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For steve when the reader is sick not like a cold sick but more of s long term sick and hes all fluffy and caring and loving and supportive
I'm extremely nervous about this one, but I tried. I promise, I really tried.
Warnings for hurt/comfort sorta, angst sorta, no specific mentions of what is wrong, oof--no editing, and then I just ran with some fluff...my version of fluff, I should say... ~1.3k
In Sickness and In Health
“Steve, stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing. I’m making you food.”
“In that way. You are making food in that way that says you’re treating me like an invalid.”
“Everyone eats, sweetheart.”
“But everyone isn’t—“
“So you’ll be wanting a lemonade with this, I think,” he practically yells over you before you can name it again.
He can’t stop. He’s too proud or too petrified or something, but he hasn’t stopped for an instant. Not in weeks. No missions. Maybe two meetings. He helps you—unnecessarily—get ready for work and wind down when you get back. Every damn day.
It’s very cute and sweet and completely infuriating because he knows. You’re annoyed and feeling so overwhelmingly cared for, simultaneously flattered and exhausted by the idea that you maybe haven’t earned this level of care. All you did was fall ill. All your body did was fail you. The whole thing has been a tough pill to swallow.
You want to be grateful for Steve and all his…Steveness, but damn it, you also just want to feel like the same person you were before, the same person you might be again. Maybe. Except nothing is guaranteed, so it feels like you need to earn getting better even though there’s nothing that you did to lose the privilege of being alive. How do you make something right when you never did anything wrong?
“Don’t give me that face,” he grumps, sautéing something that should smell yummy but only makes you frown harder.
You lean against the kitchen counter and stare—pout really—arms crossed over your chest. No matter how much he feeds you, you’ll start losing weight soon. It’ll be obvious. You’re sure you’ll see that tell-tale change in the way he looks at you. You’re trying to prepare for that day, and it’s too hard to savor these moments when it should feel supportive and loving and normal.
“What face?” Obviously, you fucking know what face you’re making.
“If you’re going to stand there and look like that, at least pour me a drink, too.”
He’s gonna do that thing. That super annoying thing where he makes a satisfied ‘ahh’ sound after tasting a refreshing beverage. You know it’s coming, but you fill the glass with the lemonade that Steve made yesterday (during nearly this exact same conversation) and hand it over.
“Ahh,” he sips and smacks his lips dramatically.
You land halfway between punching him and smiling, so it’s a smirk and a gentle fist-bump to his arm.
“There she is,” he croons. “Now grab a plate.”
“You’re not eating?” Way to make you feel more like an invalid, Steve.
“No,” he argues, tilting some extra liquid off into the sink before transferring the dish, “we are sharing. In bed.”
Well. You’ll be damned. Steve Rogers loathes food in the bed.
He’s cute. That little shit is cute as he insists you tuck yourself between his legs and prop up against his chest. He takes turns with you: him feeding himself, him offering you a bite, you forking your own delicious mouthfuls in, and him asking for a bite without lifting a finger to do it himself.
He insists—as he’s done every night so far—that you two watch your favorite show, or listen to that book on tape you’ve been meaning to start, or play that new album from one of your most beloved artists. Steve just…adores you as if it’s no big deal.
You should love that the world centers around you, right? But it feels weird. It feels wrong in some way.
“I can’t take this anymore,” you finally break to him. “Seriously, you’re either acting like nothing’s wrong or that I’m fragile or both…which is just—“ you toss the plate onto his bedside table and wave your hands about, already tired (but you won’t admit it) “—how are you doing both of those things at once?!”
Steve’s eyes soften as if frowning, but his lips still turn up. He’s made of juxtapositions in every way: old and new, tender and strong, smart but naïve, a rock-hard teddybear.
“Sweetheart, I had an actually laundry list of things wrong with me for my entire life…up until I didn’t. And I may have been sick but it was still my life for a long, long time. I couldn’t just…do nothing. Buck and I were kids, ya know, teenage boys, so he made me do everything he did, exactly as much as he did. He wouldn’t coddle me—hell, he put me in way more danger than my ma ever knew about—and I still got in—“ his eyes go wide “—a lot of fights. A lot of fights which I had no business surviving, honestly.”
“Did all of it anyway.” Steve shrugs. “I’m just doing things with you that I love doing. I want you to live right now as much as I want you every day after this. Please don’t take your time away from me, too.”
Steve cups your face in his hands. “And yeah, I expect you to fight me on this. I fought Bucky tooth and nail for years. I know it feels like you have no control. I know it’s easy to lose sight of the point to anything, to everything.” He releases your face only to sweep his arms around your waist and pull you close, chin tucked over your shoulder so your cheek rests on his soft hair. “I also know that it’s incredibly hard to deny the good stuff when someone follows you around with it and shoves it in your face whenever possible.”
