manda

i’m so obsessed with catws!bucky you have no idea | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. torture and ptsd. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

part one | part two | part three | main masterlist | also check my latest list: matt murdock pt 2

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

the blade and the crown • knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

↳ by @fandoms-writings (smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, secret relationship)

avoidance | chaos | strangers | power • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ultralightpoe (angst, hurt/comfort, tw: ptsd)

illicit affairs • biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @auroralwriting (enemies to lovers, age gap, angst, gangs)

between a dream | part two | part three • tws!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bcksbarnes (angst, comfort, fluff)

before i could say it • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @fawniswriting (angst, fluff, insecure!bucky)

lessons in lovemaking • bucky barnes x blackwidow!reader

↳ by @artficlly (smut, touch starved!bucky, fluff, angst, bickering, tw: trauma, sa)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. Until it isn't. Word Count: 2.4k Warnings/tags: smut; lots of giggly/clumsy sex; p in v; praise kink (kinda); dirty talk; one instance of pussy pronouns; marking (fingers on back, light bighting); sweat licking; bucky's a very very very soft top; bucky & reader are in a new relationship Notes: i'm not sure what this is. just something i had in my wips for a while and i got random inspiration for it this weekend. giggly sex is fun and hot and giggly sex with bucky barnes would be even funnier and hotter :)

You and Bucky have been dating for exactly six weeks.

Not that anyone’s counting. (You both are. Secretly. Bucky has it written down in his notes app, you’ve been crossing off days on the calendar on your fridge.)

Six weeks of him tugging your hoodie strings to pull you closer when no one’s looking, of the kind of late-night talks that drift into early-morning ones. It’s kind of a precarious middle ground, long enough that you already know exactly how he takes his coffee every morning, but short enough that your heart still does that funny little flip when his name pops up on your screen.

Once the stress of the wedding had passed and the honeymoon drifted to an end, the married life would suit him.

He wouldn't complain about how the home was decorated or how many fussy pillows lined the bed, the man would sleep on the floor if asked.

He'd eat what was put on his plate and wash the dishes afterward, kissing your cheek and murmuring a soft 'thank you' for the meal.

He wouldn't put off chores or fixing things around the house. Whatever you told him needed fixing got fixed, and he did the laundry and made the bed in the morning.

If you complained about work or stress he'd rub your feet and back, his fingers working all of the stress out of your body.

A nice husband like that deserves to be rewarded. You'd kiss his cheek and murmur praises into his ear when you'd cuddle on the couch.

When he held doors for you and brought home flowers, you'd kiss him on the lips, stealing the air from his lungs.

Fixing a leaky faucet and changing the oil in your car got him rewarded with love bites and scratches.

Bucky Barnes x Receptionist! Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes— who is cold and curt with everyone— always lingers by the front desk smiling and flirting with the receptionist.

The Avengers Tower was a well-oiled machine—structured, efficient, humming with the quiet chaos of genius and responsibility. There was a rhythm to it all: debriefings in the morning, security rotations in the afternoon, and the occasional power surge from one of Tony’s questionable late-night experiments in the lab.

But nothing in the building ran more smoothly—more dependably—than the front desk.

She sat at the heart of it, tucked behind the sleek counter with a sharpened pencil between her fingers and a soft, welcoming smile on her lips. She was the calm in the middle of a storm of superheroes, double agents, and billionaire tech mishaps. She knew every name that walked through the lobby, every coded schedule shift, and exactly which agents tried to sneak in late without scanning their badges. She remembered who took their coffee black and who needed two sugars. She remembered birthdays. Allergies. Dog names.

And when the lobby was quiet, like it often was early in the morning, she pulled out a folded crossword from her bag. Always in pencil. Always neat. She’d sit with her brow furrowed and her lip tugged gently between her teeth, fully focused, as if solving those little squares could somehow bring order to everything else around her.

And every morning—every morning—Bucky Barnes walked by just to see her do it.

To the rest of the Tower, Bucky Barnes was an enigma wrapped in leather and combat boots.

He was cold. Quiet. Always two steps ahead and impossible to read, with a stare sharp enough to cut through glass and a silence that seemed louder than most voices. He moved through the halls like a ghost—efficient, intimidating, all coiled muscle and mission focus beneath that black leather jacket. He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t attend team dinners. He didn’t linger longer than necessary.

And he never smiled. Not at anyone.

Except at the front desk.

There—just there—he was different. Softer, somehow. Less winter soldier, more man. He’d slow his stride before he reached the counter, his posture easing, the tension around his eyes loosening the moment he spotted her behind the desk. Sometimes it was just a glance. Sometimes it was a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he caught her mid-crossword, her pencil tapping against the laminate as she chewed the end of it in thought.

