Masterlist
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Steve Rogers Masterlist
Nowhere Girl
DEAR READER
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@wordsnotcanon
Masterlist
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Steve Rogers Masterlist
Nowhere Girl
Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.
Adrian Chase
bpm by @residentsuperhero 🔥
Bob Reynolds
—Valentine's dessert by @avastarred 🔥
Bucky Barnes
A Few Upgrades AO3
Birthday Boss AO3
Cold Medicine Confessions by @starling-in-the-sky
How You're Looking at Me [Bed Chem] by @buckets-and-trees 🔥
Jimmy, Who? By @castielscaplan
Just Need a Hug by @castielscaplan
Like that, baby? By @wordsnotcanon 🔥
Mission Accomplished by @aquaticmercy
mission shipwatch by @ellebarnesx
Mutual Satisfaction by @veltana 🔥
WRONG NUMBER, RIGHT CALL by @metal-armed-muse 🔥
Your Divorce is My Birthday Present by @/aquaticmercy
Bucky Barnes/ Mel
Morning by @girlonthefireescape
Clark Kent
Asking if you can have dessert... By @luveline
Give It To Me by @kryptidfiles 🔥
Sugar Rush by @/kryptidfiles 🔥
Talk So Sweet, Doing Bad Things by @/kryptidfiles 🔥
TEARS ──꒰💋꒱ ❞ ‧₊˚ by @stargazsblog
Master (Rage)baiter by @/kryptidfiles 🔥
what else do you think is pretty? By @theworstwolvie 🔥
Joaquín Torres
Beg by @magicalqueennightmare
Loki
More of You, I Love by @castielscaplan
Multiple Partners/Poly
Claustrophobic? Try Some Dick. By @quantumbarnes 🔥
if my man dies in the next marvel movie i'm gonna make it everyone's problem i'm gonna go to JAIL
Siren - Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 1: Sweetheart)
You woke up the way you always did when you slept in Bucky’s bed—warm, heavy, and breathing him in like he was the only safe place left in the world.
His chest rose and fell under your cheek in that slow, steady rhythm that meant he’d actually slept. Not the light, one-eye-open soldier sleep he did when something was wrong. Real sleep. Deep enough that his arm—the metal one—was draped heavy over your waist, his fingers curled loosely against your hip like even unconscious, he couldn’t let go.
You didn’t move. You never did, not right away. These were the minutes you stole for yourself, the ones where you got to pretend this was something more than what it was. Whatever it was. You’d stopped trying to name it somewhere around the third time you fell asleep watching Twister with your legs tangled up in his on this exact bed, his vibranium fingers carding through your hair while Bill Paxton chased tornadoes.
It’s not like that, you’d told Sam once, and he’d just looked at you with that Sam Wilson look—the one that said sunshine, you are so full of shit—and gone back to his coffee.
Bucky stirred. His chest expanded with a deeper breath and his hand tightened on your hip, pulling you closer like a reflex. Then his lips pressed against the top of your head, slow, warm, deliberate.
“Punk.”
His voice was gravel and sleep and something that made your stomach flip every single time, no matter how many mornings you’d done this.
You smiled against his chest. “That’s not my name.”
“It’s your name when you steal all the blankets.” His fingers traced a lazy circle on your hip. “You’re a menace, Y/N.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer that. He never did. But his arm stayed where it was, and he kissed your hair again, and you closed your eyes and let yourself have it for just a few more minutes.
The thing about the Thunderbolts safe house was that it was too small for secrets and too loud for silence.
The kitchen was ground zero. Always. Yelena had claimed the counter closest to the stove like it was sovereign territory, and she sat cross-legged on it most mornings in an oversized hoodie with a mug of tea she’d fight someone over. Bob was usually there too, hovering, doing that thing where he tried to make conversation with everyone like a golden retriever who’d been given a security clearance.
You came downstairs in one of Bucky’s shirts—a dark henley that hit you mid-thigh—and bare feet, hair still a mess, and you didn’t even think about it. It was just what you wore. His clothes were softer than yours and they smelled like him and that was reason enough.
Yelena looked up from her tea. Looked at the shirt. Looked at you.
“So.”
“Don’t.”
“I did not say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say good morning.” Yelena sipped her tea with the energy of someone who was absolutely not going to say good morning. “That is a nice shirt. Is it new?”
Bob looked between you. “That’s Bucky’s shirt.”
“Thank you, Bob,” Yelena said, not looking at him. “Very helpful.”
You poured yourself coffee and pretended your face wasn’t warm. “It’s comfortable.”
