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[pinksplace]

Talk Talk

Bucky Barnes x Reader

this fic is apart of the BWAT Summer collab!

Summary: What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. Besides, there are plenty of ways to talk.

PSA (Pink Service Announcement): brining back Bucky Barnes the flirt. he never died because i said so. set around TFATWS. I couldn't find any canoncial evidence of Bucky speaking French but I didn’t look that hard. you don't need to translate anything to understand what's happening, but if you want to please feel free!

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: google translate French, gratuitous use of italics. Bucky Barnes goes to the club, cursing, grinding on the dance floor, hot and heavy make out, oral (fem receiving)

DT: the bestest betas a girl could ever ask for, my sweet @artficlly, @heldbybarnes, and addy (I still can’t believe you know French), thank you guys so much for reading I truly would not have made it through this last stretch of writing without you. I owe you all a billion kisses or Jell-O shots, please let me know what you prefer!

also dividers by the extraordinarily talented @barnesonly

Bucky's first mistake was taking his eyes off the target. 

Eyes straying from his mark across the room, first exit, second exit, and the large window. His eyes sweep the entire room, mentally checking every off every possible escape route. Calculating every possible entrance where someone could sneak in. Call it an old habit, call it paranoia, call it boredom. Bucky doesn't fucking care, it's just what he does. Working or not.

Whatever it is, it leads to his eyes sweeping right over you. 

Bald suit, bald suit, gaudy heiress, bald suit, you, bald suit, billionaire-

You.

That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.

Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox. 

Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much. 

He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch. 

You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.

It makes his head feel warm to think about. 

The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it. 

He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket. 

The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle. 

Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you. 

You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.

He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.

For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so. 

It must show on his face. 

"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"

He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."

You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact. 

Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you. 

Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket. 

A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen. 

Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes. 

Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.

Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up. 

The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.

Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare. 

When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute. 

Then you nod. 

It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper. 

He throws it so hard it hits the wall. 

You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush. 

It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead. 

A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin. 

Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible. 

It would make even the worst cowards brave. 

Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions. 

Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed. 

They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.

The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception. 

There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail. 

He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them. 

Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.

"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."

As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.

"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.

Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it. 

His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin. 

He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass. 

The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit. 

Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in. 

The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years. 

One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss. 

Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly. 

"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!" 

Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan. 

His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand. 

Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you. 

It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-

"Bucky!"

You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.

His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.

Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.

Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart. 

His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs. 

Then it all bursts. 

His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue. 

Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source. 

You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name. 

As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down. 

You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus. 

"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"

Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place. 

He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away. 

"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"

You groan, pulling his lips back to yours. 

Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.

"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?" 

When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night. 

He kisses you again, even harder this time. 

Yeah, he thinks, it was.

Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)

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Partygirls: @miraclediviner @clarknsun @helloimokaynow @hailmary-yramliah @j23r23 @after8hore @phoenix-in-writing @3lectric-hearts @chateaubarnes @whatwonderful-world @barnesgirlx @spinningyarnsandshame @mistressofallthingsgeeky @trtltot @herejustforbuckybarnes @hayles004 @kk2006-1594 @bbyanarchist @kriscr0ss @cottagecorebaby @tw1sters @lindsey-lana @mrs-katelyn-barnes @obxobsessedbitch1 @serenityrdj @iamthatonefangirl @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @its-in-the-woods @superbassbuck @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @bastian-jpeg @buckysdecaflove @mandoloriancookie @onyx8514-blog @anon-188 @singulartoast @khartalks @xoxocelestial

[godmadeaterribleerror]

The Strawberries

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦ ✦summary: Bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.✦ ✦warnings/tags: thunderbolts!bucky, wife!reader, no use of y/n, soft Bucky Barnes, no description of reader, shenanigans, tooth-rotting fluff, he's so down bad for you it's crazy ✦ ✦wc: 6.1k✦ ✦Author's Note: request from anon! i love letting him be happy like he'd be such a wife guy trust me✦

Bucky Barnes has been bringing a lunchbox on missions.

It’s not a sparkly lunchbox. Nothing flashy that grabs attention—like Yelena’s bedazzled, personalized lunchbox and it’s three hundred rhinestones, required to stay in the jet no matter how much she insists upon it being an asset—but everyone notices anyway.

Not because of the lunchbox itself, made of smooth black metal and could easily be mistaken for just another part of the jet. Because of it’s contents.

Strawberries.

Heart-shaped strawberries, put in a baby blue Tupperware and arranged neatly in a little circle around some honey.

“You dip fruit in honey, Bucky Barnes?” Alexei asked when he saw it.

Bucky had only shrugged. “It tastes good.”

“Would be sweet, no? Very sweet. Like cream.”

“It’s not like cream.”

“No, not cream, cream.”

Bucky had stared at him incredulously, and Alexei had sighed, snapping his fingers.

“Yelena, what is word for cream in English.”

“Cream is word for cream.” Yelena hadn’t looked up from her phone, and Alexei had sigh.

“No, cream is word cream. This is other cream. White and fluffy like cat. Soft, like baby’s bottom, sweet like world between woman’s legs-“

“Jesus, man.” Walker had groans. “Are you talking fucking whipped cream?”

Alexei had clapped his hands with a grin, everyone had started groaning, and Bucky and his strawberries had gone unnoticed for the rest of the flight.

But the next one, it was Yelena asking if he bought them, or cut them himself. Walker wanted to know if Bucky liked strawberries because they were girl fruit, and Yelena punched him in the face. Bob nervously asked to taste one, and Bucky had handed it over because he was the only one not being an ass about this. Even Ava teased that if he could do heart, he must do other shapes, and everyone distracted themselves coming up with what other form the strawberries could be cut into.

They seemed to be entertained by the thought of Bucky eating strawberries cut in the shape of dicks, and Bucky had let them laugh. It didn’t bother him all that much, when he was the one eating them, they tasted perfect—you’d done something with cinnamon that he didn’t understand, but was as amazing as you were—and he knew the answer to all their questions, no matter how mocking they were.

“Why honey?” He’d asked you while you cut them, leaning over your body with his chin on the top of your head.

“Because it goes with cinnamon.” You’d hummed, and Bucky had grunted.

“Well, why cinnamon.”

“Because it tastes good, James.”

“Why.”

“Because.” You’d leaned back, giving him an amused look. “You’re like a toddler, you know that?”

Bucky had smiled—the small, secret smile he saved only for you—and leaned down to press a deep, sweet kiss to your lips.

“Only for you.” He’d murmured, and you’d smiled, looking back to the strawberries with a pretty flush.

He loved standing like this. Where you were wrapped tight in his arms, and he could pretend he was never going to have to let go. He could bury his nose in your hair and smell the shea butter you made him use as well, but always just smelled better on you. He could rub his hands on your sides and feel you squirm, just press his face into your neck and feel your every word vibrate through his body.

Bucky would stand like this forever, if he could.

But he did have a job. A job he had to go do, soon.

So you made him lunch, to tide him over until he saw you again. A little reminder that he was loved, that someone as good as you loved him. The rest of the team could have their jokes, because Bucky was loved.

Loved by a woman who he might’ve been able to woo in his best years—before he was missing a damn arm and woke up in the middle of the night fighting ghosts—but who he’d never even dared to dream of having a chance with now.

He didn’t like strawberries before you liked them. He didn’t care to bring lunch to work—he didn’t even need it, if he had a large breakfast—before you started volunteering to make it for him.

“I don’t want you to get hungry.” You’d said, pouting up at him, and he’d have to be a fool to tell you no.

Not when you take so much time to make it, just for him. Not when you can do other shapes—stars and moons and flowers and even a damn snowflake, and probably a dick if Bucky asked, although you might start giggling so much it wouldn’t be safe to let you near a knife—but you do hearts just for Bucky.

Because somehow, you’re something that’s just for Bucky.

A secret, good thing that he doesn’t have to share with the team.

Love that isn’t caught up in politics or old fights that bleed through time. Just you, and Bucky, and heart-shaped strawberries.

He lets the team keep teasing.

It’s hard to mind, when he’s the one who gets to eat the strawberries in the end.

Yelena notices it first.

They’re in the truck on some mission in Alaska, with no wifi for streaming and the truck rattling so loud it gives her a headache. She asks Bucky to put on the radio while he drives. He says no. She keeps asking, over and over, until he caves and turns it on with a scowl.

And she’s happy with it. It’s just a top 100 station—some good, some bad, depending on taste—but Yelena likes it plenty, and it’s enough to calm her brain down.

Once her brain is calm, she starts to notice things.

Things like Bucky’s hand tapping on the wheel. Like his mouth, moving silently along with the lyrics of a few songs.

How his nose scrunches when some songs start—like he knows they’re going to be bad—but he smiles to himself for others. His knee bounces with some baselines. His head bobs along with the music.

He knows the songs.

“You like pop music?” Yelena asked, and Bucky started slightly. Like he forgot she was there.

“No.” He grunted, and Yelena scoffed.

“Really.”

“Yeah. We’ve had this conversation. I like-“

“40s music. I’ve heard.” Yelena narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. “You seem to know the radio songs.”

His jaw ticked. “I have ears. I remember things.”

“Impressive, since you are a million years old.”

Bucky gave her a tired look. “I’m a hundred.”

“Most people have no minds by a hundred. But you- Look at you. You enjoy Lady Gaga.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

He was lying through his damn teeth, and they both knew it, but Bucky was pretty sure he had the upper hand. Yelena could accuse him all she wanted, she’d never guess why Bucky already knew all the songs. Never be able to work out that he listened them so he’d know what you liked. That he liked certain ones more than others because he’d think of you singing them in the shower. That he hated certain ones because you hated them, and you knew more than he did.

Bucky would sit at your feet and listen to you ramble about racist country singers for the rest of his damn life, if he could. He’d listen to you talk about anything, because you were passionate about everything, and you never looked prettier than when you cared.

You’d get all flushed, your nose would wrinkle, your hands would wave around as you gestured, and Bucky didn’t understand half of the actual words you were using—what a stan was, how idol seemed to have a meaning very different that he remembered, or what the hell a fandom was—but he liked how you said them. Like how you’d just pet his head sometimes while you spoke, and how happy you’d look when he repeated something you said a few days later, to prove he’d been listening.

So he’d learned all the words to your favorite songs, because it made you happy. Just like you’d learned how to dance to 40s music with him in the kitchen, even if you stepped on his shoes and mostly just stared at him with shining eyes while he led you around.

He didn’t mind doing that, either. It felt like heaven to have you in his arms. And you’d always giggle when he spun you around, and ask him questions about the 40s he only would ever give you the answers to. You’d smile at all his stories. You’d ask to watch the movies he liked, read the books he’d enjoyed, listen to more of his music.

The least he could do was memorize a few songs. It made you smile.

And Bucky felt like a real good husband, when he made you smile.

Nobody needed to know that the Winter Soldier enjoyed pop music. That didn’t strike fear in the hearts of adversaries, and people would probably want to know his opinions, when they were just yours echoed.

He did sing along to the next song, though. Under his breath, but audible. Just to mess with Yelena.

She gaped at him. “You- You are singing-“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky drawled, smirking at the road.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. Turned down the radio and leaned forward, scanning over Bucky’s face.

He gave her a bored look, brows raised in amusement.

Yelena leaned closer.

“You are strange, Bucky Barnes.” She muttered, and Bucky snorted.

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Stranger than usual.” Yelena continued, like she hadn’t heard him at all. “Very strange.”

Bucky just shrugged, and Yelena hummed.

“I am onto you. I will figure out what strange music secrets you keep.”

Bucky laughed again. “You do that.”

“I will.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” Yelena mocked, slumping back into her seat. “What do you think of Rihanna, Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky knew what you thought of Rihanna. Knew that you wished she’d make more music, something he actually agreed with. The woman had good beats, and used a lot of real instruments. Those had been some of the easier songs to get through.

“I don’t know who that is.” He repeated, but probably after pausing for too long.

Yelena huffed like she didn’t believe him. Bucky was probably playing with fire, by not shutting this down firmly. But he really couldn’t bring himself to care.

He wouldn’t stop listening to the songs. And it wasn’t his fault they were so damn catchy.

He did wish Yelena could hear you sing along to them, though. You did it a hell of a lot better than he did.

And Bucky got lost in thought about you again. He didn’t feel his grin, pulling at his face from the thought of you.

Yelena narrowed her eyes.

Something was up with Bucky Barnes. Music and strawberries. Soft things, for soft people, which he was not. Maybe he had been kidnapped, and this was a clone. Yelena could fight a clone. That would be quite easy.

But the easy thing was rarely the answer. Which was annoying.

It didn’t matter.

Yelena would figure out what Bucky was hiding.

And if it was something that let her fight a clone, well. Worse, stranger things have happened.

Bob and Ava realize next.

They’ve known about the strawberries. Everyone has known about the strawberries. Only Bob knows about the music—Yelena told him—but Ava’s noticed things as well.

Liking Bucky smiling at his phone. Going to bed before everyone else, and waking up before them as well. And it shouldn’t be strange that a solider goes to bed early, but it’s how he goes to bed.

Bucky makes a big show of it. He stands up, announces that not to bother him unless someone is dying, and still try to handle that yourselves, then marches off to his room.

Ava walked past it last week. And she knows she’s not supposed to—something about privacy—but Bucky had a book she’d wanted, and doors are just suggestions that people think keep them safe anyway.

