🧸ྀི 𝙼.

𝄞 My Masterlist.

𝄞 Bucky enthusiast. Coffee lover. Writes fanfics instead of sleeping.

𝄞 I write for MCU characters, but Bucky Barnes runs this Tumblr.

𝄞 mdni! requests are open!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Pairing: College student!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 1.5k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: Your boyfriend’s helping you study for your chem exam, and it’s hard to focus when he looks that good explaining chemistry.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: fluff, college!au, domestic!bucky, light academic stress, mutual affection, soft boyfriend energy, studying together, established relationship.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: I love smart couples🫠

my masterlist

You didn’t think studying Chemistry on a Saturday was the most exciting thing in the world — but, unfortunately, it had to be done. The exam was getting closer, and with it came anxiety and desperation.

You’d been sitting in front of those notes for hours — yours and Bucky’s, which he had lent you earlier that week. Your head was starting to pound inside your skull; all those formulas, organic reactions, and substitution mechanisms were tangled into a never-ending mess, causing pure chaos inside you.

Your eyes were burning.

You blinked slowly, trying to ease the sting while staring at the white page in front of you, filled with numbers, arrows, and carbon chains that once made sense. Now, they just looked like confused scribbles.

That’s when you felt it.

A warm presence approached from behind, as soft as the muffled sound of cars passing outside the window. Two hands — one cool like metal, the other impossibly warm — held your head gently, like they were trying to shield it from a complete meltdown.

His lips pressed to the top of your head with the kind of tenderness that only comes from someone who knows exactly what you need, even when you don’t say a word.

“You’ve been staring at that same page for hours, baby,” Bucky’s voice was low, rough, like he didn’t want to break the calm around you.

You closed your eyes for a second. Just having him there, that close, helped.

“My head is exploding, Buck. It’s like my brain decided to shut down completely,” you muttered with a groan, placing your hands over your face and letting out a tired sigh.

Bucky sat in the chair beside you, pulling yours closer to him. The apartment was quiet, except for the distant hum of the city outside — horns, hurried footsteps, the constant hum of New York you had both grown to love over time.

You had bought that apartment together in Manhattan’s Upper East Side right after graduating high school. A bold move, maybe, but everything felt simpler when it was with him. Not long after, both of you got into Columbia University.

But Bucky talked, from time to time, about what would come next.

About a bigger house, with wide windows, farther from all the noise. Where you could hear your own thoughts. Where he could watch you reading in the backyard, and your cat Alpine could have more room to run around. Where the future felt more stable — and still, somehow, just as beautiful.

“You need to breathe,” he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face with one hand, the other gently pulling your hands down from where they covered your eyes.

He brought your fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them — light and unhurried, like it could dissolve every bit of your tension. And somehow… it did.

Carefully, Bucky grabbed the notes from your lap and started flipping through them. His eyes moved over the scribbled lines, focused and calm. You, however, couldn’t look at anything else but him.

That sharp jawline, carved like a Greek statue under the soft light of the lamp. His head tilted slightly to the side, the way it always did when he was thinking. His eyes — your favorite eyes — a deep ocean blue, locked onto the page in front of him, as if he could decode every atom with just a glance.

You weren’t sure what was harder: understanding chemical reactions or the fact that he looked that good while doing it.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even started talking yet.

“Let’s start here…” he said, running his fingers over the pages until he stopped at a section highlighted in pale blue. “Carbon hybridization.”

His tone was calm, but clear. He pointed at a faded structure drawn in pencil, and started explaining it like it wasn’t the most complicated thing in the world.

Whenever something didn’t click for you, he’d pause, go over it again with patience, even redraw it if he needed to. There was no rush. No judgment. Just him — steady, gentle — guiding you one step at a time.

“Remember what I told you about sp³ orbitals?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost as if he didn’t want to interrupt your train of thought.

You nodded, but the furrow in your brow gave you away. He smiled softly and started again, this time a little slower.

Between explanations, he sketched formulas on the paper. Arrows, angles, lone pairs of electrons. He laid everything out in a way that suddenly made it make sense. Then, he slid the page toward you.

“Try this one,” he said, eyes steady on yours.

You grabbed your pen with determination. Even with your brain fried, he somehow made it all feel possible.

When you finished the first equation, he made a small approving sound in the back of his throat — almost like a secret compliment. Then, he set up another problem.

Time passed without either of you noticing. Only after a long stretch of silence — you hunched over your paper, trying to figure out the placement of that one bond — did he say:

“I’m gonna make us some coffee.”

You nodded without looking up.

“Mhm. Okay.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the page. Pen twirling between your fingers. You were so focused, it was like the rest of the world disappeared — even him.

Bucky watched you for a moment longer. The way you bit your bottom lip, the loose strands of hair framing your face, the small wrinkle between your brows as you worked through it. You were trying so hard — and to him, that was beautiful.

A quiet, proud smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he stood and walked toward the kitchen, already knowing exactly how you liked your coffee.

The soft yellow glow from the lamp cast gentle shadows along the walls. The apartment smelled like warm coffee and old paper. In the corner, Alpine was curled up in her little cat bed, breathing slowly, twitching her paws now and then in some mysterious dream.

The smell of coffee pulled you out of your trance.

You hadn’t even realized how much time had passed working through that equation until you felt the mug gently touch the edge of your paper. You looked up, and there he was, Bucky — with that small smile, holding two mugs.

Yours had the cat print he pretended to hate, and his was plain black with the name “Barnes” faded on the side.

“No sugar. Just how you like it,” he said, setting the mug beside you and taking his seat again.

You muttered a sleepy “thank you” between a yawn and a sip, then went right back to the notes.

The next explanations came with the warmth of coffee in your hands. He spoke slowly, pointing at examples with his pen, sketching out arrows and reactions with that same precise way of his. All you could hear was the city far below and his voice filling the quiet.

Then, for a moment, he stopped writing.

You felt his gaze before you even looked up. Bucky was staring at you. Not in an intrusive way — just… soft, like he was quietly taking in something he never got tired of.

You furrowed your brows.

“What?” you asked, sipping from your mug.

He smiled, that small smile that always meant he was thinking something stupidly sweet.

“Chemistry looks good on you.”

You tried not to laugh — really tried — but failed completely. You glanced down, biting your lip to hide the grin, shaking your head as you said, laughing quietly:

“You’re such a dork.”

He chuckled too, low and warm, and went back to writing. But the weight of those words lingered with you longer than they probably should’ve.

(…)

Later that night, the city had fully disappeared into darkness.

Outside, the lights from surrounding buildings glowed against the sky. Inside, the apartment was quiet, still warmed by the single lamp in the corner and the soft clinks of pens against paper.

Alpine was curled in her bed like a sleepy little loaf, unmoving. The table was still cluttered, though now it was mostly highlighted pages and scribbled-understanding. You both were still at the table, but sitting much closer — arms brushing, knees touching here and there without intention.

