Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
Just brain vomit tbh but I keep thinking about poor Bucky who wakes up in the middle of nightmares and how scared he'd be in that dark room, all alone on the cold floor with just a little sheet. That baby deserves to be swaddled up and cuddled in a nice warm fluffy blanket with 100 kisses.
He deserves a nice yummy roast chicken with warm buttery potatoes and gravy and roasted carrots. He deserves apple pie and icecream and freshly baked cookies and a chunky slice of chocoalte cake. He deserves hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows in bed where he's bundled up and warm.
He deserves tea that isn't too hot, juuust right that soothes him till his eyes grow heavy and he's sound asleep in your arms again with his face nuzzled into your chest as he curls on top of you with soft little snores.
He might be big and scary to everyone else but he's just a scared precious baby boy.
Idek where all this rambling went but that's what he deserves.
summary: how Bucky's top secret was revealed to the Thunderbolts. ft. a secret wife and Alpine.
warnings: some thunderbolts spoilers (if I'm missing anything, please let me know!)
a/n: thank you for helping me reach 400 followers! I have a small celebration going on where I'm accepting requests for drabbles and fics, go check it out if that's your thing! I love you all <3
part 2 | part 3 | main masterlist
the signs were all there, since the start. it was just a matter of time till someone made a connection. which never happened, fortunately for you both. which does not bode well for their capabilities as spies and enhanced humans, but oh well.
the first clue should've been Bucky's tendency to be a little too protective over his things. his duffel bag, his wallet, everything was off limits from the team. not even during emergencies were they allowed to go through the duffel bag, he swore there were no last minute medical supplies hiding there anyways; and even if they got locked out of their room? nope, he won't be opening his wallet. there was no keycard there, he was sure.
had anyone decided to see what was inside his duffel bag, they would find his tactical gear, some medical supplies that he was harbouring, a few knives, guns, and ammunitions, and finally, notes from you that you left every time he was leaving for a mission. there would be some little heart shaped candies that have grown on Bucky a lot more since he met you. there would also be a small metal box that was filled with doodles you had made for him, especially to look at when he was missing you more than usual.
his wallet would not have as many trinkets but has a single photo that frames him just as easily as the duffel bag does. there, hidden amongst the hotel keycard, some cash, and a few business cards, was a polaroid of you and Bucky, clicked by Shuri back in Wakanda. his flesh arm was wrapped around your waist, the metal one lying somewhere in his hut. he was grinning from ear to ear, lips pressed to your cheeks, eyes closed in contentment. it was the happiest he had looked in any photo, celebrating his freedom from the Winter Soldier with you.
well, it was good that nobody ever touched his things.
a second clue that could've been his undoing would've been the way he always hid his phone from the team, not letting them touch it or use it even in cases of emergencies. now, the Thunderbolts were not nosy – okay that's a lie, but not as nosy as they'd like, for they were scared of Bucky's wrath – but that was something that they understood and didn't pry much on, what with Bucky being so private and shit.
his phone wallpaper, the one that opened after unlocking the thing, was your photo, a candid he had taken on one of your picnic dates. the sun rays had illuminated your face and cast an ethereal glow, your eyes shining. my angel, he had called you. Bucky was a smart man, though, and his locked screen wallpaper was something non-descript, knowing that it wouldn't be incriminating at all to have an abstract design on his screen.
another clue should've been the fact that Bucky always 'fucked off' (in John's words) to an unknown place after every long or arduous mission. Alexei had tried to get him to stay, calling the post-mission team bonding as an important chance to increase morale, but Bucky never listened.
he would be too eager to go back to the home he shared with you on the other side of the city, a regular apartment that was filled with pictures of you and him, comfort, and his favourite sight: his two girls, you and Alpine curled up on the couch.