“I’m sure it is.” Yelena’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure it smells very comfortable.”
You pointed at her with the coffee mug. “I will end you.”
“You would never. You love me. I am your favorite.”
“Bob’s my favorite.”
Bob lit up like Christmas. “Really?”
“No,” Yelena said. “She’s lying to make a point. I am the favorite. This is not a discussion.”
You laughed—that real laugh, the loud one, the one that made everyone in whatever room you were in turn and look because something about it was magnetic, like you’d figured out how to make joy a frequency and you were broadcasting it. You didn’t know you did that. You never knew.
Bucky came downstairs. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, hair still damp, and he didn’t look at you first but you knew—you always knew—that you were the first thing he clocked when he walked into any room. The slight tension in his shoulders easing. The way his jaw unclenched a fraction. Like some part of his brain was running a constant threat assessment and you were the all-clear signal.
He poured coffee. Stood next to you. Close enough that his arm brushed yours.
“Mornin’.”
“Morning.” You bumped his hip with yours. “Sleep okay?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Had some punk hogging the blankets.”
“Weird. You should talk to someone about that.”
Yelena looked at Bob. Bob looked at Yelena.
“They are impossible,” Yelena said.
“They’re so cute,” Bob whispered.
“They are not cute. They are stubborn and stupid and in denial.”
John Walker walked in, took one look at you in Bucky’s shirt standing shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, and said, loudly, “Damn, Y/N, those legs though—”
Bucky’s head turned so fast it was almost mechanical. The metal arm flexed. John stopped talking.
“What?” John held up his hands. “I’m just saying—”
“Don’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped about two octaves.
“—she looks nice today.”
You put your hand on Bucky’s forearm—the metal one, because you never flinched from it, never hesitated, never treated it like anything other than part of him—and squeezed.
“Down, boy.”
Bucky looked at your hand on his arm. Looked at you. Something shifted behind his eyes, fast and unreadable, and then he took a sip of coffee and said nothing.
Alexei wandered through in a bathrobe. He ruffled your hair as he passed.
“My little songbird. Good morning.”
“Mornin’, Alexei.”
He looked at Bucky. Looked at you. Leaned in close to Bucky and said, in what he clearly thought was a whisper, “If you hurt her, I break every bone. Both arms. Even the shiny one.”
“Alexei,” you groaned.
“What? I am being supportive father figure. This is what they do in American movies.”
Ava drifted through like a ghost, grabbed an apple, and paused long enough to look at the entire tableau—Yelena on the counter, Bob grinning, John nursing his ego, Alexei threatening Bucky, you standing there in Bucky’s shirt with your hand on his arm—and said, “I’m not getting involved in this,” before disappearing again.
You watched her go. Made a mental note to invite her to movie night. Again. She’d say no. Again. But you’d ask, because that was what you did—you reached for people, whether they wanted to be reached for or not, and most of the time they didn’t even realize how much they needed someone to try until you already had.
That was the thing about you. The thing that made you dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the voice that could shatter bulletproof glass.
You walked into a room and within fifteen minutes, the bartender was telling you about his kid’s soccer game and the woman in the corner booth was showing you pictures of her dog and the guy who’d been having a shit day was suddenly laughing. You remembered names. You remembered details. You asked about the thing they mentioned last time and you meant it, actually meant it, and people could tell.
It was a gift. It was also the thing that would almost kill you.
Because the flip side of making everyone feel like they were your best friend was that you needed them to feel that way. You needed to be needed. You needed to be liked, loved, wanted, useful. And when someone took that need and twisted it—when they figured out that the girl who would do anything to make you feel special would also do anything to keep you from leaving—
Well.
You weren’t there yet. Not today. Today you were in Bucky Barnes’s kitchen in Bucky Barnes’s shirt, and his hand had found the small of your back, and when you looked up at him, he was already looking at you with those blue eyes that had seen every kind of horror the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had to offer and still went soft when they landed on you.
Tell him, you thought.
Tell him you’re in love with him.
Tell him you’ve been in love with him since the first time he called you sweetheart in that stupid Brooklyn accent and you forgot how your own powers worked and nearly blew out every window in the building.
But you didn’t. Because you were terrified. And because the thing you had right now—the bed sharing and the forehead kisses and the way he looked at you—felt like standing on the edge of something beautiful and knowing that one wrong step would shatter it.
So you drank your coffee. And you leaned into his side. And you started planning what you’d sing tonight.