He was walking you through the last topic, his voice low, pointing things out for you while you wrote. Your handwriting was a little messy now, tired, but you were still focused. Still trying.

When he finished, he leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh.

“We’re done.”

You stretched, lifting your arms above your head and letting out a tiny sound of relief. Your shirt rode up a little, and moments later, you felt his arms wrap around your waist.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling you gently into his lap, resting his head against your neck and pressing soft, lazy kisses to your skin.

You smiled, eyes half-closed already, finally letting yourself relax.

“Thank you for everything. Seriously,” you mumbled, turning your face just enough to look at him.

“I’ll always help my girl,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And you didn’t need to say anything after that. You just rested your face against his and stayed there. Quiet. Exactly where you wanted to be.

BUCKY BARNES/WINTER SOLDIER

Неотразимая(Irresistible)

Bucky Barnes x Ex-Widow!Reader

His Favorite Girls

What does the Super Soldier hide?

My little widow

Chemistry Looks Good on You

Keep up the amazing work!!

My little widow | w.s

★Obsessive!Winter Soldier x Ex-Widow!Reader

★summary: She ran away. Changed her name, her life, her country. But no one escapes the Winter Soldier.

WC: 2,3k

★warnings: Obsession, psychological tension, suggestive language, Red Room trauma, persecution, harmful dynamics. (16+!)

★notes: I hope you like it!! Thank you for the request! Please forgive any writing mistakes - I admit that I'm not very good at writing this kind of thing, lol. Good reading!

Read while listening to Angel by Massive Attack

my masterlist

He had found her.

It took years—maybe longer than it should have. But he found her.

A house in the middle of nowhere, tucked between low hills and overgrown grass, with a weathered wooden fence and the muffled sounds of chickens in the distance. It looked like a dead place. But he knew. She was here.

He knew.

The Soldier watched from a distance. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe deeply. The body trained to kill remained still beneath the cover of trees, while his eyes tracked her every step across the yard.

She had changed. Older. Hair longer. The lines of her face softer. But the way she moved—quiet, alert, like someone who still expected an attack even while carrying a bucket of water—that, he recognized. That was hers. That was his.

Because he had shaped it.

He remembered.

Not everything. Not with clarity. But he remembered.

The little girl, dark eyes locked on his. The sound of a piano behind the ballet room door. The heavy silence that filled the air whenever she stepped into the training space.

He had trained her. Pulled her arm roughly. Bound her wrists. Threw her to the ground. And in every movement, there had been a strange control—almost involuntary. He hit her, yes, but never like he hit the others. Never enough to break her.

She was different.

She was only his.

Even back then, he knew. Not in words. But in instinct.

She was the only one who never looked away.

The only one who struck back with precision.

The only one who made the blood boil beneath the metal.

And then she ran.

Since then, he had been looking for her. Not under orders. Not on assignment. But because something inside him needed to see her again. To understand if she was still real—or just a memory implanted in his mind, a shadow he could never quite erase.

The night was dense, made of silence and shadows.

No headlights. No voices.

Only the dull chorus of crickets in the dark and the soft rustling of tall grass stirred by the cold wind.

He stood motionless among the trees, boots sunk in wet earth, body fully camouflaged by the night. It took no effort. He was born in silence—shaped to vanish even when present.

His eyes never left her.

She had stepped out of the house minutes ago, wearing a fitted white corset top and a long, flowing skirt that brushed against her boots with every step. The fabric moved with the breeze, soft but heavy. She carried a metal bucket in both hands, the weight of it clinking faintly with each step.

She was probably going to wash the chickens’ feeder—some nighttime routine she kept without realizing she was being watched.

But he saw.

He saw more than that.

He saw the glint.

Clipped to her belt, caught in the dim porch light, there was a familiar flash—silver, sharp, cold. A weapon.

Not hidden. Not ornamental. A part of her.

Always alert.

Always sharp.

She moved with that same contained gait, the weight of the past echoing in her legs, her shoulders, in the way her eyes scanned the corners before she turned them.

Something tightened in his chest.

Not pain.

Something older.

Recognition.

She hadn’t forgotten how to survive.

She hadn’t become some sweet civilian who left her front door unlocked.

She was still the one he remembered. The one who didn’t flinch.

The only one who passed through him… and came out alive.

The wind picked up, and she stopped—lifting her head for just a moment, as if she felt something shift.

He didn’t move.

But for a second, her gaze went straight into the darkness where he stood.

The wind picked up, and for some reason, you stopped.

Lifted your head, like the air itself had changed in density. You stood there, in the middle of the yard, still holding the bucket in your hands, feeling the leather belt at your waist grow heavier than usual. Your eyes narrowed as they locked onto a specific point in the darkness — the kind of shadow that looked too thick, too still. Like something was there. Someone.

But there was no sound.

Just the hum of crickets. The rustling of the grass. And the sound of your own heartbeat pounding harder than it should.

You didn’t think much. You just turned around and headed back toward the house, climbing the wooden steps without making a sound — like stepping through a minefield. The door creaked as you closed it, and for a second, you just stood there, staring at it.

Then you started locking it.

First the main lock. Then the second latch. The horizontal bolt. The lower deadbolt. The one at the top. One by one. It wasn’t paranoia. It was instinct.

The living memory of a place where danger never knocked — it simply walked in.

You turned, crossing the room with silent, precise steps. Your eyes swept across the space like they already knew something was wrong, even if everything looked exactly the same.

The bookshelf in the corner was just as you left it: packed with all the books you read when things got too heavy. When the memories came in waves and you needed words that weren’t the ones shouted at you back in the Red Room.

But behind the shelf… was a different story.

You shoved it aside with your hip, quick, like someone who’d done this a hundred times. The frame slid a few inches to the left, revealing a low opening hidden in the wall. That was where she kept everything. Everything tied to who you really was — or who you never stopped being.

Inside, there was a small, concrete storage room. Cold. Bare. Lined with metal crates and weapons hanging from hooks on the wall.

You scanned them like old friends.

Grabbed the biggest one. The one you’d never used, but always kept clean. The one that made it clear you weren’t here to play house.

Before that, you reached for your waist and pulled out the gun you always carried — the one glinting under the porch light just minutes ago — and placed it down on the small metal counter inside the armory. You needed both hands for what was coming.

You were ready.

Back in the living room, the silence felt different.

More… alive.

The air had weight now. Thickness. And even with every door bolted shut, you could feel it. Feel him the same way she used to back then — long before he’d even enter the training room.

He was here.

Maybe not inside the house.

But close enough for you to know…

You weren’t alone.

The air felt different — heavier, almost electric.

And then, it happened.

A sound.

Sharp. Small. But cutting.

Like the scrape of something across wood.

Maybe a light vase. Maybe a lock deliberately nudged.

Just enough to set her on edge.

Just enough to confirm it.

You knew it was him.

Because he never made noise.

He was a shadow. A blur. A silent ghost.

If something moved, it was because he wanted you to hear it.

Because he knew that you knew.