Alpine was a recent addition to your household. Bucky had found her roaming the street below at 2 AM as he was returning from a mission, yowling and snipping at all strangers who tried to come close. but when Bucky had stood and stared at the kitten, she stared right back, tilting her head as if she was assessing him.
her assessment must have been positive, because the next thing he knew, Alpine was strutting over to him, tail dangling and paws grabbing at his shoes until she was picked up and held near his chest, where she promptly purred and closed her eyes in satisfaction.
she had a similar reaction to your presence, sniffling your outstretched palm before deciding that you were going to be a better pillow than Bucky for the night, leaving his embrace and jumping into yours.
Bucky wouldn't say it out loud, but he was grateful for Alpine in more ways than one. her presence around the house was much needed ever since he joined The New Avengers, which had him out of the house more days than he'd like.
that damn cat would be his undoing, both of you would've never guessed.
"what's that?" Yelena asked one day, eyes narrowing in on the tendrils of fur that stuck to his black jacket, the contrast making it easier to spot the cat hair.
Bucky cursed in his mind, remembering that he forgot to brush his jacket while he was cleaning his other clothes. how was he to know that Alpine, the sweet little menace that she was, would find his jacket even in the depths of the closet?
yeah, he should've known. that cat brought more chaos than anyone else he's known in the last century.
Bucky shrugged, inspecting the hair as if he was seeing it for the first time. as if it wasn't a daily occurrence for him to scold Alpine while you brushed off the hairs from his clothes.
"looks like cat hair," Bob added, hoping he was helping the conversation.
he wasn't. Bucky wanted to glare at him and shut him up, but even Bucky wasn't that grumpy to mistreat Bob.
"you own a cat now?" John asked, directing the question at Bucky.
"no." he stated firmly. "must have come from the kitten I petted on the way here."
"you snuggle street cats?" Ava asked.
"this one was cute," Bucky shrugged.
"you, Bucky Barnes, pick up random street cats and pet them?" she asked again.
"what's so hard to grasp about that?"
"you ignored all the animals when we went to that petting zoo that Bob wanted to see," Yelena wondered.
"they were not as cute as this one," Bucky knew he was losing the argument.
"I don't buy it." John, ever the smart one, stated the obvious.
"buy what?" Alexei entered the room, late for their meeting. "what are we purchasing today?"
Bob filled him in on the conversation so far.
"the hair is all over your back, too, Mr. Soldier," Alexei picked one up to emphasise on his point. "the stray cat also got to your back?"
"okay, fine," Bucky sighed, deciding to come out with the truth. he was running out of patience. "I... own a cat."
silence fell over the briefing room. the team looked like personifications of the buffering symbol that Bucky has seen on some internet websites.
"can we see?" Bob was the first one to recover, totally on board with Bucky being a cat owner and excited at the prospect of meeting the said cat.
"I don't have photos," Bucky lied. he had plenty of photos in his gallery. in fact, the only photos in his gallery were of Alpine. with you.
one secret out was enough for one day, he thought.
Bob's face fell, nodding.
"but I'll click some and send you today?" Bucky offered, hating that he cared about this kid the way he did.
"okay!" his face lit up again.
"why can't we all just meet the guy?" John asked.
"girl," Bucky corrected.
"okay, girl."
"where is she now?" Yelena asked.
"in my apartment."
"who's taking care of her?" that was Alexei. "you should not leave pets unattended. could be harmful."
"she's not alone," Bucky answered before thinking.
instant regret filled him when he looked at the team who was buffering again.
"let's get back to the mission," Bucky tried. a failed attempt, he knew before he even said the words out loud, but he was now desperate to change the subject.
"who's taking care of her?" John asked again.
"do you have a cat sitter?" Bucky was glad to find the perfect lie, silently thanking Ava for her suggestion.
"yeah," he nodded, confidently. "something like that." he whispered under his breath.
which was a bad idea, considering there were two other super soldiers in this room.
maybe you were right, Bucky should really start to get full sleep. he was not as sharp as he'd like.
"something like that?" John repeated.
"yeah, I've got a cat sitter." Bucky stated, his tone authoritative.
"who is it? are they always taking care of her when you're out on missions?" Yelena asked.
"yes." was Bucky's curt reply.
"can we meet the cat?" for a grown man equalling the size of a bull, Alexei looked more like a child in a candy store.