She phased through the wall, and found the room empty. Completely and totally empty. No noise from the bathroom, no lump in the sheets. Nothing.

The book had been on the nightstand. She’d taken it and gone, but wondered.

If the room was always empty.

If Barnes was up to something.

Bob just thought the music thing was nice.

“Maybe he just likes pop music?” He’d offered to Yelena, who’d shaken her head.

“No. Bucky Barnes does not like this.”

“I- That can’t be true-“

“It is.”

“He likes some books.” Bob had said, a little desperately. “And… Sam Wilson’s his friend. They have to do something together.”

“They fix boats.”

“See! That’s liking something-“

“This is not a boat, Bob.” Yelena had snapped. “This is music. It is important, because Bucky likes it, and he does not like things.”

And that wasn’t entirely true.

Bucky didn’t like most things. He didn’t like crowds, or snow, or most movies until you liked them and suddenly he understood what everyone was making such a big deal about. He didn’t like planes or trains, and boats were fine, and he hated going most anywhere until you’d started riding on the motorcycle with him. He didn’t like resting, or eating, or the dark, but then you made him do spa nights with him and suddenly all those things were fine.

“Your hair is better than mine.” You’d murmurs, running your fingers through it, and he’d sighed.

“That’s not true, doll.”

“It is.”

“Nothin’ I got is better than you.”

You’d hummed, smiling to yourself as you started to braid on of the thicker locks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’d sighed, like he was pained you didn’t believe him. “I don’t sneak around for just anyone y’know.”

“Well, you don’t have to sneak around for me-“

Bucky had said your name, rolling onto his back with a sigh.

You’d given him an innocent look, and he’d swallowed. Reached up to trace your features, his voice low and serious.

“You know I can’t risk something happenin’ to you. I don’t like hiding either, but-“

“I know.” You’d kissed the inside of his wrist. “I’m just reminding you. Just in case.”

You’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled slowly back. His eyes shining with that quiet, relaxed awe that was yours, and yours alone.

The world could have Bucky in whatever role they made him play. He always went along with it, as long as he was helping, no matter how many times you casually floated the idea of him retiring. There was always another reason he had to keep going. Another part of him they wanted to take away from you.

But this, the peace and silent, but immeasurably powerful love that radiated off of him, it was all yours.

“I love you.” He’d murmured, and you’d brushed a little hair from his face.

“I know.”

He’d frowned. “You’re not gonna say it back?”

“You know I love you-“

“Yeah, but I like hearin’ you say it, doll-“

“I love you, James, I love you so much-“

Bucky had rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just bein’ mean to me.”

You’d giggled, leaning down until you were hovering only inches away. “You like it,” you’d whispered. “Gives you an excuse for later.”

Bucky’s eyes had flashed, his hand slowly sliding down around your neck, and you’d laughed again. Sat back up and gently nudged his shoulder.

“I love you, old man.” You’d pushed a little harder. “Flip over, I’m braiding your hair.”

He’d groaned, but still flipped back onto his stomach. His face had been pressed into your thigh, one arm around your middle and the other rubbing up and down your calves as you braided. When you’d finished, you’d tied it, and he’d dove for you like an animal.

The braid had somehow survived the night, even if you couldn’t really walk.

And Bucky had kept it in. It was a little under the thicker top layer of his hair, so no one would see it, and if he couldn’t wear his ring at work he wanted something that was made of you.

Then the hair tie would got lost in a fight, and the braid came almost completely undone. He used to go back to you, and sheepishly ask you to redo it. And you always would with a smile and no complaints, and Bucky could never hate time he got to spend at your feet, but he also liked learning things.

Braids were good for ropes. They could busy his hands, if he was stuck on the jet too long and no one was looking at him.

If you ever had daughters together, he’d need to know how to do them, the exact way you did.

So he asked, and you taught him.

And Bob and Ava are in the common room talking about the Baby Shark song with Ava tries to braid her hair, but she’s not all that good at it. She usually just keeps it inside the suit.

Bob offers to help. He’s worse.

They’re seconds from going to grab Yelena when Bucky walks in with a bored expression, and finds Bob’s hands in Ava’s hair, both of them looking like they just got caught doing something wrong.

“What’s wrong with you two.”

“Bob can’t braid hair.” Ava says plainly, and Bob frowns.

“Well I- I’m trying- But it’s- There’s so much of it-“

“Yeah, I got it.” Bucky sighs, then frowns at Ava. “Can’t you braid your own hair?”

Ava sniffs, raising her chin. “I never learned. But thank you, for reminding me of that childhood norm I missed out on-“

“Christ, it’s not like I’m all sunshine and-“ Bucky had sighed, ran a hand over his face, then nodded to himself. “Alright. Bob, move.”

Bob had moved, hands in the air like a surrender, and Bucky had taken his place.

He’d worked fast. Very fast. Fast and neat, because he’d been practicing on himself and you, and he was pretty damn good at it now.

That was a good braid. Bucky stood back with his hands on his hips, nodded, and marched out without another word.

Bob and Ava sat there for a moment. Bob stared, and Ava reached back carefully to touch the braid.

It felt alright. There weren’t stray hairs, and the pattern was tight.

Which meant Bucky had given her a braid of… Above average quality.

Ava looked at Bob, and found his mouth open. Their eyes met, neither really sure what to say other than-

“What the fuck was that?”

Alexei notices next.

He doesn’t know it, but the rest of them have a running bet. Yelena told Bob about her theory, Bob pulled Ava into the room, and they all put a week of chores on the line for who’s going to realize last.

Yelena thinks it’s going to be Bucky, not picking up on the fact that everyone is onto him. Ava thinks it’s John, his head too far up his ass to make such observations. Bob thinks it’s Alexei, simply because no one else had money on Alexei, and he wasn’t allowed to simply not participate.

For a while, it seems that they’re all on even footing. Bucky keeps coming and going, smiling at his phone and suddenly knowing how face masks and baking and different soaps work, and no one else seems to be picking up on anything odd.

Then Alexei asks Bucky to go out with him.

“Night on the town, Bucky Barnes.” Alexei claps his shoulder with a wide grin. “We will find many beautiful woman, all looking for attention from great Red Guardian and Winter Soldier!”

Bucky grunts. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I know, you enjoy moping around Watchtower, why am I so alone, where is love- It is because you hide, I will help you stop hiding-“

“I’m not-“ Bucky sighs, and shakes his head. “Maybe next week. I’ve got plans tonight.”

He walks away, leaving Alexei frozen in the middle of the room.

Bucky Barnes does not have plans. He does not do plans. He’s dragged places by his neck, then returns to sulking in mysterious places around the tower. Usually when Alexei asks him to go out, he gets a very similar no, but then he asks again and gets a grumbled fine.

Alexei doesn’t want to go out anymore anyway. There is no better drinking partner than Bucky Barnes. His moody, handsome face pulls in attention, and Alexei gets to swoop in and charm everyone that Bucky turns down with tight words and a half apology. It’s a perfect system.

Bucky is messing with the perfect system.

“Yelena.” He stomps into the living area with a scowl. “Something is wrong with Bucky Barnes.”

Bob groans. He’s the first person to lose the bet.

Alexei doesn’t believe it at first, when they lay it out for him. Strawberries and pop music are not evidence of having a woman. Hair is not either. Alexei can braid hair. He used to do it for Yelena and Natasha, all the time.

“Mother taught you how.” Yelena points out, and that is a fair point. He’d leave it in knots before Melina showed him how not to.

But he would have noticed, if Bucky Barnes had a girlfriend. He lives in the tower. Alexei is Guardian, he knows who comes in and out of their home. If Barnes was hiding secret girl, he would have been the first to realize.

“Or she doesn’t live in the tower.” Ava drawls. “Bucky has been hiding an awful lot, lately. Maybe he goes to her.”

Alexei thinks this is insane. Why would one ever leave the Watchtower? It has magic robots, a kitchen with two ovens, and a pool. America is beautiful country. Robots. Ovens. Pools.

But Ava is exactly right.

The first few months of your relationship, Bucky had still been staying at the Watchtower. He’d entertain Alexei’s outings, knowing he was just there for—as you say it—eye candy. He’d drink and mope about not being with you, maybe call you and tell you how pretty you are, then stumble home and dream about being in your arms. Sometimes he would end up in your arms, managing to drink enough that it actually effected him, thinking home when he got in the Taxi, and ending up swaying on your doorstep.

You’d smile at him, when you opened the door.

“Did you drink the whole bar?”

“Only half.” He’d mumble, leaning against your door. “I love you.”

You’d giggle. He loved your giggle. It was a sound of pure joy, almost like the songs his Ma used to make him sing in church.

He understands church more, now that he has you. He’d build a whole house in your name, and make sure it was even half as beautiful as you were. He talks to you every day, texting even when he knows you won’t respond for hours, the chance of your attention worth every bit of his time. 

“I love you too.” You’d say, flushing and beaming at him. You’d get bashful and nervous, the first times he’d say it. Like you weren’t sure it was real.

And back then, he’d have to linger like a street dog at your door, staring at you hopefully under you asked him inside.

Now he has a key. He takes off from the Watchtower while no one is paying attention. Stops at the corner store to get you chocolate and flowers—he does this every time, you’re considering opening a shop—before heading to the other side of town.

To you.

He has a key to your apartment now. It’s his apartment too.

Houses are the kind of thing you have to share, when you’re married.

“You’re an hour early.” You say when he opens the door, and he chuckles.

“Can’t be early to my damn home, doll-“

“Bucky-“

He turns from closing the door, and his jaw almost falls off his face.

He is very early.

You’re in one of those thin, lacy things you get yourself to try and give him a damn heart attack. Sheer and tight, highlighting curves and making you somehow more than naked. There’s still the small robe, but it doesn’t hide anything at all.

But your hair isn’t done, your face clear of makeup for him to ruin.

Part of him likes it more. You look like an angel.

And it would be a shame for him to make you waste all your fancy products and put in so much effort, when he’s going to wreck you no matter what.

“I’m early.” He rasps, and you cross your arms.

“You have to go out. I’m not ready yet-“

“You look pretty ready to me, doll.”

You flush under his heated, almost rabid gaze. You’re already getting sore between your thighs, and he’s just standing across the room.

Setting down the flowers and rolling up his sleeves. Waiting patiently for you to beckon him over, tongue darting over his lips as his gaze rakes over your body, and your knees are getting weak.

“I’m trying to give you something nice.” You squeak, and Bucky laughs.

“You are giving me somethin’ nice-“

“Well, it- It’s going to be better than this-“

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

You breathe sharply, and Bucky raises his brows.

He’d been ravenous before you were married. Somehow, now, it’s even more than before. He touches you like he’s trying to leave a mark. To remind you that even when he can’t be home, there isn’t a single moment you’re not on his mind.

“Green light?” He mutters.

You nod, then remember the rule.

Words.

“Yes. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

And outside, Yelena, Ava, Bob, and Alexei, frown up at the series of windows, trying to figure out which one Bucky disappeared into. It was Alexei’s idea to follow. He wanted to prove Bucky was simply sick, rather than leaving him to try and pick up women alone.

Right now, his odds aren’t looking good. Bucky doesn’t buy chocolate and flowers for himself.

“Maybe he’s on the other side of the building?” Bob suggests, after almost an hour of staring at Bucky-less windows.

The words are barely out of his mouth before Yelena spots it.

Bucky and a strange woman, stumbling into a room, their mouths practically attached. His shirt is gone. She’s wearing something that looks like it used to be lingerie. Bucky tosses her onto the bed, kisses her ankle, then moves to the window.

He closes the blinds, leaving the team gaping up on the street, all thinking the same thing.

Bucky Barnes has a secret girlfriend.

John notices last.

They’re on a mission in some small city, and it’s fast. Clean. No slip-ups—for once—which means no extra paperwork to file. Yelena makes them go to the mall. They have a Petco, five makeup stores, and a cinnabun. There’s never going to be another chance like this.

It’s in one of the makeup stores that John finally gets clued in. Yelena doesn’t like any of the perfumes she’s looked at—and made everyone else look at, because they should all stop smelling like sweet and damp ass—and Bucky points out that she hasn’t been cleansing her nose after each one with the coffee.

He suggests a specific perfume. It’s not overly floral and sweet like what Yelena’s been trying. He thinks she’d like it, and she does.

And John is suspicious.

“Barnes has a wife.” He hisses to Ava, and she snorts.

“Aren’t you late.”

“What does that mean-“

“It means we’ve all known he has a girlfriend for months, you’re the last person to-“

“No. I didn’t say girlfriend. If he’s with someone, it’s a wife.”

Ava pauses. Looks over her shoulder, to where Bucky is staring at this phone, lost to the world.

He smiles at something on the screen, then looks up like he’s checking nobody saw.

“Why do you think it’s a wife.” She says slowly, and John shrugs.

“He knew perfumes.” Walker says loftily. “You don’t learn perfumes for a girlfriend. That’s wife shit.”

Ava frowns. His logic is flawed. Downright incorrect.

But he did reach the right conclusion, even with the wrong equation.

Bucky learned perfumes for you before you were even engaged. Before he got a key to your apartment, or you talked about a future, or he bought the ring. And he’d gotten that ring fairly early, too.