Your hands tightened around the grip of the gun. Finger already firm on the trigger.

Your eyes — trained and cold — scanned the room like it was hostile territory.

You pointed toward every corner. The narrow hallway. The kitchen door. The living room window. The mirror. Under the stairs.

Cold. Fast. Almost automatic.

You were built for this. Trained to shoot before thinking.

But with him…

With him, it would never be enough.

He could come from the right. From the left. From above. From inside the damn walls.

You would never truly know.

Not with him.

You started stepping backward. Slow, deliberate steps. Gun raised. Focus locked.

Your heart was pounding so loud you swore you could hear it echoing against the walls.

Every breath was measured.

Every muscle in your body coiled tight.

It felt like you was back in the Red Room.

Like that forgotten, buried piece of your past had crossed oceans just to look you in the eyes again.

One more step.

Then another.

And then—

THUD.

Your back hit something.

Hard. Solid. Cold.

Your entire body froze before you could even turn around.

You didn’t need to look to know.

You knew that silence.

That presence.

You knew him.

And the moment that truth settled in your bones, you snapped back into herself.

You turned fast — breath sharp, ragged — eyes blazing and finger ready on the trigger. The gun came up in one swift, practiced motion, aimed directly at his chest.

But he was faster.

Before you could even steady your aim, his vibranium arm shot up, catching the barrel of the weapon with an iron grip.

The metal groaned softly under his fingers, and you stood there — frozen, face-to-face — like two ghosts recognizing each other across a battlefield.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You weren’t breathing. You were surviving.

Heart racing, blood roaring in your ears, hands trembling just enough for you to feel it — not out of fear, but disbelief.

He was real.

He was here.

And he hadn’t changed.

His eyes met yours with that same predatory stillness. That same quiet hunger. Cold… but not dead.

Not anymore.

There was something obsessive burning behind his gaze — feral and locked onto you like a target he never forgot.

A target he never let go of.

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

And for a split second, neither did he.

Only the tension between you moved — stretching, pulling, suffocating the air between your bodies. You stayed completely still, eyes locked on his, breathing fast and shallow, but never looking away. You were frozen, but not weak.

His hand was still wrapped around your gun, like the metal was a part of him. And then, without a word, he ripped it from your grip with ease and threw it across the room. The sharp sound of it hitting the wall echoed through the house like a warning. You didn’t flinch, but your muscles coiled. Your body tensed as he began walking toward you with firm, heavy steps that made the floor creak beneath him.

He approached like a storm that had taken too long to break, and you stepped back, one measured movement at a time, never faltering. Your eyes never left his. Not once. Not even when he got close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body.

That’s what he always loved about you. You never looked away. Never lowered your head. Never backed down like the others. You never gave him the fear he was trained to crave.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice rough and worn, like words didn’t come easy to him anymore. His eyes scanned your face with restrained hunger, like he had been waiting for this exact moment. “How long I’ve been looking for you.”

One more step from him. One more retreat from you.

“I searched every fucking corner of this world,” he continued, something bitter caught in his throat — like even your silence had betrayed him. “And nothing. No trace. No shadow. Just emptiness.”

He breathed in like the air between you was yours — like he needed it to keep himself going.

“I missed this. Your presence… the sound of your steps… the way you smell.”

And that — that was enough to make your whole body lock up.

Not out of fear. But because of the weight in his voice. The familiarity that hit deeper than you wanted it to.

You said nothing. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give in.

Until your back hit the cold wall of the room, and you realized there was nowhere left to go.

He had finally reached you. He was close enough for you to feel his breath brush against your skin.

Close enough for you to know — with every nerve in your body — that he was no longer a ghost.

He was here. Physical. Present. Obsessed. And he had never, not for a second, stopped wanting you.

He stared at you for a moment, drinking you in like a man starved—like the very sight of you was the first real thing he’d seen in years. Then, without warning, his metal arm snapped up and clamped around your jaw, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head to the side. Not enough to break. But enough to bruise. Enough to remind you who he was. Who you were.

Your hands shot up instantly, gripping his wrist with both of yours, trying to hold him back. Not resisting fully. Not surrendering either. Just bracing. Reacting. The instinct was still in you, buried under the years but far from gone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t loosen his grip.

He leaned in, his face inching closer until his nose was buried in your hair. You could feel the cold press of metal burning against your skin, and the contrast of his breath—warm and steady—ghosting along your scalp. He inhaled. Deep. Slow. And then let out a quiet sound from his throat. Low. Guttural. Like it settled something in him. Like it fed something feral.

Then he lowered his head until his lips were just by your ear, not quite touching. Just there. The heat of his mouth enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“You’re my little widow…” he whispered, voice low and rough like gravel dragging through smoke. “You’re not running from me again.” His words sank into your skin, heavy and final.

“You’re gonna be my good girl… just like you used to be.”

✦Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Reader. Thunderbolts* x Mutant!Reader.

✦summary: The Thunderbolts find an enigmatic message on the cell phone of the most grumpy soldier on the team. Intrigued by the mysterious sender, they decide to investigate on their own - but it doesn't take long for Bucky to realize that something is happening.

✦WC: 4,8k

✦warnings: Fluff, family tensions suffered, Bucky being soft, chaos in the team, telepathy (light), domesticity overload, relationship revealed slowly, Yelena flirting lightly with the reader. (18+!no explicit content!!)

✦notes: The reader, in this story, is a mutant. Her gifts include telepathy and the ability to enter and manipulate people's dreams - something she learned to control over time.

I'm thinking of turning this story into a miniseries with Bucky Barnes and the mutant reader, but nothing is guaranteed yet. For now, good reading. 🤍

my masterlist

Bucky Barnes was a private guy. He didn’t talk about his personal life—not because he didn’t trust anyone, but because he had learned, the hard way, that the less people knew about him, the better. And honestly? Having his past dragged into the spotlight as a former war assassin and now, as a “new Avenger,” was more than enough. He just wanted a bit of peace. A normal life.

At the moment, the Thunderbolts were scattered around the main lounge of the base like poorly placed pieces on a board.

Yelena was sprawled out on the couch like she had no bones, head thrown back, eyes closed, looking more dead than alive. Next to her, Alexei was lightly snoring in an armchair, hugging a pillow that clearly didn’t belong to him. Ava stood by the window, headphones in, eyes vacant, like she wished she was literally anywhere else. John Walker was flipping a knife between his fingers, clearly too bored to cause trouble—for now.

Bucky had left a short while ago. Said something about sorting out an issue with the transport from the last mission—not that anyone had really paid attention. He just tossed his phone onto the arm of the couch, grabbed his jacket, and walked out, leaving behind his usual trail of quiet grumpiness.

The room was silent. No conversations. Just the occasional building creak and the collective weight of boredom in the air.

Then the phone screen lit up, vibrating softly against the cushion near Yelena’s leg.

The message flashed for just a few seconds, but it was enough. Ava, closest to it, caught a glimpse of the contact name and narrowed her eyes.