I've been a fan of Sebastian Stan for A week and I have found that there are sooo many fans of him on here and it makes me feel less lonely! (unlike how I feel with other actors sometimes, I need to admit) soooooo it would be GREAT if you could share with me some of your favorite Sebastian Stan-related blogs/ Bucky Barnes-related blogs/ any other his character-related blogs. I'd like to follow them!! You can share your own account, I don't mind. ❣️
Oh you have no idea what you've asked, I'm infamous for my recommendations 😈
So here's some of my favourites
@chateaubarnes, she has all kinds of Bucky fics you might want to read (you must check out werewolf bucky, though)
@quantumbarnes, its actually illegal to not read my auntie doesn't have a boyfriend by her, it's my favourite
@imnotjustreadingg-volume-two, Nerdy bucky, that's all I'm gonna say. You HAVE to read it!!!!
@superbassbuck, two of my most favourite series are from her (wildflower and grade a pain in my ass)
@imthatonefangirl, you should totally read the dad's best friend series she has ongoing rn
@sunday-bug, you'll tire yourself reading her stuff but the stories will never end, it's literally a treasure
@navybrat817, I don't even have the words for her, she's the most immaculate bucky writer ever. There is not one thing she has written that isn't God tier.
@barnesonly if you want to make yourself cry and then giggle like a school girl check out little dove and illegal
@orellazalonia for the best bucky crack-fics of the entire universe
@singulartoast for the most Taylor swift and lana del rey coded fics ✨️
@epiphanyrogers for her chef's kiss drabbles
@eterna1reverie for her series spiracle and literally everything she writes has me drooling so....
@vunblr is a cavern of amazing series
@daydreamgoddess14 is actually a celebrity, her stories will make fireworks light up in your brain
@metal-armed-muse, I can never forget kie, her one shots are literally my pride and joy 😃
Okay I'll stop before you block me for being insane lmaoooo 💀 (but i may come back to edit this with more of my favourite writers. I'm sorry i can't help it)
Daisy, you are the sweetest! I'm honored to be included with these incredible writers. ❤️
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
Love language
What Makes It Worth It
Pairing: Thunderbolts Bucky Barnes x Reader
AN 💌: My anxiety has been an absolute bitch recently. I was sitting here thinking about how Bucky would react if he saw you, his girl, his world, in the midst of a panic attack and this is what came out ✨
TW: Anxiety, Panic Attacks
The couch was too close, too convenient. You barely kicked off your shoes before sinking into it, limbs tight, chest already stuttering. You tried. You really tried to hold it in. He wasn’t supposed to be home for another two days. You could fall apart now and tape it all back together before he ever saw a crack.
But your body had other plans.
The texts had stopped four hours ago. Then reports started coming in—scattered mentions of a skirmish gone sideways. A blast radius. Radio silence. The same cycle every time: silence, dread, desperation. You knew better than to believe everything online, but knowing better didn’t slow your breath down. It didn’t keep your hands from shaking or your ribs from clenching inward like your body wanted to fold itself out of existence.
So when the door clicked open—soft, early, wrong—you were already past the edge. Shoulders heaving. Face wet. Both hands braced over your mouth like that might muffle the panic clawing its way up your throat.
And then—
“Hey—hey.”
His voice. Rougher than usual. Lower. Breathless, maybe.
Your eyes flew open.
Bucky.
Bucky, standing just inside the doorway. Boots muddy, jacket torn at the sleeve. He looked like hell.
But the moment he saw your face, you were the only thing he cared about.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said—hoarse, wrecked. He dropped his bag instantly and was on the floor in front of you a second later, kneeling, metal hand unbuckling his glove like it offended him just to wear it near you.
“No, no,” you rasped, shaking your head, already wiping at your face, trying to stand, trying to hide, anything— “You’re hurt—you don’t have to—”
He caught your wrists—not rough, not fast—just firm. Grounding. Real.
“Stop,” he said, quietly. “You think I give a damn about bruises right now?”
You opened your mouth but nothing came out.
His hands—flesh and metal—cupped your cheeks with the kind of reverence that made you cry harder.
“I’m fine,” he whispered. “I’m here. You hear me? I’m right here.”
You nodded. Then shook your head. Then covered your face again, breath still ragged.
He moved closer. Not crowding—just steady. “Okay. I’ve got you. Just do one thing for me.”
He waited until you cracked your eyes open.
“Breathe with me, baby.”
He took a slow inhale—deep enough you could hear it shudder through his chest—then let it out through parted lips. You tried to match it. Failed. Tried again.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good. Just keep going. I’ve got you.”