But other times—on the mornings when the sun streamed through the tall lobby windows and she was already laughing at something under her breath—he’d stop. Lean one elbow against the desk. Say something in that low voice of his, rough with sleep and just the tiniest hint of amusement. And when she looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling, something would flicker behind his carefully guarded expression. Something warm. Real.

No one else ever saw that version of him.

So when agents passed through and caught a glimpse—when they saw Bucky Barnes smiling, actually smiling, as he leaned in a little too close to the girl at the front desk—they usually did a double take. Whispered to each other in disbelief.

Because everyone knew Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt.

Bucky Barnes didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He didn’t laugh, and he definitely didn’t smirk.

He was the kind of man who carried silence like armor—sharp, impenetrable, and constant. Most people in the Tower had never heard him say more than a few clipped words at a time, let alone seen him do something as human as chuckle.

But then there was her.

And somehow—impossibly—he was doing all of those things. Because of her.

Because of the way she’d look up from her crossword puzzle with that curious little tilt of her head. Because of how she smiled at him like he wasn’t a weapon in a jacket, but just a man passing through her morning. Because she didn’t flinch or force conversation—she just saw him, and he didn’t feel the need to disappear.

So yeah, Bucky Barnes was grinning at the front desk now. Letting out quiet laughs under his breath when she got frustrated retelling a story. Teasing her gently, just to see that spark of amusement in her eyes. The unshakable Winter Soldier—grinning like a fool because she told him he looked tired and then offered him a travel-sized coffee creamer from her purse like it was contraband.

To anyone else, it would’ve seemed impossible.

But to him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world when he was with her.

“Hey, doll.”

His voice was smooth, low, and unmistakably fond as it drifted across the lobby, cutting through the usual morning quiet like it belonged there.

She looked up from her crossword puzzle, already smiling without meaning to. Bucky Barnes was leaning both elbows onto the marble counter, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of his metal forearm, posture relaxed like he had nowhere else to be. As if the world outside didn’t expect him to be a weapon.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she teased, pencil still in hand.

He groaned, dragging a palm down his face in mock frustration. “I told you not to call me that.”

She shrugged, unfazed. “I like it. It suits you.”

He didn’t answer right away—just stared at her, trying not to smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she teased him, the softness in her voice… it undid him more than it should’ve. His stomach flipped like it always did around her, and he prayed it didn’t show on his face.

Then she laughed. That warm, honey-sweet sound that filled the wide, sterile lobby like sunlight through the glass-paneled windows. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just easy. Natural. And it made something in his chest settle.

She twirled her pencil between her fingers before tapping the paper in front of her. “Stuck again,” she sighed. “Ten-down: ‘Hard exterior, soft center.’ Five letters.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Me.”

She blinked at him, then let out a small chuckle. “That’s not you.”

He raised a brow. “It fits though.”

“It does fit,” she admitted with a hum. “But you’re more of a marshmallow all around.” He smiled liking the way she thought of him as.

He leaned in slightly, looking amused. “Told you I’m good at these.”

“I thought your specialty was knives, not wordplay.”

He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I have layers.”

She gave him a playful look. “I’m starting to see that.”

He tried not to react, but the words struck a quiet chord. His gaze drifted to her hands—delicate, thoughtful, a little lead-smudged from the crossword—and he watched as she absently brought her nail to her mouth, chewing gently while focused.

His lips twitched, eyes fond. “You do that when you’re thinking.”

She looked up, surprised. “What?”

“That thing with your nail,” he said, tone casual. “You do it when you’re thinking too hard.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “You notice that?”

He shrugged, doing his best to play it cool even as warmth crept up his neck. “I notice a lot of things.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Like what?”

His voice dipped just a bit, low and steady. “Like how you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. Or how you always read the clues out loud, like you’re hoping someone’ll come help—even though you act like you want to solve it alone.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head, smiling despite herself. “I might be,” she said quietly.

Bucky grinned, unguarded for a moment. “Well,” he said, voice teasing but soft, “keep waiting for me, doll.”

And she laughed again—just for him.

Unaware that moments like this didn’t happen with anyone else.

Unaware that Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t linger.

Except at the front desk.

Except with her.

Meanwhile, Sam Wilson had just stepped into the Tower lobby, sunglasses still on and a fresh coffee in hand. He wasn’t planning to stop—he rarely did on the way in—but something caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

There, at the front desk, was Bucky Barnes.

Again.

For the third time this week, Sam slowed to a stop near the entrance, brows drawing together as he watched the interaction unfold from a distance. Bucky was leaning on the counter like it was his second home, posture casual, shoulders relaxed. He was smiling—an actual, real smile that reached his eyes—and laughing softly at something she said. He even nudged her pencil with the edge of his finger before giving her a lazy little wave, like he was any other guy.