“Sweetheart?” she read quietly, frowning.

Yelena, who had seemed asleep moments ago, opened one eye.

“What?”

“Barnes’s phone.” Ava nodded toward it, not touching. “Someone just texted him. It’s saved as Sweetheart. With an emoji. A pink heart.”

That was enough to make Yelena sit up with a speed no one expected.

“Repeat that.”

“Sweetheart. That’s what it says.”

Walker raised an eyebrow, slowly making his way over, still twirling the knife in his hand.

“Wait. Barnes? The same guy who growls if we ask whether he sleeps? He has someone saved as ‘Sweetheart’?”

Alexei, now awake thanks to the noise, noticed the group’s focus on Bucky’s phone and shuffled over, scratching his beard.

In a matter of seconds, they were all gathered around the couch, standing in silence in front of the device like it was some kind of sacred artifact. No one dared to touch it—not even Walker.

The screen lit up again. Another message.

“Sweetheart💝: Is it cold out there? I’m making soup for us ☺️💗”

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.

“Am I dreaming?” Yelena whispered, staring at the screen like it might explode. “Barnes has a girlfriend?”

“Or a very well-hidden fling,” Ava muttered. “Knowing him, this person probably lives in a bunker.”

Walker let out a low whistle, half-amused.

“That’s it. We’re finding out who this woman is.”

“Or man,” Yelena corrected.

“Or alien,” Alexei added, dramatic as ever.

“Whoever has the guts to send Barnes a heart emoji deserves to be studied.”

Ava shook her head slowly.

“You guys aren’t letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Yelena replied, already pulling out her own phone. “Time to plan a mission.”

Bucky, the moment he stepped back into the room, immediately sensed something was off.

It was too quiet. And not the usual kind of quiet—the kind that came when everyone was too tired to throw jabs at each other or fight over the couch. This was a different kind of silence. Staged. Artificial. Almost… too peaceful. Like they’d cleaned up a crime scene a little too fast before the cops arrived.

He paused for a second near the door, his eyes scanning the room.

Yelena sat on the couch, legs crossed, a cup of tea in her hands.

Ava—who practically lived with her headphones in—was without them. Sitting stiffly, her expression so neutral it practically screamed “I’m trying to act normal.”

Alexei was flipping through a magazine—upside down.

And John Walker was… smiling.

Bucky frowned.

“I fixed the issue with the transport,” he said flatly. “Just a problem with the hangar’s authentication system. It’s working now.”

“That’s good,” Ava replied—way too quickly.

“Nice,” Yelena added, sipping her tea with the forced elegance of someone pretending to be a civilized human being. “Very… efficient of you.”

Walker just nodded, still wearing that weird smile.

Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn’t say a word. He walked over to the couch and grabbed his phone from where he’d left it.

The screen was still warm.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

And just like that, he left the room.

The following weeks were… suspicious, to say the least.

Suddenly, the Thunderbolts seemed way too interested in Bucky’s personal life. And not the healthy, supportive kind of interest you’d expect from a functional team. No—this was nosy interest, badly disguised as “concern for team dynamics.”

Bob—the soft-spoken, nervous guy who usually preferred to keep his distance from anything involving tension or weapons—started showing up in the most random places. He was never actually doing anything, but somehow always managed to be around whenever Bucky was on the phone.

“Oh! Hey, didn’t know you were here, Bucky,” he’d say, straightening up as if he’d just remembered his posture, pretending to check the thermostat on the wall. “I just… thought it was getting kinda cold in here. Or hot. Either one. Doesn’t matter.”

The following week, he popped into the elevator right as Bucky ended a call—with a slight smile still hanging on his lips.

“Hi! I was just heading up to, uh… get a document. I think. Might be lost. But hey—what a coincidence, right?”

Bucky would just squint at him. Say nothing.

Yelena, on the other hand, went straight for it—in her own way.

“Barnes,” she started casually, walking beside him in the hallway. “You’ve been smiling at your phone. That’s new.”

He didn’t reply.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” she pressed, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to read him like a map.

“Don’t be paranoid.”

“Not paranoid. Observant,” she said, raising a brow. “I bet she likes books. You smell like the kind of man who’d fall for a reader.”

He ignored her. As usual.

But she didn’t stop.

“Does she live with you?”

“Does she snore?”

“Do you smile in your sleep because of her?”

“Has she seen your arm? The vibranium one, obviously.”

“Yelena.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender—smirking. “I’m just saying… anyone who makes the grumpy supersoldier smile over text has to be interesting.”

John Walker was… less subtle.

In the kitchen, on a random morning, while they were both grabbing coffee, he dropped:

“So, Barnes… ever cook for someone?”

The coffee hadn’t even started dripping and Bucky was already thinking about chucking the whole machine out the window.

“No.”

“Okay, okay. Just asking. You know. Love in the air and all.”

Even Ava, who never got involved in the team’s personal nonsense, made a surprisingly out-of-pocket comment during training.

“You seem… calmer lately.”

Bucky glanced over without missing a beat on the punching bag.

“That a problem?”

“No. Just weird.”

She paused, adjusting the wraps on her hands, then added in her usual deadpan tone:

“You look like you’re sleeping better.”

He froze for a second, jaw tight—then resumed punching, harder.

Nothing made sense.

And somehow, it all made perfect sense.

They were circling. Prodding. Trying to chip away at any piece of the life he kept hidden—

especially that part.

It was another late afternoon at the Thunderbolts base, and everyone was gathered in the main lounge.

The kind of unofficial meeting that only happens when no one has anything better to do and boredom spreads like invisible gas.

Yelena was on the couch, tossing popcorn in the air and trying to catch it with her mouth (failing miserably).

Ava was typing something on her phone with robotic focus, not lifting her eyes once.

Alexei was reading an old Captain America comic, glasses at the tip of his nose, wearing the most judgmental expression known to man.

Walker was scribbling in a notepad full of group training ideas—none of them good.

And Bob, as always, was pretending not to listen but very clearly was.

The door slid open with a soft sound. Combat boots echoed heavily on the floor.

Bucky walked in.

He stopped in the middle of the room.

Everyone turned to look at him, slowly, with that fake disinterest of people who were obviously expecting something but trying to act indifferent.

Bucky crossed his arms.

“I know everything.”

Silence.

Yelena was the first to react, placing a dramatic hand over her chest.

“Know what?”

Walker frowned, leaning forward.

“We don’t even know what you’re talking about, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Bob mumbled, chewing a cookie slowly. “There are lots of… things someone could know. You know?”

Bucky stared at them. One by one. His expression judgmental enough to be almost comical.

No one said another word.

He sighed, uncrossed his arms, and started walking toward the center of the room.

“I know you’ve been trying to figure out who I’m talking to on the phone. I know you’ve been following me, eavesdropping on conversations, asking not-so-subtle questions. I know there’s even a name for the “operation.” And that you dragged Bob into it.”

Bob raised his hands in surrender. Said nothing.

“And?” Yelena asked, resting her chin in her hand. “You gonna hit us?”

