
“Oh, my god.”
You pulled the box out from under the sink to triple check you’d read it right.
“Oh, my god.”
Walking out of the bathroom, you went straight towards your husband.
Bucky woke up to you lightly shaking his shoulder. “Everything okay?” He asked, a little groggily.
“I’m pregnant.”
The tiredness was still heavy on him, but his eyes snapped open as he looked at you. “What?”
As you sat on the edge of the bed, he sat up and looked at the test you handed him. And, as clear as day, in front of him were two very prominent lines.
He looked up at you. “You’re…it’s positive?”
You nodded. “It’s positive.”
You were on the verge of tears before Bucky almost beat you to them and pulled you on top of him. “We’re having a baby?”
From behind you, Bucky held the stick up. You choked a laugh. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
Pulling back so you could see your husband’s face, you found him with the biggest smile on his face. “We’re gonna have a baby! We’re gonna be parents!”
Laughing out of joy, Bucky kissed you until you wiggled off him to lay beside him. You both looked at the test stick.
“I’m pregnant.”
Bucky smiled. “You’re pregnant.”
“You’re gonna be a dad.”
“You’re gonna be a mom.”
Looking up at your husband, to find him already looking at you, you smiled.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Bucky said before kissing you and laying a gentle hand on your belly. “I love both of you.”
dad bucky who get's all cocky when you guys find out you're pregnant with multiples? thinks he really does have super sperm or something silly like that🐸
Bucky looked too damn smug walking into the doctor's office.
He wasn't nervous. Not emotional. Smug.
You were only eleven weeks along, fingers laced with his as you sat in the dim ultrasound room while the technician spread warm gel across your stomach. Your husband stood beside the table with the kind of confidence that made you narrow your eyes immediately.
“You’re awfully cocky for a man who nearly passed out buying the pregnancy tests,” you muttered.
Bucky grinned without shame, broad shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “I didn’t pass out.”
“You sat on the pharmacy floor.”
“Strategically.”
“Mhm.”
The technician hid a smile behind her mask while turning toward the monitor. “Alright, let’s take a look at baby.”
Bucky’s entire demeanor softened instantly at the word baby.
God, you loved him like this.
The former assassin who could dismantle a gun in seconds and stare down world-ending threats without blinking had become ridiculously emotional the second you’d handed him a positive test three weeks ago. He kissed your stomach every morning. He downloaded three parenting apps. He’d cried in the cereal aisle because “our kid might like Froot Loops someday.”
But right now?
Right now he looked suspiciously self-satisfied.
His thumb rubbed over your knuckles. “I’m tellin’ you, doll. Barnes genes are elite.”
You snorted. “That is not how genetics work.”
“Says you.”
“Says science.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “Super soldier serum, baby.”
You laughed so hard the technician had to pause. “You are impossible.”
“No, seriously,” he continued. “Enhanced strength. Enhanced healing. Enhanced stamina—”
“Oh my God.”
“—enhanced fertility maybe.”
The technician made a tiny choking sound like she was trying not to laugh.
“You cannot be flirting with me while I have ultrasound goo on my stomach,” you informed him.
“Can and am.”
“Bucky.”
“What? You married me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Very fortunately.”
The machine crackled softly as the technician tilted the wand, eyes narrowing at the screen.
Then she blinked.
Paused.
Tilted it again.
“Oh,” she said.
You immediately went still. “Oh?” you repeated nervously.
Bucky straightened beside you. “What kinda oh?”
The technician’s smile widened slowly. “Well… there’s your baby.”
Relief flooded through you so fast your eyes burned.
Then she pointed at the monitor again.
“And there’s your other baby.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Your mouth fell open.
Beside you, Bucky whispered, “No fuckin’ way.”
The technician laughed outright now. “Congratulations. You’re having twins.”
You turned so fast to look at your husband you nearly got whiplash.
He looked stunned for exactly two seconds.
Then the most unbearable expression of triumph spread across his face.
You pointed at him immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Oh my God,” he breathed, staring at the screen like he’d personally accomplished the miracle of life through sheer determination. “Honey.”
“No.”
“Twins.”
“I see that.”
His blue eyes snapped to yours, horrifically smug. “SUPER sperm.”
The technician burst into laughter.
You groaned loud enough to echo through the room. “I’m divorcing you.”