Steve showers your neck with kisses that tickle ferociously, sending you leaning back into him with your full weight, giggling and sighing until he’s had his flirtatious fill.
“A lesson from Bucky?” When your body stops weakly flailing, you feel boneless in a good way for once.
“You know it. That jerk,” he mumbles. “We can do different things. Whatever you want. Just let me still be here, please.”
It’s serious. You know he’s being so serious, but he has to understand. He says he understands. Everything outside your front door is about treating, coping, adjusting, accepting. In here, Steve is pushing normalcy, one thing you want but that feels so out of reach.
“So…by your example,” you tease, dipping your eyes to where he holds you firm, “I should keep picking fights.”
He purses his lips and clears his throat. “I’d prefer you didn’t.” He lightens when that gets another smile out of you. “You should let me love you.”
Steve rolls a finger down your face. “My whole life with you is on borrowed time. I should have been dead for years by now, but everyday I get this—“ he reaches down to thread his fingers through yours “—with you. And yes, sometimes I feel like I’m cheating time, and sometimes I wonder…what would happen if I weren’t here. The only thing those thoughts ever remind me of is that I am here though.”
He leans forward to place a gentle kiss to your lips.
“And you’re really cute when you’re grumpy.”
“Oh, I see,” you mutter into his lips, “you think you can keep being noble about this until I give in to you?”
He’s deliberate and languid in his physical reply, taking his time to adore every failing muscle in your fatigued body, but recovery or not, Steve never wavers.
“Yes, dear,” he whispers softly. “All day. Everyday. Over and over again.”
It’s the same love he showed you before. It’s the same love he’ll show you forever, however long that may be. For either of you. For both of you. Together.
There’s a sleepy hum in the air when you feel it — Bucky’s nose brushing against your neck, the faint scruff on his jaw tickling your skin. You shift under the covers, and immediately, his arms tighten around you, a low whine escaping his throat like he’s afraid you might slip away.
“Stay,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, like it’s the most important thing in the world. His vibranium hand rests carefully on your stomach, feather-light, while his flesh hand tugs you even closer, as if you weren’t already pressed chest-to-back.
You let out a soft laugh, reaching down to intertwine your fingers with his. His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles against your knuckles. Outside, the world is waking up — cars honking faintly, birds chirping — but inside this little bubble, it’s just the two of you.
Bucky presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, a trail of barely-there kisses up your neck. “Love you,” he whispers between each one, like a prayer.
You turn in his arms so you can see him — messy bed hair, heavy-lidded blue eyes, the softest, most lovesick smile on his face. He looks at you like you hung the stars just for him.
“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. He leans into your touch like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut.
“Marry me,” he says suddenly, half-asleep and half-serious.
You giggle, nose bumping his. “Ask me again when you’re awake, Sergeant.”
He grins — that rare, breathtaking smile that he saves just for you — and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.
And even though the day is waiting, with all its responsibilities and noise, neither of you moves. Not yet. Not when this moment feels like forever.
Hello, lovely Ari! I hope life is treating you like the queen you are 💜 I come bearing a thought: grumpy x grumpy with Bucky where he falls asleep on her shoulder on the jet after a mission.
a/n: my angel violet. is there any universe where you ask me to write something and I do not do it? I think not.
featuring the two bozos the fools from misery loves company. all parts are stand alone fics
"Positively thrilled," you mutter, stifling a yawn. "Any more morphine?"
"Last of it went into your boyfriend," Nat calls from the cockpit.
"Not my boyfriend," you say, slumping back.
"Sweet. That’s real sweet, thanks," Bucky grumbles, dragging himself across the floor, one arm pressed to his side. "No morphine-- where's the damn liquor? I had a bottle here."
"Barton torched it. Molotov," Sam says without looking up.
"Dick," Bucky mutters. "Pyromaniac asshole."
"Sit down before your insides become outsides," Nat warns.
"Whee."
"Sit."
"Or what?"
"You’ll die."
"Big whoop."
You glance over. He’s still standing. Barely.
"You bleeding out on purpose or just trying to make a point?"
He shrugs. Or tries to. Winces instead. “Little from column A, little from column B.”
You shoot Bucky a sharp look.
He meets your gaze with a flash of indifference. Then, finally, that twitch of his mouth.
"How’s it going?" he rasps, sinking into the seat beside you.
"Stabbed. You?"
"Shot."
"Spectacular."
"No one told you to get stabbed."
"No one told you to get shot."
"No one told either of you clowns to dive into each other’s line of fire," Nat cuts in. "What was the plan? Now you're both useless."