Sam’s jaw was practically on the ground. Bucky Barnes—Mr. Scowl and Grunt—had waved. Waved.

“The hell…” Sam muttered to himself, lips pressing into a line as Bucky finally turned and strolled past, his usual cold stare meeting him. Classic.

But Sam didn’t let it slide.

He changed direction and walked straight to the desk, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion as he approached.

She looked up, bright and cheerful as always. “Morning, Sam! How’s it going?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, setting his coffee down with a thunk and eyeing her. “Don’t ‘morning’ me. What’s going on with you and Bucky?”

Her eyes widened slightly, innocent and confused. “What do you mean?”

Sam crossed his arms. “Don’t play coy. I just watched that man smile—smile—like he wasn’t a certified menace fifteen minutes ago.”

She laughed, the sound sweet and light. “He’s always like that.”

Sam’s brow shot up. “No, he’s not. Not with anyone. The man barely makes eye contact with the rest of us, and he just waved at you like y’all are in a damn Hallmark movie.”

She tilted her head, still looking genuinely puzzled. “Really? He’s never been anything but sweet with me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What does he even talk about?”

“Books. And puzzles. And snacks.”

Sam leaned in eyebrow raised. “Puzzles?”

She nodded looking at him as if he was going crazy— which may or may not be true.

Sam stood back like he’d just solved a case. “You’ve cracked the code. Bucky Barnes has a crush on you.”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious. I’ve known the guy for years. He’s glared at me more than he’s spoken to me. But you? You get crossword help and puzzle talk.”

Sam leaned in slightly, half-conspiratorial, half-stunned. “You realize you’re like… his favorite person in this building, right?”

Her cheeks warmed, and she gave a shy laugh. “I think he just likes the crossword banter.”

“Sure,” Sam drawled, grabbing his coffee. “That’s why he acts like a golden retriever who just found his favorite tennis ball every time he sees you.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her blinking after him—confused, smiling, and maybe, just maybe, starting to wonder what exactly Bucky Barnes saw when he looked at her.

⸻

Sam’s words stuck in her head.

She started paying closer attention—something she was usually great at. It came with the job. She noticed things. Like who avoided eye contact after a rough mission. Who needed to be buzzed in early on Mondays. Who always brought back an extra pastry for the agent next to them without ever saying why.

But now, she was noticing Bucky. (Way more than she usual did)

And he was… not like he was with her. At all.

With everyone else, Bucky was courteous, in that distant kind of way. Polite nods. Quiet acknowledgments. He spoke when necessary, nothing more. Even around the people he trusted—Natasha and Sam—he always held part of himself back. Like he was there, but not fully. Always watching, calculating. Like his presence was borrowed, temporary. Controlled.

But with her?

It was different. So noticeably different that almost everyone already picked up on it.

He lingered.

He’d drift by the front desk in the late afternoon, when the tower was quiet and the air felt still. Sometimes, he mumbled something about needing to double-check the mission schedule or update his clearance log—things she knew damn well he could’ve done from his tablet or comms.

But instead, he’d end up leaning on the counter with his forearms, half-facing her, voice softer than usual. He never seemed in a rush to leave. And on multiple occasions, he would laugh at something she said—not a breathy huff, but a real laugh. Low and warm and surprisingly easy. The kind of laugh that curled around her like a blanket, and made her freeze for half a second with flushed cheeks.

That sound stuck with her. It came back to her later, in the quiet of her apartment or in between elevator dings, like a little reminder she hadn’t imagined it.

And then there were the smaller things.

Like when he walked by two days after Sam’s visit.

She hadn’t even noticed him coming. One moment she was scrolling through reports, and the next, his knuckles tapped gently on the marble edge of the counter—soft enough not to startle, firm enough to pull her attention.

“Hey doll,” he said, his voice almost careful. Not shy, but not overly confident either—just… gentle. Thoughtful. “Brought you something to have with your crosswords.”

She blinked, gaze dropping to the small brown bag he set in front of her. A blueberry muffin peeked out the top.

Her favorite.

She stared. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it,” he said, tone quiet, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Last week, when you said the banana ones ‘scarred you for life.’” He gave a slight grimace, mimicking her dramatic tone, and it made her smile.

“You remember that?” she asked, still a little caught off guard.

Bucky leaned forward just enough to rest his arms on the counter, head tilted, eyes steady on hers. “Told you,” he smiled. “I notice things.”

The air between them felt softer somehow. Still. Like it had narrowed to just that space—just them.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the bag without opening it, eyes still on his. Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t sure what to say, but it felt like she didn’t have to say anything at all.

Because in that quiet look he gave her, there was a kind of ease she hadn’t seen in him before. Not even with the people who knew him best.

A few days later, it happened again.