---
“He can’t stop saying it,” you complained later that evening while Natasha nearly fell off the kitchen stool laughing.
Across the compound kitchen, Bucky stood proudly at the stove making grilled cheese sandwiches like a man who’d won an Olympic medal.
“Super sperm,” he repeated helpfully.
Sam looked physically exhausted already. “You’ve known for six hours.”
“And I’ve been right for six glorious hours.”
“You were not right,” you argued.
“I kinda was.”
“You made up fake science!”
“SCIENCE CAN’T EXPLAIN ME.”
Steve walked into the kitchen at the exact wrong moment. “Can’t explain what?”
Sam pointed immediately. “Don’t engage.”
Too late.
Bucky turned with the spatula still in hand. “We’re havin’ twins.”
Steve’s face lit up instantly. “Buck, that’s amazing.”
“And apparently,” Sam interrupted dryly, “the serum migrated directly into his balls.”
Steve nearly choked.
Natasha was openly crying laughing now.
Meanwhile your husband looked entirely too proud of himself.
“Look,” Bucky said, setting down the spatula. “You all laughed when I said I had enhanced fertility.”
“No one laughed,” Sam corrected. “We begged you to stop talking.”
“But was I wrong?”
“Yes,” you and Natasha said together.
Bucky ignored you completely. “Two babies at once. That’s efficiency.”
“You are never using the word efficiency about my uterus again.”
He rounded the counter immediately, grin softening as he came toward you. His hands settled carefully at your waist, all teasing disappearing beneath something warm and awestruck.
“Sorry,” he murmured, though he was clearly not sorry at all. “Just excited.”
Your irritation melted instantly because that was the real problem.
Bucky was impossible to stay annoyed at.
His eyes had gone glassy again — emotional, overwhelmed, so deeply happy it radiated from him.
“You happy?” you asked quietly.
His expression crumpled a little around the edges.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I spent seventy years thinkin’ I’d never get any of this.” One hand slid gently over your stomach. “Now I get you… and two babies?”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, smiling shakily. “I’m happy.”
Natasha immediately looked away to give you privacy.
Sam pretended to suddenly become fascinated by the fridge.
Bucky rested his forehead against yours carefully. “Though,” he added, voice turning smug again, “this is historic evidence that my genes are powerful.”
You burst out laughing.
“There he is.”
“C’mon, doll,” he teased. “You know it’s impressive.”
“You’re never letting this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
And he didn’t.
---
He became exponentially worse over the following months.
Every tiny pregnancy symptom somehow became proof of his “super sperm.”
Morning sickness?
“Means the babies are strong.”
Craving pickles at two in the morning?
“Enhanced babies need fuel.”
The fact that your bump got big quickly?
“Two Barnes babies. Legendary.”
“You are literally making things up as you go,” you told him one night while he rubbed lotion carefully across your stomach.
Bucky looked up innocently from where he sat between your knees on the bed.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Counterpoint,” he said, kissing your belly gently, “twins.”
You rolled your eyes.
Then he grinned against your skin and whispered toward your stomach, “Daddy’s a medical marvel.”
You laughed so hard you snorted.
Bucky looked absolutely delighted with himself.
“Did you hear that?” he asked your stomach seriously. “Your mama thinks I’m funny.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“But you love me.”
Unfortunately, he was right about that too.
Especially later that night when you woke up half tangled in blankets and found Bucky already awake beside you, one large hand resting protectively over your stomach even in sleep.
His face looked softer these days.
Lighter.
Like every broken part of him had finally started healing the second he realized he’d get to be somebody’s dad.
Your heart swelled painfully as you watched him.
Maybe he was cocky.
Maybe he’d been insufferable for months.
Maybe if you heard the phrase super sperm one more time, you’d actually scream.
But the look on his face every time he talked about the babies?
Summary: You’re preparing dinner with your two daughters while suffering from a migraine. When your lovely congressional husband gets home he sees you struggling, he sends you to bed and handles it all himself, giving him a new respect for all that you do.
Trigger Warnings: Migraine; daughters; new math (hence the gif); feelings of having to do it all yourself, even when working through pain to do so, and guilt when you can’t.
Author’s Note: I'd have sworn I wrote this fic before, but apparently I only just outlined it. So I finished it. Enjoy the fluff.
Masterlist
Your migraine snuck up on you, like a shadow slipping under the door, then bloomed behind your right eye mercilessly.