Right after he spent three hours before your anniversary, researching perfumes to figure out the exact kind you’d like as a gift. He’d gone to stores, looked up guides on line, even sneakily asked Yelena questions to figure out what she liked, how it related to her personality, then apply his findings to you.

He’d been nervous when he’d made his choice. He didn’t get nervous anymore, but his palms had been sweating, his thoughts racing at what might happen if you hated the gift. You were too sweet to break up with him over just a perfume, but Bucky knows how small things can crumble a whole foundation. A good gift showed you he cared. That he’d been paying attention. It build trust, and grew affection. With that, he’d be showing you how serious he was about this. If you knew he was serious, that opened a million more doors that he’d only been holding as fantasies.

Moving in together, sharing a life. Marriage. Maybe partial retirement, removal from the public eye. Being allowed to go out with you in public without having to be so damn careful. Eventually getting a house. Maybe a cat—he liked cats—and, if you wanted it, one or two kids.

But none of that would happen if you didn’t know he was serious. If he’d already messed up by getting you the wrong perfume.

He’d played it super normal, when he’d given you the bag. Collected and suave, not sweating out of his ass, certainly not praying to the whole universe that you’d at least not hate it-

“Bucky.” You’d gasped, holding the bottle with delicate hands, like it was made of crystal. Like it was his heart, rather than some glass. “You didn’t have to-“

“Wanted to.” He’d grunted. “Do you-“

“I love it. I- I’ve wanted this one for a while, actually, but- James, I know how much this costs-“

Bucky had kissed your cheek, letting the prideful, golden feeling in his chest bloom.

“You’re worth it.” He’d muttered, and your smile had been worth more than a whole damn store of perfumes.

He’d gotten the ring that Monday, before he went back to the tower. Spent every moment apart from you that weekend researching cuts and carats, just like he had the perfumes.

When he’d proposed, he’d told you that he’d been half a man before you.

You’d told him that even if that was true, you would’ve fallen in love with him if he was a tenth of a man. That just a sliver of him was easier to love than every other man on the planet combined.

They’re all dancing around it. How to tell Bucky they know about his girlfriend—or wife, as John keeps loudly insisting.

A few times, Alexei tries to start a conversation about  what kind of women Bucky likes. Bucky stares at him, giving only grunts as answers, and Alexei gives up fast. Yelena asks if he’d want to go on a vacation to the Bahamas with anyone, and he just shrugs. Ava’s taken to stalking him through the tower, trying to catch a slip-up that gives her the perfect moment for confrontation. Walker has been talking about jewelry and perfume so much, Bucky asks if he’s getting back together with his ex.

Bob doesn’t really want a part of any of this. He thinks that if Bucky wants this to be a secret, they should respect that.

Everyone else thinks that’s boring.

They’ve pooled their time, to manipulate the perfect way to reveal that they know. It’s a needlessly elaborate plan, with far too many uses of a t-shirt gun, a blimp, and a pure-bred horse.

But it will work. They’ve spent months getting it right. By the end of the week, Bucky will admit he has a girlfriend—or wife—and they can start teasing him about it, as is their right.

The plan will be implemented tomorrow. They’ve prepared. Nothing will go wrong.

Then, in the middle of a meeting about some organization either having too many automatic rifles—or not enough, but none of them are really paying attention—there’s a knock on the door.

Everyone freezes. There’s not a single person in the building, who doesn’t know the rule. Never interrupt Valentina. Not even if the world is ending. You wait until she’s ready to hear about the apocalypse, then you speak.

She’s scowling at the head of the table, but waves a tight hand for Mel to answer the door.

When she does, everyone cranes their head to see who’s about to get fired. But it’s not an employee or agent, standing in the hallway.

It’s a beautiful, anxious looking woman holding a smooth lunchbox. She’s shifting on her feet, wearing a thick coat and diamond ring, looking around like the walls are the tallest thing she’s ever seen, and-

She’s the girl from the window.

Wearing a ring.

John would be smug, if he wasn’t trying to wrap his head around how that was Bucky’s wife. But it’s not just him.

You’d looked pretty from the window. Up close, it’s no wonder Bucky wanted to keep you to himself. You might’ve been able to defeat Thanos with a smile.

“Hi,” your voice is soft, your expression like a doe in headlights. “I- Um- Bucky forgot his lunch.”

You hold up the black box, and Valentina clears her throat.

“And you’re who exactly?”

“Um-“

“An assistant?” She shoots Bucky a glare. “I don’t see why you should get an assistant, James, you barely even do anything-“

“Bucky does things.” You stand a little taller, eyes narrowing on Valentina. “He does a lot of things, and- You don’t even give him pet insurance-“

“He doesn’t need pet insurance-“

“Yeah, because my boss is a nice person-“

“Darling.” Bucky stands up quickly, moving to block you from Valentina’s venomous glare. “You didn’t tell me you were coming, I would’ve met you downstairs-“

“I wanted to surprise you.” You mumble, lips pulling into a pout. “Sorry.”

“’S alright.” He glances over his shoulder, to everyone’s aghast, almost offensively shocked expression. “I gotta finish this meeting, you know where my room is?”

You nod, still looking too damn sad, and Bucky sighs. He leans forward to kiss your cheek, keeping his voice low enough only you’ll hear.

“I coulda gotten something from the café, y’know.”

“Yeah, but- You’d forget to.”

Bucky chuckles, squeezing your waist gently. “You’re too good to me, doll.”

“Hm.” Your smile returns, paired with a pretty flush. “I don’t think I am.”

You touch his arm, leaning forward to press a tiny, quick kiss to his lips. It takes everything Bucky has, not to drag you back and make out until you’re both dizzy. The only thing that manages to stop him is the eyes of his teammates, glaring daggers into his back.

You walk away with one last smile over your shoulder, and Bucky waves with a foolish grin.

Then he turns, braces his hands on his hips, and sighs.

“We’re gonna do this now, aren’t we?”

Valentina scoffs. “Do what, make you explain why you’re bringing your little civilian into the tower without approval-“

“She is approved.” Bucky grunts. “She’s my emergency contact, that grants her automatic access.”

Bob’s eyes widens. “Wow, it’s- You’re that serious? Not that you wouldn’t be, just- I didn’t know girlfriends could be emergency contacts. I always thought it was, um- Family. Only?”

“Anyone can be a contact.” Bucky grunts. “And- Jesus-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face.

There’s no point lying about it now. Might as well get it over with.

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

Walker shouts I knew it. Yelena starts demanding her winnings from Ava, and Alexei starts grumbling about not being invited to the wedding.

But none of them are all that surprised.

“Did you all… Know?” Bucky snaps, and Yelena rolls her eyes.

“Of course. You were obvious, like dog after bone.”

“I was not, and- That doesn’t make sense-“

“We all knew, Bucky.” Ava shrugs. “But it makes sense. She’s beautiful.”

At that, Bucky grins. He’ll be angry at them later.

Right now, he’s just standing tall with pride.

“Yeah. She is.”

✦End note: deeply upsetting that we're probably only going to get the one Thunderbolts movie I was 50 of them like the Avengers.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[sleepypanda27]

Butterfly

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: After a girl's night out, you come home drunk, and Bucky takes care of you.

Word count: 500

You returned home from a girls' night out, completely drunk.

You clung to Bucky's arm like a sleepy koala as he guided you through the apartment door, your steps wobbly but determined. “I’m not drunk,” you declared, immediately tripping over absolutely nothing.

Bucky caught you before you could fall, scooping you up with one arm like you weighed nothing. “Sure, doll. Totally sober.”

You squinted at him, poking his cheek. “You’re so… symmetrical,” you whispered, as if it was classified information.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he chuckled.

He set you on the couch, but you grabbed his shirt and pulled him down with surprising strength. “Don't leave. You’re my emotional support super‑soldier.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he laughed.

You rested your head on his shoulder, staring up at him with the most dramatic, lovesick expression he’d ever seen. “Bucky Barnes,” you said solemnly, “you are my favorite person in the whole universe. Even more than pizza.”

“That’s a big honor.”

“And you’re so handsome it’s rude. Like…illegal. You should be arrested.”

Bucky snorted. “Arrested, huh?”

You nodded, then blinked slowly. “Bucky… my face feels heavy.”

“That’s because you’re tired, sweetheart.”

“No,” you insisted. “It’s because I have makeup on. And my lashes are plotting against me.”

He chuckled and lifted you into his arms again. “Alright, let’s fix that then.”

He carried you to the bathroom and set you gently on the counter. “Stay right here.”

You immediately leaned forward and bonked your forehead into his chest. “I’m staying. You smell like safety.”

He grabbed a makeup wipe. “Close your eyes.”

You obeyed…mostly. One eye stayed half‑open, watching him with suspicious admiration. “You’re so gentle,” you whispered. “Like a big, metal-armed butterfly.”

“That’s a new one,” he chuckled, amused, wiping mascara smudges from your cheeks and eyes.

“You’re my butterfly,” you added proudly.

“Don’t tell Sam, he will be jealous.” When he finished, he tapped your nose. “All clean.”

You gasped. “You’re a wizard.”

“Sure,” he said, lifting you off the counter. “Let’s get you into something comfy.”

“Can I wear your shirt? The soft one? The one that smells like you?”

“You always wear my shirts,” he reminded you.

He helped you into one of his long, worn-in Henleys, the one you always stole anyway, and you immediately buried your face in the collar of the shirt. “Mmm. Bucky scented. Five stars. Would recommend.”

He guided you to bed, tucking the blankets around you. “You good, sweetheart?”

You cupped his face with both hands, squishing his cheeks. “You’re my favorite person,” you said again, softer this time. “I love you in a normal, healthy, totally reasonable way.”

He kissed your forehead. “I know. And I love you too.”

You blinked sleepily. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“If you leave, I’ll riot.”

He chuckled, sliding into bed beside you. “Guess I better stay, then.”

You curled into him instantly, warm and content. “You’re my butterfly,” you murmured as you drifted off.

Bucky shook his head, smiling into your hair, pulling you closer. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be your butterfly.”

[bloodynosenatashasupremacist]

i hope the art of ‘bucky x reader’ never dies

[writer-fae]

Quiet (b.b.)

description: Bucky reflects during a moment in love.

contains: fluff, injured Bucky

a/n: I was thinking a lot about how Bucky would feel being in love after everything he's been through...

You're an angel, he thinks, lying on the couch watching you scoop pancake batter on the griddle. You work in quiet concentration, the only sounds the hiss of the batter on the hot stove and the occasional clicking of the oven. His ribs are sore from the previous day's fight and he has to take shallow breaths to avoid the sting, but he's the happiest he's ever been.

You keep looking back at him, checking on him, making sure he hasn't starting coughing up blood or isn't in holding his side in pain, and he isn't used to someone worrying over his injuries, but it feels like coming in to a warm home after being in a snowstorm. You're wearing his shirt, and it falls at the middle of your thighs and makes him feel a strange possessiveness, like you're telling the world that you belong to each other rather than just finding something familiar and comfortable to wear around the house. Familiar. Comfortable.

The two words haven't coexisted in his head in such a long time. Familiar was being chased, given orders, and feeling pain. Comfortable was being hidden, safe as long as he avoided lingering eyes and never stayed in the same place too long. Neither had ever meant long hugs after bad days or spending the nights holding someone warm who loved him. Familiar had never meant the smell of your shampoo or the way you rub his back in small circles. Comfortable had never been having a home- a place to come back to with pictures hung up on the wall and blankets draped over chairs.

The pancakes smell amazing. He knows you always throw in a dash of cinnamon - your secret ingredient - and he can smell it in the air along with fresh blueberry coffee steaming in two matching mugs. He didn't even know coffee could be blueberry. He's never made pancakes before that weren't flat and burnt, mixed hurriedly from a box and stuffed in his mouth without syrup or much care. He tends to prioritize efficiency over pleasure - a trait you're steadily breaking him out of. You take the time to make simple syrup with fruit and put cheese and butter in the grits while they're cooking. You put honey on his toast and buy the special French vanilla creamer he likes even though it's a dollar thirty-five more expensive than plain old milk, and you tell him it's worth the cost because you use less of it and he nods and kisses your temple and lets you set it down in the cart.

He watches you slide the pancakes from the spatula onto a plate, and grab strawberries from the fridge. You've been obsessed with cutting them into little flowers after you watched a video on your phone and practiced with half a carton until you were happy with the results. Sometimes you stick your tongue out a little bit when you're really focusing on something and he likes it because it's the best time to watch you for as long as he likes because your eyes never leave your project and he can stare at the curves and angles that make up your face without you telling him to stop and batting him on the shoulder lightly.

There were days he wasn't sure he'd ever have a place to call home. He had resigned himself, first to compliance, then to running, then to cold nothingness, and then to living again and trying to be as big of a fraction of a person as he could, forever repentant and resigned to a lonely, violent life of atonement. He thought maybe he could be a different kind of ghost - no longer hidden in the shadows, but not quite in the sun, eating and breathing but not doing much more than surviving and fighting and patching himself up in dirty bathrooms, sometimes feeling the weight of his actions suffocate him, cover his mouth like the mask he'd once been forced to wear, and he couldn't scream, couldn't call for help. He didn't think anyone would come, anyways.