“ Thought about it. Still considering it,” he replied dryly.

Ava gave a small smirk.

“So… are you gonna tell us?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. His gaze distant, like he was deciding whether opening that door was worth it. But when he spoke again, his voice was firm.

“Her name is Y/n. We’ve been together for three years.”

A pause.

A long one.

Not an awkward silence. But the kind that means something. The kind that happens when everyone finally stops pretending and actually listens.

Yelena blinked. Twice.

“Three years?”

Walker let out a low whistle, leaning back in the armchair.

“ And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” Bucky looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “ Because I like peace. I like the life I have with her. And because you all,” he pointed slowly, finger turning in the air “can’t even keep a frozen sausage in the freezer without turning it into a civil war.”

“That was one time,” Alexei muttered.

“You’re chaos. And she’s everything that’s not that. I kept you out of her life on purpose.”

Ava simply nodded, like she understood. Bob let out a soft “hmm” of agreement. Yelena, though clearly surprised, didn’t seem offended.

It was the kind of truth that, coming from Bucky, made sense. He wasn’t the type to overshare. Every part of him was guarded, measured, protected.

But now… he was giving them a piece.

Walker was the first to speak again, voice curious, almost respectful:

“And why now?”

Bucky looked around. And exhaled.

“Because you’re not going to stop. You’re gonna keep snooping, asking dumb questions, turning this base into a bad reality show… so I’m ending it my way”

“And what way is that?” Yelena asked, already smiling.

He took a deep breath, defeated.

“I’m taking you to meet her.”

A spark lit up in everyone’s eyes.

“But listen up. You’re going to behave. No stupid comments. No invasive questions. No fake bonding attempts. Got it?”

“Barnes,” Yelena said, offended “ do we look like people who wouldn’t behave?”

He stared at her. Long. Direct.

“Yes.”

Yelena snorted.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky shook his head and turned to leave the room.

“Tonight. Get ready. No weird outfits. And Walker, for the love of God, don’t try to intimidate anyone.”

“I’m literally the friendliest person here!” Walker protested.

“That’s tragic.” Ava muttered.

Yelena was already grinning like she’d been waiting for this day for years.

And Bucky, even while groaning, even while rolling his eyes at every step…

deep down, he knew.

Maybe—just maybe—it was time to open that part of his life.

To show them that even the Winter Soldier was capable of love.

The group stood in front of Bucky’s apartment door like they were on a school field trip.

Yelena was chewing gum calmly. Walker adjusted the collar of his jacket. Bob looked way too nervous, hands shoved in his pockets, one foot tapping anxiously on the floor. Ava stayed impassive, but her eyes were sharp. Alexei held a potted plant he’d brought as a “gift” — no one asked for it, but he was determined.

Bucky, standing in front of the door, took a deep breath and turned to the group with that classic “if you mess this up, I will make you disappear” face.

“Okay. A few rules, and listen close because I’m not repeating myself,” he began, voice low and firm. “No yelling. No weird comments. No invasive questions. Keep your voices down. And for the love of God, don’t try to act too cool. You’re not.”

Bob raised his hand like they were in school.

“And if she, like… offers tea?”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Say thank you and accept. Like a normal adult.”

Yelena grinned slightly.

“Relax, Barnes. We’re gonna be nice. Zero chaos.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You are the chaos.”

“But adorable chaos.”

Without another word, Bucky unlocked the door.

He turned the handle. And called out, in a voice softer than the team had ever heard from him:

“Babe? I’m home.”

A few eyes widened. Babe? Did he just say babe?

From deeper inside the apartment, a sweet, calm voice responded:

“I’m in the kitchen!”

And then you appeared.

You walked over with relaxed steps, like you already knew they were there.

You wore dark jeans that fit snugly and a black long-sleeve turtleneck, the soft fabric looking even cozier with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Your hair was tied in a messy bun — the kind that looked thrown together, but somehow still perfect.

You were smiling — that kind of smile that warms up a whole room better than any heater.

When you saw Bucky, you went straight to him and kissed him on the lips — slow, unfazed, just that kind of soft, simple affection from someone who loves without needing to prove anything.

“I’m glad you’re home, honey,” you said, gently fixing the collar of his shirt.

Only then did you notice the group behind him.

Five faces. Staring. Some clearly surprised, others pretending not to be — and failing.

You looked at them all, still wearing that gentle smile, and spoke naturally:

“So… you’re the Thunderbolts?”

A short pause.

“Bucky told me about you.”

And, without hesitation, you stepped forward with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Yelena glanced at Walker. Walker glanced at Ava. Bob froze for a solid two seconds.

Bucky closed the door slowly, silently saying: Now that you’re here, choose your words carefully.

While he did that, you were already approaching the group with the same steady, warm energy of someone who knew how to break the ice — and maybe, secretly, already knew who each of them was.

You greeted each of them with a warm smile.

First, you offered your hand to Ava, who hesitated for a second, then returned the handshake with a slight nod. Then, you exchanged a knowing glance with Yelena, who immediately said,“You’re prettier than I expected.”

You just laughed, naturally.

Walker went in for the classic exaggerated handshake, and you matched it without flinching — smiling like you could already read him inside out.

Bob, nervous, nearly tripped over his own foot, and you instinctively caught his arm before anything happened, like you already knew it would.

Lastly, Alexei — the gentle giant — held out the plant, wrapped in what looked like improvised gift paper. His smile was awkward, like he wasn’t sure how to be cute but was trying anyway.

“Uh… this is for you. A gift. Bucky said you liked plants.”

Your eyes lit up as you took the pot, genuinely excited.

“I love it! My plants are going to be so happy to have a new friend,” you said, looking at the gift with pure joy.

Then you turned to Bucky with a bright look.

He returned it with a smile no one in the room had seen before — calm, loving… almost young again.

You turned back to the group, eyes shining:

“Please, make yourselves at home. Dinner’s ready… and the brownies are just a few more minutes.”

Yelena muttered, “She makes brownies?” already halfway convinced she’d just met the perfect woman.

As everyone started to explore the cozy apartment, Bucky stayed close to you — like he still didn’t completely trust the five of them not to break something… or ask you a hundred weird questions.

But you, with your calm voice and steady smile, didn’t seem fazed.

You chatted cheerfully, asking if the food was okay, if the seasoning was too strong, if they wanted water, wine, or both.

You had a way about you — that kind of grounding presence that made it feel like you could balance their collective chaos with just a look.

Bucky just watched.

A little tense, yes, but with that expression that said: You’ve got this.

Yelena, on the other hand, wandered around to take in the environment with genuine interest.

The place had soul.

A deep red vintage couch sat in the center of the room, with warm-toned cushions carefully arranged. In front of it, a rustic wooden coffee table held a vase of fresh flowers — daisies and lavender, probably picked by you yourself. A fluffy brown rug warmed the space underfoot.

But what caught Yelena’s attention was the pale marble bookshelf off to the side.