You stood at the kitchen counter, one hand braced against the cool granite while the other dragged a knife through carrots that were far too bright. The overhead lights were painful. Each fluorescent hum vibrated against your skull. The steady thock, thock, thock of blade against cutting board landed like a metronome inside your brain.
It was fine. You could handle it. You’d handled worse.
Your younger daughter’s squeal erupted from the living room, sharp, delighted, and entirely innocent, and it pierced through you like a dentist’s drill. You inhaled through your nose, slow and measured: oxygen in, pain out.
It didn’t work.
“Mama!” she announced, then squealed again right in front of you.
The sound struck your skull, and your vision flared white at the edges.
You inhaled sharply and forced your expression into something pleasant through sheer will.
“Hi, Ladybug,” you said gently. “What do you have?”
She proudly raised a spoon and slapped it against your thigh.
Your nerves flared in brief, offended protest.
“Okay,” you murmured, reaching down. “Let’s not—”
She darted away, giggling, spoon held aloft like a trophy. She made a beeline for the cabinet you forgotten to child-lock, again because you had been juggling a million other things.
You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.
Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.
“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”
You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.
It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.
You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”
She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.
You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.
Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.
You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.
The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.
“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.
He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.
You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.
He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.
But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.
You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?
The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.
“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.
You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.
“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”
He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.
“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”
You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”
Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.
“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”
“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.
“Dinner’s halfway done—”
Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.
His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”
The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.
You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.
He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.
“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”
Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”
Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”
Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”
You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.
You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.
Your legs felt heavier than they should have.
Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.
At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.
And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.
Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.
And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.
A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.
*****
Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.
The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.
This should be easy.
The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”
The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.
“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”
“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.
He given her a look. “You are eight.”
“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”
He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.
“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.
Bucky blinked at it.
“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”
She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”
He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”
“But it says get ten,” she insisted.
He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”
Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”
“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”
He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.
“What the heck is this?” he muttered.
She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”
Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”
He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.
“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.
She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”
The pan given a warning hiss.
He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.
The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.
“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.
She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.
Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”
“Right. Math.”
He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.
“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”
“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.
Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”
“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”
She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”
“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.
Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”
“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”
Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”
He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”
She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”
He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”
He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.
The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.
“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”
She pouted.
He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.
He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.
And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.
His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”
“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.
She waited for him.
He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.
Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.
He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.
*****
Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.
He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.
“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”
He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.
She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.
He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.
“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.
She grinned at him like he was hilarious.
By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.
He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.
His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”
She tapped her own cheek.
He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”
Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.
He snorted softly.
Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.
Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.
“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.
He looked at the hair tie and sighed.
“How hard could it be?” he muttered.
Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.
The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.
“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.
“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.
She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.
When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.
The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.
He paused with his hands braced on the counter.
This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.
He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.
He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.
“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.
Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.
*****
The bedroom had been dark for hours.
You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.
You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.
The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.
You stirred anyway.
Your body knew when he was near.
“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.
The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”
“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.
You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”
He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.
“How’s it now?” he asked.
“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”
He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back.
“The girls okay?” you asked.
“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”
A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”
There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.
“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”
You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”
“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”
Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.
You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”
He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.
“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.
“It’s airtight.”
His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.
“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.
“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.
“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.
You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.
“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”
His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.
“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”
Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.
“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”
You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.
But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love.
Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.
The migraine faded further into the background.
After a while so did the guilt.
In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.
And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.
Summary: Surprising Bucky in lingerie didn’t go as planned because you’re too sleepy, but that didn’t stop him for pleasuring you.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut with no plot, kinda somnophilia, congressman!bucky, soft dom!bucky, female reader (she/her) with female anatomy, oral (fem receiving), praise, use of the term 'my girl', slight infantilization, aftercare included, Thunderbolts era, pre-established relationship, no use of Y/N
Word count: 829 words
Bee's Note: Y’all gave my last Bucky smut fic so much love that I just had to write another one. Again, the kink part of this was supposed to be used for Kinktober, but we all know what happened with that. I was reminded of it by the Galentines Party event created by @wildflowersandvibranium and @pinksplace. This is for the spicy day nine prompt, lace/lingerie. Also, I am aware that somnophilia is not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is mine. Feel free to skip this one <33
Marvel Masterlist
Your husband’s meeting had gone much longer than either of you had been anticipating. Earlier in the night, you’d found the lingerie from your wedding night and put it on to surprise Bucky. You’d been told that he was coming home sometime after nine, but that was not the case. It was closer to midnight when he finally arrived.