He certainly hadn't expected you to enter his life. He hadn't expected your sweet smiles or your patience with him. He thought you'd politely turn down his invitation for coffee at best, scoff in disgust at worst. Even when you offered to split a pastry with him, your lipstick - a shade he'd never seen you wear - stamped on the mouth of your coffee cup, he thought surely you'd block his number after that beautiful first date, change your daily routine so you didn't have to sit across from him on the train every day and weren't forced to share his umbrella because you seldom remembered to check the weather before running, almost late, to work. He was deleting the fifth draft of his text message when you called him, not even an hour after you had said goodbye, and you talked until after midnight, with your soft, even breathing in his ear, lulling him to a rare dreamless sleep.

He never thought you'd kiss him.

He'd noticed the way your fingernails tapped nervously against your glass and your eyes kept flitting away from his, yet he could feel your gaze whenever he looked elsewhere. He thought you might be ending it- the tenuous thread of romance between you too, like a small fire he was desperately feeding, never sure if he was doing it right, still unnamed. Your strange behavior combined with the restaurant's unfamiliar fanciness made him anxious, and he'd taken the tie off in the bathroom, hands gripping the sink as he struggled to regulate his breathing.

You'd both taken to-go boxes and rejected the dinner menu, leaving not even a half hour after you'd been served. He thought about everything he'd done and not done, said and not said, trying to figure out where he'd went wrong as you two walked around the park at your suggestion, stopping at a bench lit by the streetlights above.

He ran his nails along the grooves of his metal hand. He thought maybe he should apologize. Your hands wouldn't stay still in your lap, fiddling with the brown paper handles of your to go bag. Then suddenly, you shifted, leg up on the bench so you could face him fully, and before he could speak, you asked.

"Can I kiss you?"

The question stopped the churning of his brain in its tracks. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. He hadn't even realized that he nodded, but then your hands were holding his face, your fingers a bit cold against the heat of his cheeks, and you were leaning in and your eyes were closed and he swore time stopped when your lips met his. He didn't stop kissing you that night, on your lips on the bench in the park and on your knuckles in the car driving you home and even along your jaw pressed up against your apartment door. HIs lips were shiny and a little sticky from your lip gloss and his hair was all mussed up from your fingers tangling at the back of his neck and he couldn't stop smiling the whole way home. Sometimes he still can't stop himself from grinning, the months doing nothing to stop the nervous excitement he feels every time you wrap your arms around his neck and press your body against his.

You place the plate in front of him, with his mug and your own side by side, and he heaves his body up to sit upright on the couch, allowing you to settle beside him on the cushion.

"How's your head?" you ask, brow furrowed as you press lightly on the puffy skin under his eye, still swollen but fading quickly from a purplish-blue to its normal color.

"It's fine," he says. "Just a small headache."

"I'll grab you some pain relievers," you say, setting your plate down to stand up. He grabs your arm lightly but insistently.

"No," he almost whines. "Stay."

You can't help but smile as you oblige. He moves again so that he's sitting up on the arm of the couch, with some difficulty, as he only has one arm to work with, his metal arm still getting clean in the machine, a silent show of vulnerability, a testament to how safe he feels when you're near. He settles with one leg up and the other on the floor, inviting you to sit in his lap.

"But your ribs-" you start.

"I'm fine," he insists. "C'mere."

You gingerly sit against him and he wraps his arm around you, holding you close. He lets out a small sound, barely even a grunt, but you shoot him a look. He tilts his head to yours and breathes in your scent, his entire body melting. You mold to his body perfectly, and when you sink back into him, your heartbeat slows into a gentle, relaxed rhythm.

"It's fine," he repeats, peppering the side of your face with soft, slow kisses. "I heal quick, even quicker when you're near me."

You roll your eyes, no real annoyance in the action, and press a quick kiss to his bicep. "I'm getting you some Tylenol right after breakfast." You take his plate and cut off a big piece of pancake, raising the fork to his mouth. "M'kay," he says, leaning forward and gobbling the bite quickly, his words muffled. "But I eat real slow."

[emma-frxst]

I’m completely obsessed with this!

“He had resigned himself, first to compliance, then to running, then to cold nothingness, and then to living again and trying to be as big of a fraction of a person as he could, forever repentant and resigned to a lonely, violent life of atonement. He thought maybe he could be a different kind of ghost - no longer hidden in the shadows, but not quite in the sun, eating and breathing but not doing much more than surviving and fighting and patching himself up in dirty bathrooms, sometimes feeling the weight of his actions suffocate him, cover his mouth like the mask he'd once been forced to wear, and he couldn't scream, couldn't call for help. He didn't think anyone would come, anyways.”

Uhmmm are you a poet?!?!

I will be writing an essay analyzing this- in this essay I will- No lol but really this is so sweet! The way you describe Bucky being anxious about dates and overthinking is chefs kiss, and him kissing her! I am deceased. We love letting Bucky enjoy expensive-ish coffee creamer and cinnamon pancakes 🫶

[wildflowersandvibranium-deactiv]

Rivers Edge

pairing: wintersoldier!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ nudity/bathing (no smut) , touching, suggestive?, reader bathes bucky, reader finds bucky injured, scares of death, blood and wounds (non graphic) angst, food, fluff at the end, “Soldat” used a few times, hydra, set kinda old timey, open ending?

word count: 4.0k

a/n: first fic since my new job! Haiii ;) I’m very open to adding on to this but let me know what y’all think! I couldn’t stop thinking of @superbassbuck when writing this idk why I feel like I say that a lot lol but anyways!

summary: You live alone in a secluded woodland cottage, your life is peaceful, shaped by nature and routine. Until one autumn morning brings an unexpected intrusion when a wounded stranger appears at the rivers edge.

The cottage was a secret between you and the forest. It sat nestled deep within the pines and towering oaks, a small timber-framed thing with a moss covered roof that looked more like a grassy hill then a house.

But, it was your world. Your days were measured not by the ticking of a clock, but by the ripening of berries, the fetching of water pails, and the quiet footfalls of the animals who considered you a friendly neighbor.

It was a life woven from solitude and silence. Mornings began with the scent of dew-damp earth and the soft scratch of a quill and ink on paper as you sketched the cardinals that flitted to your windowsill. 

Afternoons though were for your work: tending to the herb garden, foraging for mushrooms, and keeping the woodpile stocked against the coming chilly wind. 

Evenings were for resting, for reading your father’s worn books by dancing firelight, and for the gentle company with the wild things. The bunnies, with their twitching noses and cotton tails, would gather at your feet as you skipped through the greens. The deer, shy and majestic, would approach the edge of the wooded clearing, their dark doe eyes watching with a profound, unspoken trust. You were their keeper, their quiet guardian.

This morning was no different. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles and the promise of a clear autumn day. You knelt by the riverbank, the icy water swirling around your wrists as you washed the sleep from your skin. The river was your lifeline, its constant current— a soothing balm. You were lost in the simple, meditative act, watching a woodpecker tap at an oak, when a flash of unnatural color caught your eye.

Further downstream, tangled in the leaves, lay a shape that did not belong. It was too dark, too rigid to be a fallen log. Your heart gave a sharp, anxious flutter. A poacher or hunter’s prey? A fallen hiker or traveler?

You rose slowly, hands dripping, and moved toward the shape with a caution born of living alone for years now. As you drew closer, the shape resolved into a man. He was face down in the banks mud, half his body limp in the water, the current tugging at him with a harsh jostling motion. He was clad in some sort of dark, form-fitting leather, scuffed in places, even torn in others. An empty holster hung from his hip and thigh, his boots were tied to his shins, heavy, military-grade things, one was missing its lace. His hair, a thick, matted mane of brown, was fanned out in the water like sodden seaweed.

A cold dread, sharper than the river cold, seized you. You stepped in, the current pulling at your dress skirt, and knelt beside him. His skin was frighteningly pale, almost translucent in the morning light, and a dark, ugly gash marred from his temple to his cheek bone. But the most alarming thing was the unnatural stillness of him. He wasn’t breathing. Or was he? You pressed two small, trembling fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. There it was. A faint, thready beat beneath his skin, a fragile, stubborn spark of life.

"H-hello?" You whispered, voice sounding impossibly loud in the quiet of the forest. "Can you hear me?"

No response. His eyes were closed, lips tinged with blue. He was bleeding, he was freezing, and he was lost.

Fear gave way to a fierce, protective instinct. You couldn't leave him here. Taking a deep breath, you hooked your arms under his shoulders. He was heavier than you could have ever imagined, a dead weight of muscle and bone. Grunting with effort, you dragged him from the river's greedy grasp, his boots leaving deep burrows in the soft mud of the bank.

 You propped him against a large, moss-covered rock, away from the water, and knelt to examine him more closely. The gash on his head was the most pressing, but his skin was burning up. A growing infection, then. A fever.

You gently brushed a wet lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was turning shockingly hot beneath your cool fingertips.

At the contact, his eyes flew open.

They were the color of a stormy sea, wide with a primal, animal terror. He flinched violently, a choked gasp escaping his lips. His body coiled in on itself, muscles tensing as if to spring, but his injuries betrayed him. He slumped back against the rock with a pained groan, his gaze darting around wildly, searching for a threat, an escape.

"Shhh," You soothed, pulling your hands back to show him you meant no harm. You held them up, palms empty, open. "It's alright. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

His wild eyes fixed on you at your voice, distrust and confusion warring in their depths. He tried to push himself up again, his hand clawing for the empty holster at his hip. He found nothing. A flicker of panic, deeper this time, crossed his face.

"You're hurt," you said, voice soft and even, a tone you used for spooked does. "You were in the river. You need my help. My cottage is just through those trees. Theres fire. It's warm. I can help you."

You pointed, and his gaze followed your finger to the faint outline of your home. He looked back at you, expression unreadable. He was a predator, assessing, calculating. But he was also wounded, raw. The fight was slowly draining from him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and hurt.

"Come," you said, rising slowly and extending a slow hand. "Let me help you."

For a long moment, he just stared at the gentle gesture, as if it were some alien object. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he reached out. His fingers, calloused and scarred, wrapped around yours. His grip was firm, almost crushing, but you didn't pull away. Together, you made the slow, agonizing journey to the cottage, his arm heavy across your shoulders.

Once inside, you got him settled onto the old, worn armchair by the heat, the one your father used to read in. The leather of his suit creaked and rubbed as he sank into the cushions. He looked enormous and out of place amidst the lacey curtains and the scent of dried lavender from the pick this morning.

"I'm going to get you clean, now" you explained, moving to the small washroom attached to the main living area. You began lighting an oil lamp in there, casting a warm glow on the simple tin tub and the hand-pumped faucet. You turned the knob, making the pipes groan and squeal before a stream of cold water began to fill the basin. "There's a shower in here. You just turn this knob," you looked over your shoulder, demonstrating, "to get hot water. It might take a moment to get warm since it’s by fire. I'll find you some clean clothes and make you something to eat. We'll clean your wounds after."

He watched your every move, his gaze intense, missing nothing. You gestured to the washroom. "Go on. Get out of those wet things. There's a bar of soap on the ledge there."

He stood, a bit unsteadily, and waddled into the small room. He closed the door behind him and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

Your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Who was he? An army soldier, clearly. A fugitive? The empty holster screamed danger, but the vulnerability in his eyes had screamed to you for help.

You busied herself as he washed off, pulling out your father's old clothes from a cedar chest. They would be too small for the man's broad shoulders, but they would have to do. Better than your own sundresses and silk nighties. 

You laid a soft, red, flannel shirt and a pair of sturdy canvas pants on the bed. Then went straight to the kitchen, putting a cast-iron skillet on the stove, pouring some olive oil inside and cracking a few eggs into it, slicing thick pieces of the bread you baked yesterday. The familiar, grounding ritual of cooking helped to settle your nerves.

You had just dropped in the eggs and bread with a fragrant herb oil when a sound from the bathroom made you pause. It was a soft, frustrated thud. Then, silence. 

You waited. 

Another moment passed. Concern began to prickle at you. Had he fallen? Fainted?

You approached the bathroom door, knocking lightly before calling out softly. "Everything alright in there?" 

No answer. You pressed your ear to the wood. Nothing but the dripping of the faucet. "Hello? Are you okay?"

Slowly, the door creaked open.

He stood there, framed in the doorway. Steam billowed out around him, smelling of soap and wet metal. He was completely, utterly nude. Water droplets tracked paths down his broad chest and over the hard planes of his stomach down his thick thighs. The sight of him was breathtaking and deeply shocking. His body was a roadmap of violence—a lacework of pale, silvery scars crisscrossing his torso and up his arms, a brutal scar high on his ribs, the puckered skin of old pink bullet wounds. 

Your breath hitched, cheeks flooding with a scorching heat. Your eyes flew from where they were looking down back up to his face, which was a mask of pure, confusion. 

He was holding the bar of soap in his flesh hand, looking utterly baffled by the knobs of the shower, the concept of the water, of the entire process. He looked like a giant, frightened cub, lost in a world of simple mechanics and normalcy. He made a small, frustrated gesture with his free hand—the metal one you couldn’t stop glancing at, a universal sign for “I don't understand”.

"Oh," you breathed out, voice barely a whisper. "Oh, the... the knobs. Yes. Sorry, I, um... I didn't explain it well, did I?”

You were aware of his nudity, of course, the sheer physical presence of him. But his confusion was so genuine, so innocent, that it cut through the awkwardness you felt flushing within you. He wasn't trying to be shocking; he was simply, earnestly, lost.

Pulling yourself together, you stepped into the steam-filled room heading for the basin immediately. "Here," your voice was steadier now. 