Your hands trembled. “I didn’t think—I thought—”
Your voice broke.
“I know,” he said. And he did. God, he knew. “I hate those missions. Hate being away from you. But I came home. I always come home.”
You gave a cracked sound—something between a laugh and a sob.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. You could feel the sweat on him, the grime, the sharp sting of smoke still clinging to his clothes.
And still—he held you like you were the one in pieces.
“I don’t care what I have to go through,” he said, voice barely a breath now. “The world, Hydra, hell itself—I’d do it a thousand times if it means I get to come back to you.”
You finally let yourself fall forward, into his chest. Your arms wrapped around him like you could fold into his ribs. He didn’t flinch. He just wrapped you up, one arm locking behind your back, the other brushing through your hair with a touch so gentle it undid you all over again.
“I thought you were gone,” you whispered.
“I’m not.” His lips brushed your hair. “Not going anywhere. You hear me?
Your breath hitched.
You didn’t know how long you stayed there, curled into him on the living room floor, but time stopped mattering. Your chest had started to slow, breath evening out in shaky little exhales, and still—he didn’t let go.
Not once.
His hands moved slowly. One at the back of your neck, warm and steady. The other across your spine, knuckles brushing light, like even now he couldn’t stop making sure you were still real.
Your face was tucked against the crook of his shoulder, and you could feel the tension in him—not the kind that came from the mission, but the kind that came from seeing you like this. From not being here when it started.
“I should’ve called,” he said suddenly, voice low and tight. “I should’ve let you know sooner.”
“You were in the field,” you murmured, voice raw. “You don’t need to babysit my breakdowns.”
He leaned back just enough to see you. “That’s not what this is.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. His jaw was set, his brows drawn together in a way that was all too familiar—guilt, pulling at every line in his face.
“I hate knowing you went through that alone,” he said.
“You’ve gone through worse,” you whispered, and his expression darkened instantly.
“Don’t.” His voice was quiet, but sharp. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare your pain to mine like mine makes yours less real.”
You opened your mouth, but he stopped you with a look. Not angry—just devastated.
“You think I survived all that just to come home and watch you suffer in silence?” he said. “Sweetheart, no. I made it through all of it because I knew I had you waiting.”
Your throat tightened again. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It was something else. Something warm and unbearable all at once.
“I couldn’t stop thinking you weren’t coming back,” you said. “And if I lost you—if I lost this—”
His hand came up to your face again, cupping your cheek with that same reverence. Like you were something holy.
“You’re never gonna lose me,” he said. “Not if I’ve got a heartbeat left.”
You leaned into his hand, eyes fluttering shut.
He let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then another, softer one to your temple.
“C’mere,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”
You didn’t resist when he stood, arms slipping under you like it was second nature. He carried you like you weighed nothing, but you could feel the careful way he held you—like something breakable but precious.
He brought you to the bedroom and set you down on the bed with impossible gentleness. You watched him move around the room—peeling off his jacket, tugging off his boots, moving slow for once.
Then he climbed in beside you, under the covers, and pulled you into him again—this time wrapped in warmth and softness and clean sheets that smelled like home.
“Y’know,” he murmured, voice sleep-thick and close to your ear, “if it ever gets like that again… don’t wait ‘til I’m gone.”
You looked up at him.
He met your gaze. “I mean it. You wake me up, you call me in the field, you throw a book at my head—anything. You don’t go through that alone. Not ever again.”
You nodded slowly.
Then, softer: “Can you hold me? Just until I fall asleep?”
His arms tightened around you.
“I’m not going anywhere.
Chapter 2: Soft Earth, Sharp Breath
Alice scrambled to her feet. Fast. Clumsy. Hands slick with moss and adrenaline. Her heart jackhammered as she stumbled backward. "What the fuck—"
The grin remained perfectly still.
And then, slowly, it moved. Upward. Sideways. Pivoting in the air like a coin on an invisible string. Light bent around it. Space gave it clearance.
Alice's lungs felt too small.
The voice came again, a little softer this time. More curious. "Don't remember me, do you?"
Nowhere Girl
Chapter 1 - Final Notice
Chapter 2 - Soft earth, Sharp breath
Steve Rogers Masterlist
Everything, Always
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Bucky Barnes x Reader
The Cost of Forever
Emergency Contact
Too Quiet
Operation: I've got a text!
The Edge and The Echo
Like that, baby? 🔥🥵
What makes it worth it
Series:
You Better Knock - Bucky Barnes x Reader
Part 1 - Brooklyn Sundays
The Ink Between Us - Bucky Barnes x Ellie Quinn (OC)
Chapter 1 : Lucky Girl
Chapter 2: You gonna sing, or sulk?