There were a few picture frames.

One showed you and Bucky on what looked like a trip — somewhere in Europe, maybe?

You smiled at the camera, arms around Bucky, who had his head turned to kiss your cheek. Sunlight framed the whole photo. There was peace in it.

Another frame, tucked in a corner, showed Bucky in black and white — clearly from the 1940s, probably during his military service. He looked… different. Softer. A boy trying to be a man.

But it was the last photo that made Yelena narrow her eyes. A group shot.

You were in it, but looked younger — hair down, laughing at something off-camera.

Around you were five very unusual people:

A red-haired girl with fierce eyes.

A guy with spiky white hair and a mischievous grin.

A Chinese girl with neon pink hoops and a yellow coat.

A serious-looking boy with glasses that looked way too high-tech to be normal.

And finally… a blue-skinned man with lizard-like features, yellow eyes, and a shy, gentle expression.

Yelena blinked twice.

They were definitely not normal.

She kept it to herself. For now.

She simply stepped away from the shelf and returned to the table.

Soon after, everyone was seated around a large dinner table — plates served, wine glasses clinking, the comforting smell of home-cooked food filling the apartment.

The warm lighting from the overhead lamp made everything feel softer.

Conversation flowed with rare ease for this group — like, just for a moment, they actually were home.

You served the last few side dishes and smiled:

“Hope you’re all hungry. Oh the brownies are almost done, too. Just a few more minutes.”

As you sat down, Yelena gave Bucky a long, amused look. He pulled your chair for you, brushed his hand down your back, and sat beside you with a small, content smile.

The meal was served, the food warm, the scent of spices and fresh bread floating in the air.

Everyone slowly started to relax.

You, ever the gentle host, went around asking if anyone wanted seconds, offering more salad, more rice, more of anything.

Bucky remained quiet beside you.

Always watching. Always present.

Bob, now two glasses of wine deep, took a generous bite of lentil rice.

It tasted like comfort. Like real food made with care. “God, this is amazing. I should ask for the recipe. Or just offer to live in the kitchen cabinet. Would she let me?”

And then, without even glancing at him, you replied, completely serene:

“No, Bob. I don’t allow people to live in my kitchen cabinets.”

Silence.

Instant silence.

Everyone froze.

Forks in mid-air. A wine glass halfway to someone’s lips.

Bob blinked. Twice.

“I… I said that out loud?”

You gave a soft smile, no explanation.

You just kept serving salad onto your own plate, like nothing had happened.

“What?” Yelena asked, brows knitting together.

Bucky didn’t even look up from his plate. He just muttered:

“She’s a telepath.”

The word lingered in the air like smoke.

Walker nearly choked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ava just observed. She didn’t look shocked — but she was definitely focused now.

“Telepath? Like, you read minds?” Yelena asked, already way too intrigued. “Since when?”

You finally looked at them, that calm expression still your trademark.

“Since always. But I control it. I promise I don’t go around reading everyone’s minds… unless you think really loud”

You threw Bob a teasing look. He sank into his chair, utterly defeated.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbled, hiding behind his napkin. “My brain is noisy.”

“So that’s why Barnes kept you hidden all this time,” Walker muttered, still trying to process.

Bucky took a sip of wine like he was remembering exactly why.

“One of the reasons.”

“She’s officially cooler than all of us,” Yelena said, helping herself to more mashed potatoes. “Just saying.”

You smiled, accepting it like it was the simplest compliment in the world.

You continued chatting with them in that same soft, steady way — answering each question with patience and a little affection. Bucky stayed close, always watching, always alert, like he filtered every question before it reached you. Not out of suspicion… it was just his way. And you knew that.

The questions came from a softer place now. Not curiosity laced with judgment, but genuine interest. Almost excitement.

And you didn’t mind. You welcomed it.

As dinner went on, you started sharing a little about your life — your way.

You told them about the X-Mansion, where you grew up.

How your powers showed up early, and how Professor Xavier helped guide you with empathy.

You didn’t dramatize it. You just spoke like someone who had survived something hard and was now proud of it.

They listened. Really listened.

You mentioned your friends — the ones from the photo — and explained that it was taken during the Professor’s birthday party.

Jean had insisted on a photo with everyone before the celebration started.

It was one of those chaotic, happy days where everyone looked exhausted and laughing.

That photo captured it perfectly.

And then, without anyone needing to ask, you explained how you ended up in New York.

The accident that brought you into this universe.

No suspense, no melodrama. Just a story. A piece of your past.

Bucky, beside you, kept listening — jaw occasionally tight, his thumb rubbing gently across your leg under the table.

And they listened. With full plates and wide eyes, they listened to someone who held so much more than she showed.

By the end of it, the mood at the table had shifted.

Calmer. Closer.

Plates were empty.

The smell of brownies baking in the oven was already drifting through the air — warm, sweet, comforting. The kind of smell that makes you forget, for a second, that the world is harsh.

You stood up with a smile, brushing your hand over Bucky’s shoulder as you passed by.

“ The brownies are probably done,” you said, casually disappearing into the kitchen.

The second you were out of sight, Yelena turned in her chair, arm draped over the backrest, smirking.

“ Ohhh, now I get why you kept her from us, Barnes…”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, already bracing himself.

“ A woman like that? Honestly. I’d have kept her hidden too.”

Bucky muttered a low “Yelena…”

But he couldn’t quite hide the little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Seconds later, you returned holding a simple ceramic tray, lined with golden, steaming brownies — some with cracked edges, others with gooey melted chocolate still glistening.

You placed them at the center of the table and sat down, grabbing a dish towel to protect your fingers.

It didn’t take ten seconds for everyone to dive in.

The compliments rolled in fast. One after the other.

You laughed, adjusting your messy bun, a little shy with so much praise.

You explained the recipe was a gift from Jean — from a sleepover years ago. She insisted baking would be therapeutic. And it was. The recipe stuck.

Everyone kept eating, talking with their mouths full, fighting over the last piece.

As the night wound down, people began to rise one by one — grabbing jackets, offering thanks, the kind of cozy chaos that comes with the end of a good visit.

You helped collect jackets, walked each one to the door, thanking them.

“ And thank you again for the plant, Alexei,” you said sweetly, holding the pot carefully.

He turned a bit red and mumbled a quiet “It was nothing” before joining the others down the hall.

Walker gave a lazy “Good night.”

Bob complimented the brownies for the fourth time.

Ava nodded with a small smile.

Yelena? She just said, “See you soon, future best friend.”

You laughed.

After a few more waves and hurried goodbyes, the door finally shut.

And it was like flipping a switch.

Bucky’s large hands were on your waist the next second, pulling you close — not roughly, but with that kind of firm tenderness he only ever had with you. The grip was solid, warm, like he’d waited all night for this.

You turned in his arms, smiling, and your lips met in a slow, deep kiss — the kind that says I’m here, I’m yours, completely.

When the kiss broke, you stayed close, your hands resting on his chest beneath the soft black shirt.