You reached past him, your arm brushing against his, a jolt of warmth shooting through you at the contact. You turned the knob, and the water hissed to life again, raining down from the shower head. "You see? This makes the water come from above. And this one," you turned the other knob, "makes it warm. You just need to find the right balance."

He watched her hands, his gaze flicking between the knobs and her face. He seemed to understand. Kinda. He nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.

"Right," you felt your blush deepen remembering the little to no space between you two and the lack of clothing. "I'll... I'll just get you a towel."

You crouch down under the sink and grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the shelf and set it on the closed lid of the toilet. When you turned back, he was still standing there, looking at the spray of water as if it were a miracle. He hadn't moved. He was waiting for you to leave, but he also seemed hesitant to be alone with the strange, noisy contraption.

An idea, wild and reckless, bloomed in your mind. "Do you... need help?" 

His stormy eyes locked on yours. There was no lewdness in them, no expectation. Only a quiet, desperate need for guidance. He gave another, almost imperceptible nod.

The air in the small room grew thick, heavy with steam and unspoken tension. You were very new and unknowing to these feelings. 

You took the soap from his hand, fingers gently ghosting over his. "Okay, let's get you clean."

He slowly stepped in the tub and turned to the wall so his backside was facing you. So, you started with his back, working the soap into a deep rich lather. His skin was hot and slick under your palms. With every circled motion you traced the lines of his scars, each one a story you couldn't read, a testament to a life of pain and abuse. 

He stood perfectly still, head bowed, a low rumble vibrating in his chest that might have been a sigh or a groan. You washed his shoulders, his arms, the powerful muscles of his chest, careful to avoid the gash on his side. He was as tense as a drawn bowstring, but he let you.

When he moved around so his front faced you, you kept your eyes on his face, a hard, effort. You soaped up his chest, your hands sliding over the hard planes, yet avoiding his eyes. He was watching you, his expression unreadable. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the clean scent of the soap mingling with the unique, masculine scent of his wet skin.

You knelt to the floor to wash his legs best. His thighs were like oak trunks, his calves corded and rigid. You scrubbed and scrubbed going up, up, up till you got to his intimate area. While rinsing the suds away with a pail you saw his face contort at the sensitivity there. You quickly finished to keep him as comfortable as you could, while letting him know he was safe with you and you weren’t trying anything at him. 

You whispered a quick sorry and filled the pail with water once more flushing away all the grime and blood, revealing the truth of him. He was a weapon, honed and used. But here, in your tiny washroom, he was just a man who didn't know how to work a shower.

When you were finally all done, you rose to your feet, knees aching from the tile. He closed his eyes, a look of profound relief on his face. For the first time since you found him, the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders.

You turned off the water, and the sudden silence was deafening. You handed him the towel. He took it, his movements still stiff and uncertain. He patted himself dry with a strange, methodical awkwardness. You watched for a moment, then, realizing you were staring, you backed out of the room. "I'll... I'll leave the clothes on the bed for you," you stammered, and fled.

By the time he emerged from the bedroom, dressed in your father's old clothes, the awkwardness had receded slightly. The flannel shirt was strained across his chest, the sleeves were an inch too short, and the fabric of the pants were tight in the thighs, but he was warm and covered. His long, damp hair was slicked back, revealing the cuts and lines of his face. The bruise on his temple was blooming a violent purple. You saw now how handsome he actually was,

You set a place for him at the small wooden table in the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs and herbs filled the cottage. He stood in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room, before settling on the plate of food. A flicker of something—hunger, disbelief—crossed his features.

"Sit," you said gently, gesturing to the chair. "Eat. You must be starvin’."

He sat slowly, his movements careful to not break the small wicker chairs. He looked at the gleaming silver fork, then at the plate, as if trying to remember its function. Then, he picked up the bread with his fingers, tore off a piece, and used it to scoop up the eggs, taking a bite.

It wasn't eating; it was a consumption born of absolute starvation. He devoured the first plate in under a minute, his eyes never leaving the food. You wordlessly took the plate and piled it high again with eggs, placing another slice of bread, buttered this time—beside it. 

He demolished that one, too, eating with a focused, almost animalistic intensity. You gave him a third and final plate, and he finished that as well, slower this time, a sliver of humanity returning to his movements. He wiped the plate clean with the last piece of bread, then sat back, looking at his empty hands then to you.

You had prepared earlier a basin of warm water, clean tea cloths, and a jar of your special salve—a concoction of honey, milk, and beeswax that your mother had taught you to make. "Alright, let’s look at your head, okay?”

You led him to the couch, the softest place in the cottage, with the bucket and medicine in one hand, your other cradling his. He sat stiffly, posture rigid and cold. 

You plopped down beside him, close enough to work but careful not to crowd or worry him. You dipped a corner of the cloth in the water and gently began to clean the leaking gash on his temple. He flinched at the first touch, his hand coming up reflexively holding her wrist then settling to your waist, but he let you continue.

"Hold still," you murmured, your touch light and sure. "It's a nasty cut. You must have hit a rock when you fainted."

He didn't respond, just watched your hands with that same intense focus. As you worked, you could feel the raw power holding back in his stillness. The couch creaked under his weight as he shifted.

"What's your name?" You questioned softly, dabbing at the wound again.

He was silent for so long you thought he didn’t hear you. Then, a low, gravelly voice, rusty from disuse, spoke. "Soldat."

The word hung in the air. Soldier. His Russian accent thick. Not a name. A designation.

"Soldat," you repeated. "Is that what you are? Or who you are?"

He looked in your eyes, his own filled with an emptiness. "I don't... remember."

The confession was quiet, heavy with a despair so deep it seemed to suck all the air from the room. He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was. He was just a soldier, an empty vessel.

Your heart ached for him. "Alright, Soldat," you finished cleaning the wound and began to apply the medicine with the tip of your finger. His skin was warming up under your touch. "No more questions for now. Let's just get you patched up."

You continued to work in silence, cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes on his arms and hands. His body was a testament to a life of combat, but your touch was healing, soothing. You finished with a clean wrap—a makeshift bandage on his head.

"There," you pulled back looking at your work. "All done. You should rest."

He looked at you, his gaze searching your face for the rest of it. He was looking for a “you can rest, if—“ or a “after you do this”. 

But he found nothing else. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline and the warmth, the food, finally catching up to him all at once. The fear in his eyes had receded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and a flicker of... something else. Gratitude?

He didn't go to the bed you had offered. Instead, his gaze drifted to the empty space beside you on the couch. He looked back up at you, a silent question in his eyes.

"Go on, then," you smiled softly, patting the cushion.

He shifted, sinking into the worn fabric. The couch groaned in protest. He was still tense, a coiled hard spring. You reached for a thick wool quilt from the back of the couch and draped it over his legs and your own. The simple act seemed to be the final straw. A shudder ran through him, and the tension began to bleed away.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, his eyes closing. He looked so young like this, the harsh lines of his face softened in the flickering firelight. The bandage on his head was stark white against his skin. He was clean, fed, and tended to. Safe.

He wasn't a soldier or a weapon. He was a boy who didn't know his name and had almost died, alone in a freezing river. A wave of fierce tenderness washed over you. He was a stray, just like the bunnies and the deer, only more broken, more lost.

He started to drift, his breathing evening out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. But before he fell completely, he moved. His head, heavy with exhaustion, lolled sideways and came to rest in your lap. He didn't stir, just settled there with a soft sigh, as if he had finally found the one place he was meant to be.

You froze, breath catching in your throat. His hair, still damp, spilled across your thighs. You could feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of the blanket and your skirt. He was so trusting in his sleep, this giant, dangerous man. 

Your hand hovered over his head, trembling slightly. Then, slowly, carefully, you let it settle on his thick, dark hair. It was clean now, and so soft, smelling of your own rosemary soap you used.

You began to gently run your fingers through it, untangling the last of the snags and tangles. The rhythm was soothing, hypnotic. His breathing deepened. You found a loose strand and began to braid, fingers moving with a practiced ease you had learned from braiding your own hair, from weaving the vines that grew by the river, and the fabric as you sewed. 

You wove another strand, and another, a small, intricate plait forming against his temple. The act was intimate, ancient. A ritual of care, of claiming peace.

You braided his hair as he slept, the fire crackling in the chimney, the forest holding its breath outside. He was a mystery, a danger, a ghost from a world you had left far behind to resign deep in the forest instead. 

But for now, in the quiet of your cottage, with his head in your lap and the scent of clean soap in the air, he was just a man who needed a safe place to sleep. And for now you could give him just that.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[witchgaye]

THIS WAS AMAZING!! So wholesome and heart-breaking at once. Thank you for writing 🥹🫶

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[43alska]

Happy new year!!

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

peace and quiet

Inspired by requests from @sarosfilms and @fictionfinatic (thank you!)

summary: when you join the new avengers and everyone starts relying on you for everything and anything, bucky struggles to cope with not having you all to himself anymore.

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

warnings/tags: angst, fluff, bucky & all the thunderbolts babies being too cute for this world!!! established relationship, thunderbolts!bucky, family dynamics are strong in this one, lowkey everyone has mummy issues probably?

notes: I love this fic I'm so happy to be writing for Bucky again!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

For a long time, it had just been you and Bucky.

Whether you were bunkered down on a mission, hiding out in romania, having dinner with steve and sam, he was always there next to you. Safe, predictable - home.

When you live with someone for so long, their sounds become as familiar as your own heartbeat. You even find comfort in it. So familiar that sometimes your brain doesn't even register that they exist, but goes on high alert when they’re missing.

For you, it is the whir of his metal arm as he cleans the kitchen bench, the soft inhale he takes beside you when something exciting happens in the book he’s reading, the clink of his dog tags hitting the wooden floor in the living room as he does push ups in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep.

For him, it’s the soft humming that you don't even realise that you’re doing as you cook, the stretch of the lycra of your bike pants sliding up your thighs as you get dressed for your morning run, the sound of your lips smacking together after you put on your peach, always peach, flavoured lip balm.

Peppered throughout all of those noises was comfortable silence. After everything you have both gone through, years of war and violence and pain and grief, silence was like a breath of fresh air. And after years of being poked and prodded, psychoanalysed and preached too, the pair of you found solace in the fact that you'd found each other.

The engine of the jet whined loudly as the ramp of the hanger lowers. You and Bucky move in sync out of habit, shoulder to shoulder, exhaustion hanging heavy from your limbs.

Your boots hit the floor of the tower and your chest tightens, sharp and familiar.

The tower still smells the same. Polished metal. Pine. Coffee that’s been sitting too long. You swore that you could still catch a trace of Tony's favourite bourbon. Steve's leather jacket. Natasha's perfume.

"Nice work out there." John says, clapping his hand onto your shoulder once. "Whole mission went clean."

Ava snorts. "Because she got what we needed quickly enough so that none of us could screw it up."

"Like always." Yelena adds.

You offer a tired smile, shrugging off the compliment in the way you’ve learned to. You weren't anything special, you'd been raised to be lethally efficient. It was what you were programmed for.

You knew Bucky would kill you if he knew you thought that way.

His eyes were on you as you pulled ahead of the others to join him. Sometimes you felt like he could read your mind. Maybe he could, you wouldn't put it past Hydra.

You both collapse onto the couch in the living room without a word. Your heads leant against one another automatically like magnets, eyes fluttering shut.

Peace and quiet, a brief respite from the endless noise.

Your moment of peace shatters as the door bursts open and the rest of your team spill inside.

"I definitely had the most take downs today." John boasts.

"Excuse me, did you see me take out those guards? I saved your stupid butt." Yelena retorts.

"No. I was too busy taking out a whole floor of them." John replies flatly.

You hear Bucky exhale through his nose.

Yelena kicked off her boots, moving to walk away but pausing when she noticed your eyes on her. She lets out of a huff of defeat and toed them inline with the other shoes by the door.

John followed suit with Ava and Alexei not far behind.

"Yeah well while you two were out playing whack a mole I was busy shutting down the entire security system." Ava chimes in.

“That doesn’t sound as cool though.”

Being part of whatever the hell this new team was meant that silence was now a rarity. And moments shared between just the two of you were practically non-existent, whatever quiet space you and Bucky had spent years carving out for yourselves was now being eaten alive by your own good intentions.

It wasn’t that anyone was doing it on purpose. It was just that somehow, inexplicably, everyone ended up orbiting you.

And you couldn't say no to any of them, especially Bob.

He must have heard the ruckus of your return, now lingering near the doorway. You notice it immediately, the way his shoulders hunch over to shrink himself, his eyes flickering between everyone, like he was waiting to be told he wasn't welcome here.

You catch his eye and shift over on the couch to make room, patting the cushion beside you.

"Come on, someone needs to be the deciding vote for who was best on ground today."

His face lit up at your invitation, practically tripping over himself getting to you.

Bucky noticed too. He always did.

"Why do we need a deciding vote?" John complained.

"Because when have you guys ever not voted for yourselves?" You raised a brow.

That question set the rest of the team off again, bickering amongst themselves about who was the most biased and why.

Bucky didn't miss the way Bob leaned into you slightly as your hand rubbed small, grounding circles on his back, your attention entirely on him. His jaw tightened.

"You okay?" You murmured quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Bob nodded. His eyes darted to the others to make sure they were still distracted before speaking again, this time quieter. "My head’s just...loud."