Already under the assumption that you were asleep, Bucky tiptoed into the bedroom and froze when he saw you. You were laid across the sheets and your skin was decorated in white lace. He recognized the outfit immediately, and guilt bloomed in his chest. You’d gone out of your way to dress up for him, and he’d completely forgotten to tell you that the meeting had run late. He needed to fix this.
The first order of business was to move the sleeping kitty that was currently draped across your back. Careful not to wake you, Bucky picked up Alpine and gave her a few good head scratches. He held her close and slowly carried her out of the bedroom. Setting her in the hallway, he whispered to her before shutting the door.
“I’ll be back, pretty kitty.”
In the past, you’d given Bucky permission to either get things started or to just “take what he needed” while you slept. The idea had always been thrilling, but he’d never acted on it. That changed tonight. Approaching the bed, he slipped off the underwear portion of the lingerie and double-checked that you were still asleep. He slid his hand between your thighs and lightly stroked your cunt. You were already damp, and he let out a small curse beneath his breath.
“Damn, you’re already soaked for me, sweetheart.”
Settling himself at the foot of the bed, Bucky pulled you closer and rested your legs on his shoulders. You started to stir, and you blinked down blearily at him. Your husband was positioned right above your bare cunt. He instantly shushed you and rubbed your side.
“Shhh. Just lay still, baby. I’ve got you.”
“M’kay.”
Bucky waited until your eyes shut to get started. There was little chance of you really falling back asleep, but you were willing to pretend in order to fulfil his fantasy. His fingers pressed small indents into the flesh around your hips, while his mouth finally made contact with your aching core. He moaned between greedy strokes of his tongue.
One thing that he was always going to do was to eat you out like he was starving. Bucky had to force himself to take breaths between strokes. His lips found your clit and he sucked harshly. You were still faking your slumber, so you had to bite down on your lower lip to prevent yourself from crying out. He couldn’t resist teasing you.
“You were so sleepy, huh? Couldn’t even wait for me to get home.”
Your head was lolled back against the pillow, and you were fighting every urge to jerk your hips. Bucky's ministrations never faltered, but he kept glancing up to see your reaction. Your cheeks were flushed, and your hair was fanned out like a halo. God, you looked like a fucking angel. Between grunts, the words fell from his lips.
“My perfect, sleepy girl. You’re being so good for me.”
In an effort to maintain the illusion of you being asleep, you were taking measured breaths and doing your best to not audibly react to the overwhelming pleasure. Bucky was only pushing you closer and closer to that edge. It didn’t take long for the orgasm to wash over you. He made sure to coax you through it. His metal hand had reached up to carefully card through your hair.
Once he was finished, Bucky pulled back and wiped his damp beard with the back of his hand. He had a stupid grin on his face and he looked pussy-drunk. After you’d caught your breath, it took him a moment to realize that you were actuallydrifting back off to sleep. He still needed to clean you up, though. Not wanting to wake you, he quietly went into the room’s conjoined bathroom and wet a rag.
He returned to you and began wiping between your thighs. Usually, he’d change the sheets, but you were already asleep. There was no point in doing that, now. He moved the warm wash cloth in soft circles on your skin. The heat of the fabric was even more soothing, and you were fully out. Finished cleansing you, he tossed the rag to the side and went to go fetch Alpine. The fluffy white cat would scratch at the door all night if he left her.
Coming back with the cat, he laid beside you and pulled you to rest your head on his chest. You sighed softly, and he kissed the top of your head. You’d been absolutely perfect for him, and he had to whisper more praises.
“Thank you for that, baby. Sleep well.”
Taglist: @sunday-bug @onyx8514-blog @death-in-a-tar0t-card (comment to join!!)
imagine bucky having a really bad day, like maybe business went wrong and it’s causing a lot of stress and problems, then he takes it out on fairy 😱 how would she react?
this probably isn't what you'd expect but
a man's place
18+
Bucky's having a bad day. He makes the mistake of taking it out on you.
Warning: Mob!Bucky x Wife!Reader, mature themes, arguing, angry!bucky, bucky is an asshole, physical violence (not from bucky!), brief mention of abuse.