She was seated at the desk, trying to pull herself together after a chaotic morning. Her hair was scooped into a rushed bun that wasn’t quite secure, strands already slipping loose. One sleeve of her cardigan was pushed up, the other still falling over her wrist. There were two half-finished coffees beside her keyboard, and she looked—by her own admission—a bit of a mess.

She didn’t even notice Bucky until he passed by, slowed, then took a step back like something had caught his eye. He leaned in close enough that she glanced up, startled.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice low and even.

Before she could respond, his hand reached out—delicate but sure—and tugged gently at a loose thread unraveling at the shoulder seam of her cardigan.

She froze.

Not because he touched her exactly, but because of the way he did it. So careful. So familiar. Like it wasn’t a big deal at all. Like fixing her sweater was second nature.

His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and then he let the thread fall into his palm.

“There,” he murmured, standing straight again, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk—something softer. “Didn’t want you walking around looking like a walking unraveling mystery.”

She blinked, still caught between the ghost of his touch and the way his eyes had flicked down so briefly, so purposefully.

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

He was already turning, already moving away down the hall in that unhurried way he always did. But he glanced over his shoulder, soft, a little smug and a knowing glint in his eye.

“Only if you want it to be.”

And then he was gone again.

She sat there for a long moment afterward, eyes on the empty hallway, lips parted slightly in surprise. He always did that—left her sitting there, a little breathless, a little confused, like she was still trying to catch up to whatever moment just passed between them.

It was maddening. And a little addictive.

⸻

But then came the moment that shifted everything.

She was kneeling near the cabinet by the elevator, half-crouched with a clipboard balanced on her thigh and a box of laminated visitor tags in her lap. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, and she was quietly humming to herself, content in the calm of a late morning.

The ding of the elevator barely registered at first—just another routine sound in a day full of them—until the doors slid open and she glanced up.

Bucky stepped out, flanked by two unfamiliar agents.

She smiled without thinking, her automatic greeting already forming on her lips.

But something happened.

He didn’t spare so much as a glance at the others. Barely a grunt of acknowledgment as they moved past him, mid-conversation, unaware or maybe just used to his silence.

But Bucky—he looked straight at her.

And just like that, everything about him changed.

His shoulders relaxed, tension sliding off like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His expression softened, that faint edge in his jaw smoothing into something gentler. His eyes brightened—not wide or dramatic, but unmistakably warmer, like the sight of her tugged some invisible thread inside him loose.

“Hey, doll,” he said, low and fond, like she was the only person in the room.

She froze, lips parting as her breath caught for half a second. She was used to his visits, his little teasing comments, the quiet smiles he saved only for her—but this?

This was different.

He walked toward her without hesitation and crouched beside her, his long legs folding with casual ease. He didn’t ask what she was doing. Didn’t make it awkward. Just reached for a neat stack of folders beside her and handed them over, his sleeve brushing hers.

“You always do this stuff alone?” he asked, glancing briefly at the mess of papers and lanyards around them.

She nodded, adjusting the clipboard in her arms, still caught off guard. “Usually. It’s just part of the prep for tomorrow’s visitor batch.”

“Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to hers. “You shouldn’t have to do it all alone.”

The words weren’t dramatic. There was no flourish, no deliberate charm.

But the way he said it—quietly, like a simple truth—made her chest go warm.

Their fingers brushed as he passed her the folders. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.

And then he hesitated—just for a beat. His gaze dropped to her hands, then lifted again, slower this time. She felt it before he even said anything, like the air shifted.

“Hey,” he said, licking over his bottom lip. “You got plans after your shift?”

She blinked. “Um… no, not really.”

Bucky gave a tiny nod, thumb grazing the edge of one folder like he needed something to fidget with. “There’s that little coffee place down the block,” he said, eyes still on hers. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could go. If you want.”

The way he said it—low and nervous—sent her heart into a full stumble. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a date.

Her mouth opened, then closed again, and when she finally managed a breath, she nodded—too fast, maybe, but smiling. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He stood, the faintest tug of a smile playing on his lips—not cocky, not proud. Just quietly pleased.

“We can do your crossword while there.” He said smiling. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, “You’re such a dork.” He only smiled harder in response.

The two agents, now at the far end of the hall, had turned back to look.

They were staring.

And for once, she didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, it clicked. He really was different with her.

Not just less guarded—but open. Gentle. Grounded in a way she hadn’t seen him be with anyone else.

And maybe—maybe Sam was right. Maybe this wasn’t just one-sided. Maybe it hadn’t been for a while.

Because the Bucky Barnes standing in front of her wasn’t the cold soldier everyone whispered about. He wasn’t sharp-edged or haunted or unreachable.

He was steady. He was thoughtful.

And he looked at her like she was something soft in a world that had never been kind to him.