You nodded. If only Bob knew how much you really understood.

"Okay. We can do quiet. Do you want tea?"

"I can do it-"

"I insist." You said it with that firm but gentle tone Bucky had heard you use a thousand times before.

Before Bob could protest further, you push yourself off the sofa and make your way into the kitchen.

You reach for the kettle on the counter and began grabbing mugs off the shelf. You didn't need to ask anyone if they wanted a cuppa, the answer was always yes.

That had somehow become your job too. Feeding them. Herding them. Keeping the place running when missions ended and the adrenaline wore off and everyone was left with the aftermath and left alone with their trauma.

Bucky watched you move around the kitchen with that familiar ache in his chest.

This is what the public didn't see.

They saw the former assassin turned Avenger who they accused of being a coward for retiring - even though you were grieving the loss of so many of your friends, of your family.

They didn’t see the way you put yourself between the team and the sharp edges of the world without thinking. How you sacrificed your own time to help the others, going over mission reports to learn how your team could improve, keeping everyone steady from a distance. Didn’t see how you’d quietly become the glue.

“Tea time!” Yelena announced cheerfully, flopping onto the opposite couch.

"By the way, John tried to sneak one of the good towels into the gym again on Monday." Ava grinned, kicking her feet up onto the ottoman.

“They’re towels.” John argued. “They’re meant to be used.”

“They’re for guests.” You retorted.

Bucky’s mouth twitched upwards.

"Snitch." John grumbled as sat down beside Yelena.

You dutifully hand everyone their tea, each crafted perfectly to their liking. Yelena's with a drizzle of honey, John's with no milk, Alexei's with a dash of vodka, Bucky's the exact same as yours.

The room buzzed with overlapping voices as you settled back down beside Bucky. The both of you mostly sat in silence, listening to the others bickering and laughing, yours eyes darting to Bob every so often.

He had loosened up a bit, tentatively engaging in conversation with Ava about the best way to cook eggs.

You knew it would never be the same, but in moments like these it almost felt like you were back with your team again.

"You two have been awfully quiet." Yelena observed once there was a lull in conversation.

"I think it is time we heard story." Alexei grinned, swaying slightly from his armchair, a result of the three infused teas he'd drunk at breakneck speed.

"What kind of story?"

"Like what Winter Soldier was like when you first met."

The group groaned around you, causing you to laugh. It was no secret that Alexei was obsessed with Bucky, his 'Russian brother from another mother', a nickname Bucky was of course thrilled to have.

"I don't think anyone wants to hear-"

"We do." Alexei cut you off.

You glance around at the others, surprised to not hear a chorus of protests at his suggestion.

"Honestly I kind of am interested." John shrugged.

"Me too. I want to know if he was always this emo."

You could feel Bucky's glare from behind you at Ava's words.

"Well, I guess he always has been yeah." You grin softly as you leant back to look at him, his eyes softening under your gaze.

"He was my mission. Or I guess, Steve and I's mission. Once Steve realised who he was-"

"Steve as in... Captain America?" Bob piped up beside you, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Yeah sorry, Captain America." You nodded and swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the pang in your chest at the memory of him.

You felt Bucky's metal fingers along your thigh, a discreet touch of comfort.

"Once we realised who he was, we knew that we had to get him back. Make him remember who he was. He was a bit scary - or at least he thought he was - when I first met him he was in the habit of smudging black around his eyes. A bit like a racoon."

Despite himself, Bucky smiled as the others laughed around him.

Bucky knew that you were leaving out a lot of the story, the ugly bits, the lifelong scars that both of you carried, how much of a husk of a human he had been - and still felt like sometimes. How many times he'd snapped and tried to hurt you, how despite it all, you stayed. Because you knew that it was a story only reserved for the both of you, for no one else to know.

If it was possible, he would have fallen in love with you even more in that moment.

By the time the noise died down and the team had started dispersing, it was well past midnight.

Bob was dozing, head resting on your shoulder.

Bucky waited. Listened to the sound of your breathing beside him. Listened to the quiet return in pieces.

Finally, when Bob’s breathing had evened out completely, you gently eased him sideways so his head rested on a pillow. You tucked a blanket around his small body, like you had done a hundred times before.

When you turned, Bucky was standing, his hand extended out to you in silent offering. You shot him a tired smile and took it.

The soft click of your door shutting echoed off the four walls of your bedroom.

You leaned back against it, exhaling as the silence washed over you. "Sometimes I forget what it’s like to not be interrupted every five seconds."

You glance over to see Bucky seated on the edge of the bed, his mouth drawn taught.

He watched you as you crossed the length of the room, coming to stand in front of him. You slid onto his lap effortlessly, like a puzzle piece perfectly crafted to fit in with him. His hands automatically settled on your waist, his forehead tilting up to meet yours.

"I've missed you."

You laugh softly. “We were stuck on that mission together for three days."

"That doesn’t count." His voice was rough.

You cupped his jaw, pulling away slightly to study his face, noting the faint crease between his brows. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just- I miss the silence sometimes."

"I know." You murmur. "We're both pulled in so many directions. But I do honestly think that once the team settles in things will get better. They'll be less..."

"Needy?" He suggested.

You huffed out a chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, needy."

Bucky shook his head as his hands slid under your singlet to trace circles on your skin.

"I don't think they will, they rely on you now. You keep them stable, offer them a safety net." He leans up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I'm not surprised. You're incredible. Always have been. I guess I'm just realising that I don't have you all to myself anymore, and I don't like it." He sighs. "I guess that's selfish."

"You're not selfish." You shook your head. "And even if it doesn't feel like it right now, you'll always have me just to yourself. Like in moments like right now."

You studied him for a moment, noting the way something flickered behind his features.

"Is there something else?"

He hesitated before speaking. Only for a beat. In your relationship, there was no such thing as secrets. The pair of you had done a lifetime of that already.

"You and Bob. I just-"

"-get jealous?" You tease lightly, causing his ears to tinge a shade of pink.

"Protective."

You smirk, letting your fingers twist around the dog tags dangling from his neck.

“Mmhmm.”

"I know he needs it, I get it, but he leans on you like that and gives you that puppy dog look and my brain just goes stupid because I used to give you that exact same look." He admits quietly.

“He’s a kid who’s been through hell." You murmur. "Same as us. And he sees us as safe."

Bucky swallows. "I know."

"And he reveres you. I've seen the way you are with him when you think no one is looking." You smile. "For a grumpy old man, you are extremely dad-coded."

He snorts. "Don’t ever say that to Sam."

You laugh, forehead resting against his. "I know it doesn't feel like it but we’re good, baby. We’re just...sharing. We will find time just for us, I promise."

He sighed, arms tightening around you. "Okay."

You kiss him before he can spiral further, slow and grounding, hands cupping his stubbled jaw.

"And baby?" You murmur against his lips.

"Yeah."

"Bob is so not my type."

He pulls back, brow raised at your teasing tone.

"I like my men much older. About 80 years older to be specific."

You laugh as he flips you around, pinning you underneath him on the soft mattress.

"You're lucky I love you." He warns, although the grin spread across his face reveals his true emotions.

"Shut up and kiss me old man."

And like the good soldier he was, Bucky did just that.

-

It’s early. Early enough that even New York is still half-asleep, the sun only just starting to bleed through the massive floor to ceiling windows of your bedroom.

You blink awake, becoming aware of the feeling of an arm looped around your waist, warm breath on the back of your neck.

The arm tightens around you at the sound of you stirring. "Morning."

You lean back into him with a sleepy hum. "You're not out running."

It was rare for the two of you to sleep in. Usually one of you was up exercising, or travelling, or on a mission.

"I thought we could sleep in. Enjoy some time together."

His warm hand skipped along the bare skin of your hip as he answered, his voice thick with sleep. It was enough to make desire pool deep in your belly.

"Does our sleep in have to involve actual sleep or...?"

You could feel his lips smile against your skin as he began to pepper kisses along your neck in response.

"Absolutely not."

The loud shrill of an alarm echoed throughout the tower before you could turn around to press your mouth against his.

"It might just be a test-"

Shouts echoing from the kitchen answered Bucky before he could even finish his sentence.

You both exchanged looks before hurrying out of your bedroom towards the sound. The alarm stopped as you reached the kitchen.

John was frantically waving a tea towel over the smoke alarm, Ava stood by the stove with her fingers pressed into her ears.

"What the hell is going on?" You demanded.

Ava held up a scorched pan. "John tried to cook eggs again."

"I said I was experimenting." He retorted, fear flashing across his face as he glanced behind you at Bucky.

You turned back to look at him, patting his arm apologetically.

"Okay. Put it in the sink. We’ll try soaking it."

The look on Bucky's face would stay with you all day. Not angry, never angry. Just...resigned. Defeated.

-

Later, the tower’s empty enough that you seek Bucky out, knowing he usually likes to gym at this time.

The sharp scent of metal and sweat hits you. The sound of the rhythmic thud of his fists against the bag. His eyes find you while he's rewrapping his hands.

“You done staring?” He asked breathlessly, a hint of something shy beneath the teasing tone.

“You going to tell me to stop?”

He shakes his head, a wry smile on his features as you step onto the mat.

"Need a sparring partner?"

"You think you can take me on? Aren't you a bit rusty?"

You place your hands on your hips. "I recall kicking your ass on a number of occasions."

He shoots you a smile, one that you know only a select few people on this planet got to see. Wordlessly, he wraps your hands for you, taking his time as his fingers ghost over your skin.

"Alright, let's see what you can do doll."

It's mostly half-hearted, both of you enjoying it too much to take it seriously. Although, you manage to get a few good hits in when he's distracted.

You take him by surprise suddenly, whipping out one of your signature moves, resulting in him landing on his back with a thud on the mat, your thighs wrapped around his middle - pinning him to the ground.

He lets out a huff, studying you as he tries to catch his breath.

"Got you."

"Yeah, you got me real good doll." His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, his eyes glimmering in amusement.

Your eyes narrow. "Did you let me win?"

"Now why would I do that?"

"So you could have me straddling you."

He chuckles, sliding his hands up your thighs. "Would it be such a terrible thing if I did?"

"You perv." You whisper against his lips, grinning as you lean forward to press your mouth to his.

"My oh my." Yelena tuts from the doorway.

"Are we sparring or is this some kind of weird assasin foreplay?"

Before you can stop yourself, you let out a laugh at the look on Bucky's face. He might actually commit murder this time.

Yelena's grin only widened.

-

At night, the tower is worse.

You don't have mission logs or squabbling teammates to distract you from your endless spiral of thoughts.

The halls echo differently when you know who used to walk them. Sometimes you catch yourself glancing at empty doorways and rooms, remembering voices that aren’t there anymore. Your old team, your family - scattered, gone, lost to time or choices that you still don’t fully understand. That you don't think you ever will.

Bucky finds you standing in the hallway one night, fingers brushing the wall like you’re checking if it's real.

"You okay doll?" He asks softly.

"Yeah." Your voice thick. "Just... weird being back here."

You're lying, Bucky knows that, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he slips his hand into yours and squeezes, grounding you in the present.

The sound of footsteps comes thirty seconds later.

Bob, pale and shaking, asking if you can sit with him for a bit.

Your face morphs into a kind smile, so convincing that the only person who can spot the pain swimming beneath the surface is Bucky.

You say yes. You always do.

Bucky watches you lead Bob back to his room, starting to guide him through breathing exercises with the same patience and kindness that you had once used on him. His chest aches.

He’s not jealous of Bob, not really.

He’s jealous of how much of you the world keeps taking.

-

It happens again the next night. And the night after that.

Alexei interrupting to ask Bucky which shade of red suits him best.

John knocking on your door because Ava "stole his charger" and "this is a matter of principle."

Yelena sheepishly calling you in the middle of the night after racking up a debt to some Russian mobster because she bet that she could do her nails and beat someone in a boxing match at the same time.

After a week, Bucky is visibly fraying at the edges.

He's even moodier than normal. You keep catching him staring at you from across the lounge room, expression unreadable. When you meet his eyes, he softens immediately, but there’s something else unreadable that lingers.

They notice.

Yelena and Bob first. Ava second. John and Alexei last.

They notice the way Bucky snaps more than normal, the longing looks you give him from across the gym, the tiredness so engrained into your faces that it seems that no amount of sleep could fix it.

So they make a plan.

You and Bucky are in the meeting room, pouring over one of the files for your next mission, when a throat being cleared dramatically makes you glance up.

"You and grandpa. Pack a bag."

You blink. "What?"

John slides a set of keys across the counter. "Safe-house upstate. Off-grid. No reception. Yours for a week."

Ava speaks before you can even think about opening your mouth. "Don't worry about things here. We made a chore chart. Bob even volunteered to help me cook."

Bob nods eagerly. "I learnt how to make soup."

You turn to look at him. "When on earth did you learn to make soup?"

"I watched a Gordon Ramsey video." He shrugs. "Figure it can't be that hard."

Alexei clasps Bucky’s shoulder. "Go. Be domesticated assasin lovers in peace."

Bucky's eyes scan the room, stunned. "Why are you doing this?"

Yelena smirks. "You were getting grumpy. It was affecting morale. Besides, with you two away we can throw a huge party."

You feel something warm bloom in your chest - gratitude and love for the new strange family you never meant to build.

-

Bucky sets your bags down by the door and stops.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The safe-house is more cabin than house. It's simple and small, but there's a warmth to it.