Series Masterlist
Seventeen million dollars.
Seventeen million dollars just got flushed down the toilet because of an avoidable mistake. Because of an over-sensitive arms dealer that got offended at a joke one of Bucky's men made.
Bucky's pissed. He feels as pathetic as he probably looks, lying on the couch in his office with a bottle of whisky held to his chest. He's yelled at everyone in sight today, making sure they all know how incompetent they are.
But they're only a reflection of his leadership.
Today marks thirteen years since his father died. Thirteen years since he was forced into a position of power that no teenager should have been burdened with. And all that Bucky feels is the heavy weight of disappointment.
He will never live up to the name George left behind. He's a failure. Destroying the legacy that generations of Barnes men and women put into place. His empire is falling apart at the seams, and Bucky fears he doesn't have the strength to keep it together.
Deciding his mindset won't lead to any productivity today, he goes home. Seeing his men just makes him even angrier.
The drive home does nothing to dissipate his anger. When he gets there, he still can't shake off his frustration from today. Usually, his stress melts off the second he enters the home he shares with you, but the events of today are too heavy for him to drop.
You're in the kitchen when you hear him come home, and you're surprised when he doesn't call out to you straight away. You decide to give him some space. Maybe he's tired.
When he goes straight upstairs without looking for you downstairs first, you know something's off.
Patiently, you wait for him to return downstairs, not wanting to push him if he's seeking alone time. You know he's been feeling on edge recently with George's death anniversary fast approaching, and he needs to process his nuanced grief in his own way.
When you hear him go into the lounge, you walk in, refusing to leave him alone any longer. You walk in to see him sitting on the couch with a glass of whisky and his laptop on his lap.
"Hey, you," You greet him, expecting him to start complaining about his day and asking you to make it better.
He grunts.
That's it. That's all you get back.
"Shit, okay," You utter, not impressed by his blatant disrespect. "Dinner's gonna be ready in ten; I used the rest of the chicken to make enchiladas."
"Not hungry," He utters bluntly while typing on the keyboard.
Alright. You understand he can get into a bad mood sometimes and it's a tough time for him, but by now, he knows better than to take it out on you.
"You could at least look at me when I'm talking to you," You tell him sternly, patient no more.
"I'm busy, alright?" He spits harshly, taking you aback.
"Who the actual fuck do you think you're talking to, right now?" You ask him with a glare, appalled by his tone.
He slams his laptop shut and gets up to his feet. "Can you just leave me alone?" He seethes.
You see red. "Are you fucking kidding me?" You ask, storming over to him.
"Leave me alone, Y/N," He demands, using your real name for the first time in a long, long time. "I don't have time for your shit today, alright?"
"Don't be such a cunt," You yell, infuriated by the way he's talking to you.
Bucky takes a step closer to you, his eyes filled with fury. "Watch your fucking mouth, and get out of my sight, now," He yells back at you, stepping even closer as if he could ever intimidate you- as if you could ever believe he'd hit you.
It seems he's forgotten who you are to him. Who you are, full stop. So, you set out to remind him
You kick him in the balls.
He keels over with a groan immediately, falling to his knees at your feet. His cheeks flush pink as he falls onto his side, clutching his crotch with both hands like a pathetic piece of shit.
"Don't you ever speak to me like that, you fucking prick," You spit as you glare down at him. "I am your equal. You do not talk down to me or treat me like I am subordinate."
He blows out air through his gritted teeth, looking up at you. "Fa- fairy, I'm sorry."
"You may be the big bad Barnes out there, but in here, you are my husband. Remember that," You state frankly. "You do not intimidate me. I'm not a fucking punching bag."
"I am so sorry," Bucky says, as he slowly gets onto his knees. "Fairy, you know that it would never go that far. I would never lay a hand on you. No matter how angry I get."
"Maybe you've been thinking about your dad a lot recently, and you're trying to be more like him," You say coldly. "But it is not a man's place to disrespect his wife the way you just did."
"You're right," He says, looking up at you with wide eyes. "I fucked up. I shouldn't have-"
"I don't wanna hear it," You cut him off, taking a step back. "I'm going to Banita's. I'll be back when I want to be back."
"No, don't leave," Bucky begs you, shaking his head.
"Goodbye, James," You utter bluntly, before leaving the room.
don't mess with fairy >:-[
part two >
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