"I’m not useless," you grumble.
"That knife went through you like butter."
"Okay, Swiss cheese, let’s not start."
A beat of silence passes. Bucky holds back a hiss every time the plane goes through turbulence.
"I've gotten stabbed before," he mutters.
"Try not being shit at it next time, champ."
"Didn't need the save."
"Neither did I."
Silence.
You shift. "Bottle under the seat. Back left."
"Christ, you get me," he groans, leaning over.
He grabs it, opens it with his metal hand, takes a long drink.
His head drops to your shoulder. All heat and blood-soaked fatigue.
“You’re heavy,” you mutter.
“Give it ten minutes. I’ll bleed out some weight.”
A pause.
He moves just enough to press a slow, rough kiss to your shoulder. Somehow finds a scrap of skin between the shredded fabric and grime.
You exhale, slow.
"Not your boyfriend, huh?" he murmurs, voice drowsy. Blood loss and alcohol, hell of a combination.
"Still not."
He hums, quiet.
He doesn’t move. You don’t push him off.
You sigh, resting your cheek against his head, letting the dull hum of the jet act as a lullaby
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Literally just reader making fun of Bucky for saying “Honey, I’m home!”
“Honey, I’m Home!” » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: You can’t help but laugh when Bucky says “Honey, I’m home!”.
Warnings: Fluff, language, kissing, pet names
A/N: Thank you to the lovely anonymous person who requested this🩵
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.
Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier
GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creators. I found it on Pinterest.
“Honey, I’m home!” Bucky says in a singing voice without realizing it as he walks in yours and his shared apartment.
You couldn’t help but burst out laughing when he said that. Bucky frowned and followed the sound of your laugh to the living room to see you laughing on the couch. He dropped his bag on the floor and sat down on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m- I’m sorry.” You managed to say while laughing. “It’s just-” Your laughing interrupted what you wanted to say. “Did you say “Honey, I’m home!”?” You asked.
“Yes.” He says in a mumble.
You started laughing again. You fell backwards on the couch and continued laughing.
“I don’t get what’s so funny about it.” He says.
“It’s the way you said it.” You laughed. “You said it in a singing voice.” You say.
“Ok and?” He questions.
“You also said it like a man coming home to his wife in 1941.” You say, your laughter picking back up.
“I am a man from that time period.” Bucky reminds you. “You know that.” He says.
“I know.” You say.
You were laughing so hard that your stomach started hurting. You didn’t realize how close you were to the edge of the couch and fell on the floor. You landed on the floor, making an “oof” sound.
“Oh shit.” Bucky sat up. “Are you ok, doll?” He asks with concern in his voice.
“Y-Yea.” You tried catching your breath from laughing. “I’m ok.” You breathed. “I didn’t know I was close to the edge.” You say.
You laid on the floor and caught your breath for a moment as you staring up at your boyfriend from the floor.
“Are you done laughing at me now?” He asks, staring down at you.
“Yes.” You answered. “I’m sorry for laughing.” You apologized. “You just sounded so cute when you said it.” You say with a smile.
“Good.” He leans forward. “Now that you’re done laughing at me…” He grabs you and pulls you up from the floor effortlessly. “I can love up on my best girl.” He says.
Bucky gives you a much needed kiss. He was on a week long mission and missed you more than usual.
“I’m sorry for laughing.” You apologized again, looking in his blue eyes.
I wanted to give him armor reminiscent of his outfit in IW, but note his gold aesthetic has returned. This takes place in an AU where he has embraced his identity as an Odinson, and fights beside Thor to bring down Thanos
Also I love how both of these characters received """tHeRaPy""" (tho in Loki's case his session was an actual unethical interrogation just barely skimming the line of torture, whereas Bucky just had the shittiest, most unprofessional therapist the military had to offer). Both were abducted by a shitty death cult, both fell off a ledge (Bucky accidentally, Loki intentionally in an attempted suicide), both are victims of mind control/mind influence, both were tortured....
Yeah, these guys were put through the damn wringer, and they deserve so much more than to be victim-blamed and tortured and abused.
I will never forget the writers saying Bucky "has to take responsibility for his actions and allow himself the guilt" and "he cannot always hide behind his lack of control".
There's so much wrong with that. He can't take responsibility because he was forced and tortured and brainwashed into submission! He was as much a victim as the people murdered. And he has to feel guilty? Over what exactly? If there's anyone who must feel guilty it's Hydra and anyone who supports them, not Bucky. And he's hiding... don't make me laugh.
It's like these people choose to willingly ignore the ones doing something wrong (Hydra and Thanos) and prefer to blame the victims instead. It's so despicable.
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