No ghosts in the walls. No memories waiting to ambush you.

You watch him take it in. The way his shoulders loosen, the faint furrow line between his brows smoothing out, a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding loosening from his chest. He turns to you, his eyes brighter than you have seen in weeks.

"No one’s going to knock." He says like he can't even believe the words coming from his lips. "Right?"

You smile. “I think they’d have to drive about four hours to do that."

After unpacking, you both lay on the plush rug in front of the fireplace. You're in between Bucky's legs, your back pressed against his chest, a half drunk glass of red in your hand.

Quietness engulfs you.

Not the hollow quiet of the tower, but the kind of quiet that settles, slow and intentional. Fire crackling softly in the hearth. Wind nudging at the windows. The low hum of electricity somewhere in the walls.

No alarms. No voices down the hall. Just you and Bucky.

His arms encircle you, cool metal pressed against your fire-warmed skin.

"I can't believe they did this."

"I can."

He looks down at you when your head tilts up at his answer.

"I see it. How they orbit you." His thumb brushes slow circles over your belly.

"How you keep track of everything and keep everyone focused without making anyone feel small. How you make them feel normal, take on some of their pain to keep them going."

You blink back tears as he continues.

"After everything we've all been through, you make this job survivable. Keep us glued together. They know that."

Your throat tightens. "They just trust us."

He hums, resting his chin on your shoulder. "It's more than that. Bob called you ‘mum’ once."

You snort. "He did not."

"Yes he did." Bucky insists. "Under his breath. Right before Yelena threw a sock at him."

You laugh, real and warm, and lean back into him. "Okay, well if I'm going to be mum, I need you to be a bit more of a hands on dad."

"Hmm I don't know, my schedule is looking a little full."

"What, have you pencilled in your wallow in self pity at four o'clock?"

"Yep and at four thirty I've got to stare into the abyss..." He shrugs. "What can I say, I'm booked."

His smile widens as you let out another genuine laugh, internally patting himself on the back for remembering that pop culture reference.

"You won't have to do much." You continue. "We can be good cop, bad cop. All you'll have to do is give them one of your signature murderous glares and that should do the trick."

"I'll take it under consideration."

"Of course, only if you can find the time."

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then the crown of your head, resting there.

"We have all the time in the world." He whispers.

Outside, the world listens to him and waits.

Silence engulfs you again - comfortable, earned.

Yours.

You sit up suddenly, your eyes wide as you turn to look at Bucky.

"You don't think Yelena was serious about throwing that party do you?"

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[snoopysupe]

tower fics are so back baby

[aquaticmercy]

Only Fools Rush In

Summary : Bucky accidentally ruins a big surprise, and you take it into your own hands.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x new avenger!reader (established relationship)

Warnings/tags : Fluff, angst, Injury, blood, argument, violence, cursing, set after Thunderbolts. Reader uses humour to cope with trauma lol, getting hitched (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 4.7k

Note : I’m back! Finally, I've got a Johnny Storm fic coming out tomorrow, and it's gonna take me a while to catch up with all the asks and requests, so bear with me. Enjoy! 

Where did everything go wrong?

That was all you could think as you pressed your back against the sun-bleached wall of an abandoned shack, the outside Nevada desert wind stinging your eyes, Bucky’s voice crackling in your earpiece with careful calm that didn’t match the tension tightening in your ribs. 

The two of you had gone into this mission expecting a quick sweep. It was supposed to be a routine in, out, clean extraction of information, the usual. You and Bucky had been dating long enough that missions felt almost domestic. With him it was comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. 

You should’ve known something was off when the warehouse was too easy to infiltrate. All you saw was heat rippling off rusted metal and the sound of your own breathing.

"Two on the ridge. I’ll take left, you take right," you whispered.

"Copy," Bucky answered, a little affection slipping through.

You smiled, and did your job. 

You managed to swipe the drive, and everything was going well… right up until the world spun around you.

The hidden shooter emerged from behind a half-collapsed stack of storage crates. You didn’t even see him until the muzzle flashed. The bullet tore into your ribs like a searing knife, sending you crashing onto the hard-packed sand.

You heard Bucky shout through the comms one second, and the next time you opened your dizzy eyes, he was there. His knees hit the ground beside you, hands pressing against your bleeding side.

"Hey—hey. Stay with me. Look at me," he begged, voice ragged and breaking in a million ways you’d never heard before.

You tried to say you were fine. You weren’t.

Besides, he didn’t give you time to argue. One second you were on the ground, the next you were in his arms, with his desperate grip around your shoulders as he carried you out of the ghost town. He ran like the earth was caving behind him, like every second you lost blood was a second he couldn’t bear.

He threw you onto the backseat of the getaway, climbed in front, and drove, recklessly, quickly, and terrified, all the way to the nearest motel thirty miles out with a dying neon sign flickered above the door. He dropped a wad of cash on the cashier to keep the receptionist quiet as he carried your limp body inside.

The mission was technically a success.

But as Bucky laid your unconscious form on the motel bed, he wasn’t so sure. 

—

You surfaced from the darkness of your slumber slowly, like swimming up through an ocean of tar.

For a good five minutes, you didn’t know where you were. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis, too bright on one side, too dim on the other. Your body felt heavy in a way that was sluggish and wrong. As you breathed in, you noticed a grinding pain flared under your ribs every time your lungs tried to expand.

Your eyes finally fluttered fully open.

You stared at the ceiling for a while. It was dingy, a water stain shaped vaguely like a cloud hovered above you. The buzzing neon light outside the window threw pinkish streaks across the wall, pulsing in sickly but rhythmic flashes.

You blinked hard, trying to piece together the night before.

What was the last thing you remembered?

You remembered hearing a gunshot.

You remembered dropping into sand. You remembered your back hitting the wall. 

You remembered your vision swimming as you heard Bucky’s voice breaking.

You vaguely remembered like your ribs were being pried apart.

You vaguely remembered his hands on you, shaking.

You willed your eyes to drift, moving slowly across the room. The first thing that came into focus was the nightstand.

And the bloodied bullet sitting on it.

It was dented and dripping dried flakes of your blood onto a motel napkin. From this angle, it looked deceptively small and innocent-looking. And yet it had torn into your body, rattled your bones, tried its best to bury itself deep.

You tried to shift, but the pain hit your nerves like a hammer, letting out a quiet strangled sound from your throat. You looked down and saw the thick, white bandages wrapped snug around your body, stained in places but clean around the center. It was freshly changed.

Did he…? Did Bucky fish the bullet out of you? Did he patch you up?

You blinked again, vision clearing enough to follow the smear of red across the floor, up the side of the bed, to the man sitting hunched beside you.

Of course he did.

Still, Bucky was almost unrecognizable under the dim motel light. His usually disciplined posture was shattered, as he sat on the edge of the chair like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. His head was hanging low, his shoulders curled inward, his hair falling into his face.

His metal hand hung limp at his side, but his human hand was shaking, and it was shaking violently.

In that hand he held a stained motel towel. He was desperately scrubbed at a smear of dried blood on his wrist, no doubt your blood, with frantic, compulsive strokes. The skin there was rubbed raw and flushed red.

He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet, too busy getting rid of evidence on his skin that you were ever hurt at all. 

You watched him for a moment, your foggy mind slowly catching up, stitching together the horror Bucky was drowning in front of you.

You soon realised that this wasn’t the aftermath of a mission, but rather the aftermath of almost losing you.

"B… Bucky?" you whispered, your voice broken and papery.

He froze completely. 

He lifted his head slowly, as if it weighed a hundred pounds. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollowed out with sleepless terror.

"You’re awake," he breathed, but it sounded more like a prayer than an observation.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, pushing himself off the chair and reaching your bedside. His human hand hovered over your cheek but didn’t touch as trembling mid-air.

"It… it took you so long," he whispered, voice splintering into a million pieces.

You swallowed, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "How long was I out?"

"Too long." His voice cracked. "Way too long."

He sat on the edge of the bed, metal hand bracing him, human hand still restless. His eyes darted to your bandages, to the bullet on the nightstand, back to your face.

"Bucky…" you tried again.

He didn’t answer. It was like he couldn’t force any sound out of his throat.

You studied the rigidness in his jaw, the way his lips were pressed so tight they were turning white, the way you started noticing a faint tremor running through his metal fingers too.

You reached for him, your hand barely brushed his wrist before he flinched, not away from you, but toward you, like he’d been waiting desperately for you to touch him.

He grabbed your hand in both of his, metal and flesh, pressing it to his lips as he inhaled shakily.

"It’s a miracle you're still alive," he finally whispered, voice barely more than breath.

You frowned. "What?"

"It missed everything," he went on, faster now, the words tripping and stumbling out of him like they’d been trapped in for hours. "Every major artery, every organ—anything important, that fucking bullet missed. Do you understand? It—God—"

He squeezed your hand, then your fingers, then your palm.

"You should be…" His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "You should be…"

You finished it for him. "I should be dead?"

His reaction was devastating.

"No." His voice came out strangled. "Don’t—don’t say that." He squeezed your hand tighter, "Don’t say that word. Don’t even, don’t ever—"

He bowed his head over your hand, shoulders trembling. "I can’t hear you say that," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can’t. I can’t."

Fuck. You hated this. You hated seeing him shaken, hated being the reason why.

So, stupidly, you brushed his concerns off even though you knew you shouldn’t have and said, "I’m fine."

Still, your voice sounded so thin, it might rip if you tried any harder. Bucky stared at you like you’d just told him pigs could fly.

His human hand clenched and unclenched, shaking so hard you could hear the metal in his arm creak with the tension unravelling through him.

"You’re not," he said, barely above a whisper.

You hated that tone. You hated being the cause of it.

So you did what you always did when it gets too uncomfortable — you made a joke.

"Fine-ish," you amended. "Fine-adjacent. You know, fine for someone who got—" you gestured loosely at your ribs, "—hole-punched."

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "That’s not funny."

"It kinda is," you insisted. "Little bit. Like, give me twenty minutes and I could probably whistle through it."

"Stop." His voice was clipped.

"I’ll save money on piercings," you tried again. "Nature just did one for fr—"

"Stop!" He gritted through his teeth.

But you couldn’t stop. Humor had always been the easiest, fastest way to soften the edges. Hadn’t it always worked before?

You pushed yourself to sit upright, even though your ribs were practically screaming.

"Look," you said, forcing a swallow. "See? Not dead on the outside, at least—" 

You didn’t finish because Bucky grabbed your wrist. He wasn’t rough, but rather desperate.

Your heart lurched in your chest and you saw wet tears streaming down from his eyes. 

"Don’t talk like that," he said.

"Like what?" you asked. "Like this isn’t my coping mechanism?"

"Like you almost—" He choked on it. "Like you almost d—"

"I mean, it almost happened," you whispered. "I’m just saying if I had died—" Your grin was weak, but you meant it.

Bucky went completely still.

"No." He inhaled a sharp breath. "Don’t joke about—Don’t… don’t even play with that idea."

You tried to ease the tension. "Buck, it’s okay. I didn’t. I’m not a corpse. No Weekend at Bernie's situation—"

Then, as if to prove your point, you swung your legs to the side and attempted to stand up.

Because you needed to prove you weren’t broken. You needed to prove you weren’t fragile. You needed to prove that he didn’t need to look at you like you were made of thin ice in summer. Even as you told yourself this, you weren’t sure if you were angry at him or at yourself for being fragile.

The second you got your feet under you, your world fell in over itself. 

Your ribs burst with scathing pain. Your vision sparkled at the edges. You swayed hard enough that your knees nearly buckled out from under you.

Bucky lunged for you in a panic.

"Hey—hey!" he shouted as he caught you, an arm around your waist. "What the hell are you doing?"

You blinked up at him, trying to smile despite the fact that you could barely stand. "Proving a point?"

"The point being you have zero self-preservation?" he snapped.

You let out a weak laugh, trying to take control of the situation. "I’m walking. Standing. Staying alive. Two out of three ain’t bad."

"This isn’t a joke!"

"Nu-uh," you croaked, wobbling in his arms. "It’s hilarious."

"It’s not," The plea tore from his throat, jagged.

You winced. Not from your ribs, but from the concern in his voice.

He was shaking.

"Bucky…" you murmured, trying to soothe him.

"No," he said fiercely. "You almost passed out!"

"I’m just a little dizzy. Happens to the best of us. Happens to the worst of us too. Happens to everyone, really—"

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Why are you acting like it’s nothing?"

"Because it is nothing compared to—"

"No," he cut you off again. "No, it’s not nothing. You were unconscious for over five hours. I didn’t know if you were going to wake up at all. I didn’t know—" His voice cracked. "I didn’t know if I’d have to—"

Unwisely, you tried to lighten the mood again.

"Well, if I didn’t wake up, at least you have good taste in flowers for the funeral. And you know, I’ve always wanted dramatic bagpipes—"

"STOP," he shouted this time, voice a mix of panic and fury. "STOP TALKING LIKE YOU’RE—LIKE YOU’RE—"

"What? Going to die?" You shrugged. The movement nearly made you black out. "You already don’t want me to say the word, so I figured—"

"You’re hurting yourself!"

"I’m fine!"

"You can’t even stand!"

"I am standing!" you insisted, even though your legs were trembling so hard it felt like the room was vibrating.

"Sit down," he said firmly, gently trying to push you down. 