Chapter 3 : You've got the wrong notebook.
Chapter 4 : Mud and Ghosts
Nowhere Girl : Chapter 1 Final Notice
The envelope lay like a threat.
Half-crumpled, yellow-edged, and crooked, it sat in the narrow slat of light between the front door and the silence of the apartment. "Final Notice" was stamped in red that had bled through the paper like a wound.
Alice didn't pick it up right away.
She stared at it from across the room, barefoot on the cold wood floor, mug in hand—though the tea inside had long gone cold. She hadn't meant to stare for so long. But the envelope had gravity. Her muscles had none.
The fridge was humming again. Loud, like a migraine. Like it was trying to warn her. Like it knew something she didn't.
She rubbed her eye with the heel of her palm and tried to pretend it wasn't shaking. Her hand. Or her breath.
Outside the window, Los Angeles groaned under June heat. Sirens distant, but never far. Someone shouting on the sidewalk. Someone always shouting. The apartment building across the alley had a new ICE van parked out front. Third time this month. Maybe fourth.
Jules' shoes were still by the door. Canvas sneakers with frayed laces. She hadn't taken them when she left.
No note. No message. No text. Just gone.
The mug slipped from her fingers and clattered into the sink, the sound louder than it should have been. She winced, then stepped forward and picked up the envelope, peeling it up from where it stuck to the tile.
Her thumb hesitated on the flap.
She already knew what it said.
She opened it anyway.
"NOTICE OF FINAL BALANCE AND RENT DUE Property Management: Aetherland Holdings Total Due: $1,840.00 Due Date: June 15th Notice Issued: June 12th Failure to remit payment may result in eviction proceedings."
Three days.
Alice blinked once. Then again.
Like that, baby?
It’s late.
The kind of late where the house forgets to breathe. Everything’s still, heavy. The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch and your thoughts louder than they should be.
You shouldn’t be doing this.
Not with him asleep in the guest room down the hall. Not with your vibrator between your legs, the blanket hiked just enough to give your wrist space to move. And definitely not with his name caught behind your teeth, choking in your throat with every roll of your hips.
But you can’t stop thinking about him.
Everything, Always
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
TW: Anxiety, Panic Attacks
Summary: You hit the floor before you see it coming. Panic coils in your chest. Your lungs won’t open. Steve’s there. seeing too much. saying too little. You beg him not to look. He looks anyway. And then he says it:
“you’re not a burden. you’re mine.”
He doesn’t ask you to be okay. He just kisses you like you already are.
The final corridor is quiet.
Dust drifts in lazy motes through beams of flashlight and the flicker of dead emergency lighting. Your boots crunch over broken glass and scraps of paper, and you can feel your heartbeat in your teeth.
“You good?” Bucky asks from behind you. His voice is low, casual—but there’s something underneath. A check-in.
“Fine,” you answer. Too fast. Too automatic.
You open the last door—a storage room. Empty. You step inside anyway. Your flashlight skims rusted shelves, crates full of nothing, the echo of silence thick around you.
“Fine,” you repeat, softer this time. Just to yourself.
The mission’s over. No hostiles. No last-minute ambush. You should feel relief. But your chest is tight, your vest suddenly too snug. You tug at the collar, jaw set.
Behind you, Bucky clicks off his comm and leans against the doorway.
“You’ve been breathing weird since we hit sublevel two.”
You don’t turn around.
“It’s nothing.”
The Ink Between Us- Mud and Ghosts
The mud was in everything. His boots. His sleeves. His goddamn molars.
And James Buchanan Barnes—Brooklyn-born, with the best hair in the whole goddamn unit—was over it.
The 107th had been camped just outside Saint-Étienne for three days now. It rained through all of them.
Not that the weather was the worst part. The worst part was waiting.
Waiting to move. Waiting to get shot at. Waiting to see who cracked next.
Bucky crouched near a fire that didn’t deserve to be called one—more smoke than heat, more threat than comfort. His gloves were wet. His socks were worse. And the tin of beans he was poking at with a stick could’ve doubled as cement.
“You gonna eat that, Sarge?” came a voice to his left.
Roscoe Simmons, nineteen, Alabama drawl, six feet of pure chaos and zero survival instinct, grinned at him through the steam.
Bucky didn’t look up. “Why, you miss the taste of home? This tastes like shit.”
Simmons laughed. “Hell, back home we’d mix this with ketchup and call it a delicacy.”