“ You did great,” he murmured, voice low and husky in that way he only sounded when his heart was soft.

You giggled gently, barely a whisper, your eyes locked with his.

“ Think they liked me?”

Bucky gave a crooked little smile.

“ Yelena was flirting with you.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

“ Really? I thought she was sweet.”

“ Too sweet,” he muttered, already pulling you even closer.

The next kiss was different.

Hotter. Needier.

The kind you hold back all night, wishing you were alone sooner.

His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass firmly.

A soft breath escaped you mid-kiss, your whole body already melting into his.

When the kiss finally ended, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

His breath was warm, a little heavier — like the whole day was finally behind him, left right here in your arms.

“ I missed you…,” he whispered, voice rough and low.

“ We’re alone now,” you replied with a lazy, smiling tone.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes locked on yours.

He reached for the collar of your shirt — that soft black fabric of your turtleneck — and slowly pushed it down, exposing your neck.

Carefully. Like unwrapping something he already knew by heart.

Without saying a word, he leaned in and began placing slow kisses there. One by one.

Warm. Lingering.

His lips pressing just enough to leave your eyes fluttering shut and your skin flushed.

He knew exactly where to kiss.

Exactly how.

And you knew — the night was only just beginning.

✦Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

✦summary: Bucky's head is full of congressman stuff, he just wants to get to his apartment and see his two favorite girls.

✦warnings: Fluff, domestic Bucky, easy reader, mention of stress at work, established relationship.

✦WC:1,6K

Read while listening to Video Games by Lana del Rey.🤍

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Bucky was exhausted.

Exhausted from the endless paperwork that piled up on his desk every hour, from the press that didn’t know when to stop — talking shit about him like they knew anything. All he wanted was to disappear into his wife’s arms, the two of them curled up in their spacious bed — the one place in the world that felt like safety to him.

A few minutes before he left the office, a notification lit up his phone screen. It was you.

angel🤍:

I made our favorite dinner. Come home soon, baby. Al and I miss you. 🤍

The smile that pulled at his lips was immediate — maybe a little dumb, but honest, like everything about you.

His heart almost exploded with the kind of softness you’d brought into his life over the last five years. It still amazed him — that quiet kind of love you gave him. Not loud or dramatic, not overflowing with impossible promises. But steady. Gentle. The kind that fits perfectly into the silence and stays.

You were a sweet and soft-spoken civilian, working at a flower shop just a few blocks from the apartment. That scent of flowers and coffee always seemed to cling to you — and to him, since the first time you touched.

You never judged him for his past.

You didn’t look at him and see a former assassin or the congressman forced to smile in front of cameras.

You saw his soul.

And slowly, you made space in your world for him — all of him, not just the easy parts.

Every conversation, every quiet morning shared with lukewarm coffee made him feel warmer. Like he finally had somewhere to stay.

Bucky remembered exactly when he started falling for you — or maybe just the first time he felt it.

Maybe it was the way your hands flew around when you were excited, nearly knocking over a mug.

Or the time you stuffed a crumpled napkin with his doodle into your coat pocket, saying it was “too pretty to throw away.”

He remembered the way your eyes lit up when you found vintage teacups at flea markets… or how you bit your lip — that goddamn lip — whenever you were nervous or shy.

Little details he collected in silence.

Details of you that, secretly, he called home.

With a tired sigh, Bucky stacked the last of the papers on his desk. The pile felt endless — reports, appointments, speeches he didn’t even want to give. He shoved everything into his dark leather briefcase, zipping it closed with more force than necessary, like he could lock the entire day away inside.

He left the building without a word, ignoring stares, rushed greetings, and flashes behind tinted windows.

Once in the car, he tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat and started the engine, mind focused on one thing: you.

Time blurred until he was standing in front of the apartment door. The whole world always felt quieter here.

He turned the key in the lock with a familiar twist, and the click that followed sounded like home.

The moment he stepped inside, he was wrapped in warmth. The scent of fresh food — probably that favorite dish you always made when the days got hard — mingled with the smell of candles you loved: vanilla and lavender.

It felt like a hug, even before he saw you.

“Babe?” he called out, shutting the door gently behind him and locking it, sealing the rest of the world out.

He started removing his expensive jacket slowly, shoulders finally beginning to relax — when he heard:

“Bucky?”

Your voice was soft and familiar, like a warm blanket on a cold morning. He turned.

And there you were, standing in the middle of the room, Alpine curled in your arms, purring like nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

You were wearing one of his henley shirts — the dark blue one, old and well-worn — hanging loose on your frame, covering half your thighs. Your bare feet touched the floor lightly, and your hair was still a little messy, like you’d just woken up from a good dream.

He froze for a second, just to look at you. Even after five years, you could still knock the breath out of his chest without even trying.

“Hi, baby,” you said, walking over to him with that soft smile that always made his chest ache in the best way — like you’d been waiting for him forever.

You stopped right in front of him, Alpine still nestled in your arms.

Carefully, you adjusted the loose fabric on your shoulder and set the cat down. She circled your feet lazily before trotting off to the couch, like she knew this moment was just for the two of you.

Your eyes met his again as you opened your arms wordlessly.

Bucky didn’t hesitate — he dropped his briefcase to the floor, the jacket with it, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close like he needed you to breathe.

The hug was warm, grounding, full of that unspoken kind of love. You fit against his chest like that’s exactly where you belonged.

“Tough day?” you whispered near his ear, calm and quiet.

He sighed against your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You pulled back just enough to hold his face in both hands, brushing your thumbs over the soft shadows beneath his eyes.

Then you kissed him. Not rushed or hungry — but steady, tender. Like a promise.

Bucky’s hands tightened around your waist, needing the touch more than he could say.

You pulled apart slowly, still close, his hands resting at your sides, yours gently holding his face like you weren’t quite ready to let go.

“It’s okay now,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “You’re home.”

You leaned in again, kissed him quickly — this one a little playful — and smiled, brushing your nose against his before whispering:

“Go take a shower… and then come eat with me, baby.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping away, dragging his tired body toward the bathroom.

You stood there for a moment, looking at the briefcase and jacket still on the floor, and let out a quiet laugh.

While he showered, you set the table with care — placed the dishes, lit a small candle in the center, and served the food while soft instrumental music played in the background.

He came back with damp hair, barefoot, wearing a simple gray tee and sweatpants. His steps were quieter now, and his expression softer. When he sat down across from you, he let out a deep breath — like just being there, with you, was enough to undo the knots in his chest.

You ate in silence for a while. Just the sound of cutlery, the music, the warmth between you. Then you started talking — your voice gentle, light, easy.

You told him about your day, about a customer at the flower shop who wanted sunflowers for her late husband’s anniversary — how she just wanted to place them by the window because he still passed by sometimes, she said.

Bucky didn’t say a word. He just listened, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand, completely focused on you.

Your voice had that effect on him. Like breathing after being underwater too long.

After dinner, the two of you cleaned up together — you washed, he dried. Your shoulders bumped now and then, making each other smile without needing to speak.