"No."

"Sit. Down."

"No," you snapped back. 

"Why," he gasped, voice breaking so openly now, "why do you have to be so difficult?!"

"Because you’re looking at me like I’m already in a box!" you yelled back.

Oh.

His chest rose in a jagged breath.

You suddenly felt too hot. Too cold.

Your knees wobbled again, and Bucky immediately tightened his human hands on your waist.

"Please," he whispered now, nudging again. "Sit down. Please."

"I don’t need to—"

Your legs gave out before you could finish.

He lowered you mid-collapse, setting you to the bed like you might shatter if he breathed too hard.

You didn’t resist this time.

Your entire body was shivering. You couldn’t tell if it was from pain or adrenaline or fear or all of it together.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, hands on your knees, head bowed as if he was trying to get his breathing under control.

"You’re alive," he whispered, voice broken. "Don’t make fun of that. Don’t play with that. Don’t…"

His voice fell apart.

And for once, you didn’t have a joke.

—

At one point that night, Bucky eased you down from sitting down, to sleeping onto the motel bed.

At some point after that, he laid down too, but far on the opposite edge, as if the mattress had become Switzerland and he refused to violate the neutrality zone.

You listened to his uneven breaths, like even asleep (or pretending to be asleep) he wasn’t calm.

Eventually, you turned your face away from him.

Because you didn’t know how to apologize for scaring him. And you didn’t know how to admit you were scared too.

You just existed in tense, mutual stubborn silence until exhaustion got the best of you.

—

Morning was worse.

You woke up aching, disoriented, and mildly pissed.

Bucky was already up. When you opened your eyes, he was sitting rigidly in the chair again, elbows braced on his knees.

He didn’t look at you.

You didn’t speak to him.

You both pretended to get ready in silence.

He helped you bandage your ribs again, this time without a word.

You let him touch you, guide you, support you, all without you ever meeting his eyes.

Neither of you said anything as he slung your arm around his shoulder and slowly walked you out to the car.

Neither of you said anything as the motel door shut behind you.

Not a single word as he helped you into the passenger seat. Not a word as he started the engine. Not a word as the desert swallowed the road ahead.

—

The silence in the car wasn’t comfortable, nor was it companionable. I wasn't even the kind you could pretend was intentional.

It was more like the kind that made Bucky glance over at you every ten seconds like he was checking whether you still existed.

You stared straight ahead through the windshield, ribs throbbing beneath your bandages. He kept waiting for you to say something, anything at all.

Surprise surprise, You didn’t.

Finally, he let out a sigh.

"You’re really gonna do this?" he said. "You’re gonna give me the full silent treatment?"

You blinked once. 

"Oh, this is great," Bucky muttered. "Real productive."

You continued staring out the window like the desert scenery was infinitely more interesting than your boyfriend losing his mind in the seat next to you. And he knew why— you’d rather not talk at all then say the wrong thing again.

He gripped the steering wheel harder, the leather creaking.

"Y’know, most people, when they survive a wound like yours, they get nicer."

Your eyes stayed glued to the horizon.

"Oh my god," he groaned. "You’re not even gonna look at me?"

You didn’t.

Bucky huffed. "Amazing.You bleed all over a motel carpet, I don’t sleep properly for two damn days and now you want to even acknowledge me."

He still got nothing.

He looked at you again. "You know what? Fine," He huffed. "Be silent. Enjoy it. This is fine."

You leaned back to the seat.

"No!" Bucky slammed his palm against the wheel. "It’s not fine!"

You tilted your head slightly, finally.

He dragged his human hand down his face, whispering under his breath. "Jesus. I swear. You drive me absolutely—absolutely—insane. And I can’t believe—even after all this—I still wanna marry you."

Wait. 

Wait.

You whipped your head toward him so fast you nearly blacked out. "What?"

His mouth fell open in horror. "Oh. She speaks," Bucky attempted to deadpan, eyes wide with oh-fuck-I-messed-up energy, looking like he wished he could turn back time.

Your voice cracked. "Marry me?" you repeated.

He squirmed in his seat like you had thrown him into a spotlight. "Well, yeah, I mean—I wasn’t gonna say it like that. I wasn’t planning on—God, okay."

You stared at him for a full minute, trying to get him to elaborate. 

He finally blew out a breath.

"Fuck. I ruined the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"The proposal," he muttered. "The actual proposal. With… with a plan. And a ring."

"A ring?"

"Yes, a ring!" He gestured wildly. "An actual real-life ring! In the nightstand back at the tower. In a little pink heart-shaped box. And no, you’re not allowed to make fun of the box."

You blinked. "…You don’t want to propose anymore?"

"What? No—NO." He nearly swerved. "You’re missing the point. I still want to marry you. I want to… Even if you scare the shit out of me. Even if you joke about almost dying and won’t stop making fun of your bullet hole and, fuck, even if you ignore me for three hours straight." he let out a breath he didnt even realise he was holding. "No matter how hard this gets, I still want you. Okay? I still do."

You didn't know how to respond to them so you…. Just turned to face forward again.

And said nothing.

But this time, you looked…. thoughtful.

Bucky glanced to catch a glimpse of your full five minutes of silence after he dropped the bombshell, before looking at the road again. 

"Oh, now you’re quiet again," he snapped. "Excellent. I pour my heart out, and we’re back to square one."

You ignored him entirely, paying more attention to the road then before.

He muttered something in Russian that was almost certainly not polite.

Five more minutes dragged by, when you saw the sign that said you were not far from the heart of Las Vegas.

You leaned forward slightly in your seat.

And then, far to the right of the highway, just off a cracked little access road you saw it.

Yes. That's what you were looking for.

A small white building with faded pink trim and neon signs all over it.

"There," you pointed.

Bucky blinked, not quite following. "What?"

"Pull. Over."

Bucky stared at you like you’d just asked him to drive into the Grand Canyon on purpose. "Why—?"

You didn’t even turn your head. "BUCKY. PULL OVER, NOW."

He yanked the wheel to the right, tires screeching against gravel as the car lurched onto the shoulder.

The moment the car jolted to a stop, you shoved the door open.

"Whoa—" Bucky barely got a hand up as you practically launched yourself out. "Wait—wait, sweetheart—slow down—!"

But you were already wobbling out with pain flashed hot through your side, but you ignored it, slamming the door shut behind you.

Bucky stayed frozen for half a second, eyes wide, watching you walk away.

Then he scrambled out after you.

"Hey—HEY!" Bucky shouted, scrambling out after you. "Sit down! Jesus, you’re gonna hurt yourself—can you just wait a second!? You’re gonna bleed through your damn shirt again—"

You didn't turn around. In fact, you didn’t look anywhere except straight ahead, toward that little speck of a white building down the access road.You just kept walking, each step sending a sharp bolt through your ribs, but you refused to show it.

Bucky made a strangled sound. "Are you kidding me right now?!"

You stepped over a patch of scrub brush.

Bucky stepped over it after you, muttering, "Unbelievable," under his breath.

You ignored him.

You marched forward, steps uneven, breaths shallow, but determined.

"Can you not walk away in the middle of a desert?" he yelled. "Please?"

You didn’t answer.

Across the cracked road, past a dusty patch of gravel and a broken neon arrow, Bucky finally noticed a squat white building that looked like it had survived three apocalypses.

HOLY HEARTS WEDDING CHAPEL— OPEN 24/7 —

— WALK INS WELCOME! —

Bucky stared at the sign, then at you, then at the sign again.

He looked like a man having a stroke.

You stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to him.

"What—" he pointed aggressively at the building, "What?"

You took a deep breath. "You wanna marry me?"

He swallowed. "Obviously."

"Then let’s do it."

Bucky blinked. "…Right now?"

You nodded, trying not to wince on your side.

He stared at you, eyes slowly softening as you held your hand out. Bucky, for once, was speechless.

Then…

He laced his fingers with yours.

"Okay," he whispered. "Let’s get married."

—

The inside of the chapel smelled faintly of old roses, cheap incense, and the faint electrical burn of neon lights that should’ve been replaced ten years ago. Weirdly charming plastic cherubs hung from the rafters, as the glitter curtain sparkled behind a heart-shaped arch.

And standing at the front, in a white jumpsuit and rhinestones, was an Elvis.

This impersonator was an older guy with sideburns, sunglasses, and the most sincere grin you’d ever seen.

"Well now, lovebirds," he said as you and Bucky stepped forward, still catching your breath, Aain’t you two a sight. You sure you’re ready to take this ride down Heartbreak Hotel?"

You opened your mouth, then realized your lungs hurt too badly to deliver a sarcastic comeback.You glanced at Bucky.

He looked back at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, letting you lean on him as he held your side. 

That was all you needed.

You turned to Elvis. "Yes," you said.

Bucky squeezed your hip, as Elvis clapped like Christmas came early. "Then come on up, kiddos. The King is in the building."

Bucky helped you up the tiny two-step stage, one arm around your waist, terrified you’d collapse even though you kept insisting you were fine. (You weren’t. He knew. You knew he knew.)

The chapel assistant, a pink-haired woman named DARLENE, according to her glittery nametag, handed you paperwork. "Names here… and signatures at the bottom… don’t forget the initials…"

You both signed without hesitation.

When you handed the clipboard back, your hands shook a little, and Bucky noticed.

Elvis cleared his throat dramatically. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in this fine establishment of love, neon, and questionable acoustics… to join these two souls in the holiest of unions… here in Sin City."

For a second, you could've sworn he winked at you. Bucky, noticing the same, glared at him.

Elvis laughed nervously, regretting the questionable decision of angering a super soldier. "Uh… Now, do you two wanna say your own vows, or let the King take it from here?"

You surprised yourself when you said, "We’ll say our own."

Bucky tilted his head, but he didn’t object.

Elvis took a step back, hands folded, waiting.

You swallowed, lifted your chin, and looked at Bucky.

He looked exhausted… but strangely hopeful. And so stupidly handsome it made your ribs hurt worse.

"I just realized," your voice cracked, "that I never thanked you for saving my life."

Bucky rubbed his thumbs over your knuckles, and you kept going.

"And not just for yesterday. But every day. Even when I’m impossible. Even when I shut down. Even when I drive you insane." Your throat tightened. "I know I do. But you stay anyway."

His eyes glossed over, just a little.

"I love you," you whispered. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

The room went painfully still, before Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. He stepped closer, thumb brushing the tear sliding down your cheek.

"You’re welcome," he said quietly. "For all of it."

You let out a small laugh.

He cupped your jaw, and you leaned into it.

"And I love you too," he said. "God, I love you more than anything. I just…" He pressed his forehead against yours. "I just wish you loved yourself the way I do. The way I always have."

Fuck.

You leaned into his touch, barely nodding. "I’m trying."

"I know." He kissed your forehead. "And I’m proud of you."

And you loved that about him. You loved that nothing had to be perfect to be true.

With you and Bucky, your vows weren’t promises, they were just a conversation, because every conversation is a vow. Every argument, every apology, all of it has always meant I choose you.

You looked up at him, and he looked at you, and somehow you both understood it at the same time: that you both have vowed to stay together through thick and thin way before you ever stood in that chapel.

Elvis wiped a dramatic tear from behind his sunglasses. "Well folks," he said, "I think we got us some true love right here."

He lifted his book.

"By the power vested in me, by the great state of Nevada and the spirit of rock ’n’ roll… I now pronounce you husband and wife." He grinned wide. "You may kiss the bride."

Bucky’s hand slid around your waist, careful of the bandages, but the moment he pulled you closer, something in both your souls snapped into place.

You looked up at him and he looked down at you, and you both realized it at the exact same time:

You were a pair of absolute disasters. But you were each other’s stupidly in love disasters.

His breath hitched as he let out a helpless laugh— like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“My wife is such a hot mess,” he whispered, the words brushing your lips.

You blinked up at him, heart aching in more ways than one. “My husband is worse.”

“Probably,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was needy.

His lips crashed into yours like he'd been holding himself back for hours. His metal hand tightened gently on your hip. His other hand cupped your face, human thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he needed to feel you to prove you were alive under his fingers.

You made a small sound, a half wince, half wanting, and Bucky froze for half a second.

“Did I hurt you?” he murmured, nose brushing yours.

“No,” you whispered, tugging him closer by the collar of his shirt. “Not enough.”

He chuckled before kissing you once more. This time, it was quick and giddy, almost a laugh against your mouth.

Elvis applauded loudly in the background while Darlene took pictures with a polaroid camera, but neither of you noticed. You were too busy kissing again, too busy clinging to each other, too busy falling in love all over again.

The best part was that nobody on the team knew. Not until three months later, when Yelena opened the glovebox of the New Avengers’ getaway car looking for a granola bar and instead pulled out a polaroid of your and Bucky’s first kiss as a married couple with the Elvis cheering in the background.

That was an interesting day.

-end.

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Masterlist

[spare-tomu-pics]

[mohish-ko]

★ group grocery run

[umyflame]

Comfort for my soul and anyone else feeling bleugh after this episode

(please drop your fave comfort fics/art/audios/anything of Shiggy I'm in dire need of some comforting right now)

[joeylovesyogurtt]

Mha doodles

Can you see the iida brainrot seeping in

[boghermit]

Vampires when they sip on your blood and catch extra strength Tylenol, at least two psychiatric meds, two cups of coffee, weed, and microplastics 

[spare-tomu-pics]