When everything was put away and the lights around the apartment were dimmed one by one, you both headed to the bedroom.

The bed was already made, soft and inviting. You slipped beneath the covers at the same time, your bodies relaxing into the mattress like they had been waiting for this all day.

A few minutes later, Alpine jumped onto the bed and made herself comfortable right in the middle, like she owned the place.

Bucky chuckled quietly, voice still a little rough from the day.

“My two favorite girls,” he murmured, scratching behind Alpine’s ears before turning his gaze to you.

You looked back at him, catching that look — the one where his eyes softened, like the whole world had narrowed down to just you.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he said simply, no hesitation.

Your smile reached your eyes.

“I love you too.”

He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours and letting his eyes fall shut.

And in that moment — nothing else mattered.

And maybe that was enough.

Bucky Barnes x Ex-Widow!Reader

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He watches you through the crack in the door.

You were in that empty room of the Tower - your silent refuge, a place where you could breathe in the midst of the wreckage of your own mind. Everyone knew that was their space. No one came in. No one interrupted. No one dared.

Bucky knew.

He knew because you always went there when the memories clenched too tightly around your chest. Because he had lived that suffocation before. Because he recognized in your eyes the same exhaustion he saw in his own — on the nights when the world slept, but the pain stayed wide awake.

You’d been freed from the Red Room by Yelena and Natasha. You stayed with Yelena after Natasha… well, after she was gone. You worked alongside the blonde for Valentina for a while, until you both joined the new team. The New Avengers. A new era. A second chance.

But Bucky knew old pain doesn’t disappear just because the mission changed.

He would stand there, still, whenever you danced. He’d hear your voice, soft and distant, humming Swan Lake, almost like you were consoling yourself — or maybe just trying to remember that something beautiful still existed in the world.

You moved like you were born from wind. Graceful. Precise. Wounded.

And he, a ghost in the hallway, trapped in the doorframe, watched in silence.

Your brows slightly furrowed, your feet firm but delicate, arms carving shapes into the air as if painting an ancient sorrow — he saw all of it. Every detail. Every note of sadness hidden in your art. He wanted to step in. To tell you he understood. That the past didn’t have to swallow you whole.

But all he did was stare.

Because he was good at swallowing feelings.

Later, he saw you with Yelena in the kitchen. You were laughing. Throwing your head back with that wide, unguarded kind of laugh he rarely heard — the kind that made your eyes squeeze shut and lit something up inside him. Yelena said something stupid and you doubled over with laughter, your eyes glowing with rare lightness.

And Bucky felt something warm blooming in his chest.

Like an old fireplace coming back to life after years in the dark.

But then you were talking to John. To Bob. And the warmth turned into something else — quiet, tight, acidic jealousy.

He wondered if you noticed.

That every time he looked at you, something inside him ached to cross the room, take you in his arms and whisper:

“You’re mine. You always were.”

But he never said it.

Because he didn’t think he deserved to.

Because his hands were still stained with a past he never learned how to wash off.

Because you deserved more — more than someone made of sins.

But God, how he wanted to free you from the pain.

He wanted to take every shadow the Red Room left behind, one by one, and carry them himself, if it meant you could live light again.

He wanted to give you a quiet life.

You laughed with John again, and he pulled away. His throat dry. His heart screaming all the things his lips couldn’t say.

“Just look at me. Just once.”

But you didn’t look.

So he stayed there.

Trapped somewhere between longing and silence.

And then — you talked to him.

And in those moments, Bucky felt like the universe went quiet just to hear your voice.

He could stand there for hours, just listening to you say anything at all.

Your voice was a thread, tugging his heart out of his chest.

He looked at your lips with an old kind of hunger.

A thirst that didn’t come from the body, but the soul.

He wanted to silence you — not out of impatience, but desperation.

He wanted your words to end in a whisper against his mouth, in a kiss that was urgent, deep — the kind that steals your breath, that drowns out the world and leaves only two bodies, two hearts, two pasts trying to heal side by side.

He dreamed of kissing you until you forgot how to hurt.

Until every wound melted from your skin.

Until you forgot you were ever broken.

At night, when the Tower was asleep, he caught himself imagining what it would be like to hold you — to wrap you in his arms after a nightmare, to hear your shaky breathing settle slowly against his chest.

To kiss the tears from your cheeks.

To promise you, without needing words, that there was someone now to hold you.

He wanted to be the arms you fell into.

The peace after the war.

The home after the mission.

💋

- @lowrisemiller <333

my masterlist

Bucky was at the Avengers Tower, still recovering — both mentally and physically — from his not-so-distant past as the Winter Soldier. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. He still woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaken, screaming, choking on memories he’d rather forget. Flashbacks hit without warning, dragging him back to the cold basements of Hydra, to the metallic hum of the reprogramming chair, to the bitter taste of blood and iron in his mouth

He still wasn’t familiar with the environment, or the people around him. Only Steve and Sam talked to him — and even then, always with a careful distance. As if he were a wild animal, ready to attack.

But then, there was you.

When he first arrived at the tower and saw you, his brain — still crowded with static and echoes — latched onto your image and compared it to something old: a porcelain doll he used to see in the window displays of Russian shops.

To him, you looked delicate. Quiet. So beautiful it hurt.

He thought you would avoid him like the others did. That you’d keep your distance out of fear or disgust. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t force a smile. You didn’t ask him dumb questions. You just looked at him — like you saw the things he was trying to hide. Like you knew.

Sometimes he saw you in the tower’s cafeteria, sitting alone, reading. Your legs crossed gracefully, fingers gliding over the pages with careful precision — and it made him hold his breath. Because he didn’t remember what it felt like to touch anything gently. His hands still trembled sometimes. And the metal one… well, he didn’t dare use it near you.

But he wanted to.

On the days you wore your combat suit, it was even worse. The fabric hugged every line of your body with surgical perfection. The belt cinched tight around your waist, the holster strapped to your thigh, the heavy boots hitting the floor like a rhythm he couldn’t ignore. You looked like something out of a violent, erotic dream — and he hated himself for thinking it. For wanting you that much.

For wanting you like he might die from it.

There was a specific moment — always the same — when you’d walk past him after a mission, body still hot, muscles still tight, hands stained with traces of war, and he’d have to fight himself. He had to clench his fists, grit his teeth. Because everything in him screamed to move. To close the distance. To pull you into the nearest wall and press his mouth to your skin until he forgot his own name.

He didn’t know what that feeling was.

It had been years — so many years — since he’d felt anything like it. A desire that burned in his chest, not just his body. It wasn’t just about touching — it was about feeling. You made him remember that he was still a man. That he could still want. That maybe… he could still love.

The thought terrified him.

So he hid it. Behind quiet glances. Behind clenched hands. Behind the rough, whispered “good morning” in the elevator. He hid it when he heard you laughing with Wanda, when he saw you tying your hair before training.

But the truth was… you were irresistible.

💋