"no."
"why not?"
"Alpine does not like strangers."
"we're your team," Bob pouted. "please?"
damn Bob and the soft spot he held in Bucky's heart.
".... fine." he said after a few minutes of silence, trying to think of how to get out of this predicament but coming up blank.
so that's how The New Avengers were huddled in the lift of his apartment building, the new mission briefing completely forgotten.
"ah, it's a recon mission, routine. we can come back to it later," John had reassured the team when Bucky tried to get out of this impromptu team outing one last time. he was met with Bucky's glare, but what other choice did Bucky have than to take them to meet his cat?
and that's how you opened the door to find your husband with the team you had only seen on TV and in articles before.
your eyes widened, mouth agape at the sight of your husband, brows furrowed and lips downturned in a grumpier expression than usual, flanked by five super heroes.
"uh..." you tried to make sense of the sight in front of you.
"hi, doll," Bucky breathed out. he stepped inside, a soft kiss dropping on your hair before he lowered his head to whisper in your ear. "I might have fucked up."
"he's awfully close with his cat sitter," Yelena murmured, the other five people in the hallway all nodding in approval.
"I can see that," you whispered back to your husband, peering at his team over his shoulder. "should I welcome them in...?"
he nodded, turning back to the idiots he called his team.
"come on in," his voice was strained, not at all a polite host.
one by one, they were herded inside and to the living room, where your work laptop was on.
"I'm sorry, let me just clean up," you frantically organised the papers and shut down the laptop. "I'm sorry for the mess, we weren't expecting, uh, visitors."
"we?" John, ever the parrot.
"where's the feline that has enamored Barnes?" Alexei asked.
"Alpine?" you looked at Bucky, who nodded solemnly. "oh, she must be here somewhere. let me try and find her."
"your cat sitter does not know where your cat is?" Yelena asked again when you left the room, muttering something about the damn feline. "she's not very good." Bucky shrugged in response.
Bob's gaze was sweeping all around the house before he silently stepped closer to Bucky, voice low.
"she's not your cat sitter, is she?" he asked him, unbeknownst to the rest of the team.
"no," he whispered, already having observed Bob taking in all the photographs in the hallway and the living room, as well as the ring on your finger.
"it's good to meet your wife," he smiled, then.
Bucky returned the smile, the lines on his forehead relaxing a little.
you came back to the room, the white furball held to your chest. "here's Alpine."
Bucky took her from your arms, and that's when Yelena caught sight your wedding band, gleaming in the sunlight pouring from the windows.
"wait, you're married?" Yelena sputtered.
"yes?" you turned to Bucky, more confused than ever. "what... what's going on?" you whispered.
"they think you're his cat sitter," Bob, who was standing next to Bucky, whispered back, his eyes trained on Alpine who was staring back at him just as curiously.
"oh."
"what does your husband think of you sitting around in another man's house taking care of his cat?" John asked.
"and him kissing your head in greetings," Ava added.
"and him calling you doll," Yelena piled on.
"I..." you shrugged, playing off like this was an every day, casual conversation. "he's fine with it. knows I love the cat and we could use the extra money."
"Mr. Soldier! you even attended her wedding, that's so cute!" Alexei pointed at one of the photos from your wedding that you had framed up on the wall.
Bucky sighed, a hand running down his face. "you are all idiots." he muttered.
he knew it was only a matter of time now.
"wait," Yelena was in her buffering mode again. when she was done assessing her surroundings and you two, a loud gasp filled the silence. "you," she pointed at Bucky. "and you." she pointed at you.
John and Ava seem to be reaching the same conclusion, wide eyed and gasping.
"what?" Alexei's brows were furrowed as he gazed around the room. "what is it, Yelena?" he looked to his daughter for support.
"they're married!" Yelena shouted.
and that's how The New Avengers, Earth's mightiest heroes, figured out Bucky Barnes' secret.
part 2
this one was a little all over the place but I hope you enjoyed. do let me know what you think. likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal
Word Count: 3.9k
Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.
The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.
Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.
It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper.
James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.
Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.
There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.
So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.
Not until you.
Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.
You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.
By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.
And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.
But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.
“Miss me, Barnes?”
And damn him, he had.
You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam.
And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.
There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.
He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.
You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.
You grounded him.
And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.
He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.
But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.
Because he did love you.
And it terrified him.
Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.
But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.
But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.
He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.
The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.
That was what marriage looked like to him now.
Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.
It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.
You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.
“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”
You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”
“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”
You didn’t answer.
He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.
You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.
His jaw clenched.
“Bucky.”
“Almost got it.”
“Bucky.”
He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.
“James.”
He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.
“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.
“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”
“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”
“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when
you’re worried.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.
“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” you breathed.
And then, silence.
Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.
He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.
“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
Another silence.
He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith.
And he was always bad at faith.
He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you.
“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.
The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.
“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”
“Bucky.”
“I said keep talking.”
You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”
“Not funny enough.”
“He hit his head.”
“That’s better.”
Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.
You winced as the metal tip shifted.
“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”
“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.
“Oh yeah? You cooking?”
“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”
You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.
“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”
“M’tired.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.
“Do me a favor?” You asked.
He hummed.
“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”
“Not a chance.”
“And if I die…”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“If I did. Hypothetically.”
His jaw ticked.
“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”
You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”
“It’s honest.”
And it was.
Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.
He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.
He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.
“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”
You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.
He couldn’t stop now.
“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”
“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”
You blinked slow. “You first, then.”
He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.
“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”
His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.
He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”
You didn’t speak.
“Three.”
He yanked.
A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.
He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”
You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.
He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him.
“Did you mean that?”
He blinked.
“What?”
Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.
“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.
His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”
“I wasn’t hearing things.”
“You were half-conscious.”
“And you still said it.”
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.
“It was nothing. Just words.”
You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.
And god, he wanted to run.
Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.
He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed.
His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.
“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”
He stilled.
For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.
His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.
You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”
His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.
“You hate those mugs.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”
His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.
“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”
“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”
He didn’t.
He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.
“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.
You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.
“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”
He swallowed.
“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.
You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.
“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”
He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”
Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”
His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.
Why don’t you ask me?
So simple. So fucking impossible.
Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.
He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.
Why don’t you ask me?
Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.
He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.
But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.
He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”
He let it sit there. Let it ache.
“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”
His throat worked. His jaw locked.
He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.
But instead—
“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”
You didn’t interrupt.
He swallowed. Continued.
“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”
His hand twitched where it held yours.
“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”
He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.
“You made me want things again.”
You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.
He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.
Barnes, James B.
Property of the U.S. Army.
And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.
They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.
He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.
“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”
His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.
“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”
He looked at you now. Really looked.
“But I can’t.”
Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”
“All I’ve got is this.”
His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.
But now?
Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.
“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”
His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.
He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.
So he asked.
“Will you marry me?”
It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.
But it was his. And it was real.
You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.
But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.
“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”
The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—
He kissed you.
It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.
His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.
You were both shaking.
You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.
He brought the tags forward.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t speak.
He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.
The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.
But they were yours now.
His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.
He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.
Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.
Yours.
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Embrace your divine feminine energy by taking part in traditional women's hobbies & interests like experimenting with radioactive materials, developing mathematics, programming computers, piloting aircraft and practicing marksmanship.
Embrace your divine feminine energy by taking part in traditional women's hobbies & interests like experimenting with radioactive materials, developing mathematics, programming computers, piloting aircraft and practicing marksmanship.
── .✦ ⌈ dean x reader headcanons that are 2 specific.⌋
『 part 2 of @bejeweledinterludes’ headcanon series. 』
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> being a decent hunter, the winchester brothers had heard of you before, and you them— you’d heard stories, of course, but you never officially crossed paths until you were at bobby’s house at the same time they were. you’d known bobby— because everybody knew bobby—since you started hunting.
your greeting to them came almost as quickly as your goodbye, nodding at them with a “hey” while clambering down bobby’s front porch to your car, your usual bag full of weapons and books in hand— but not before you notice the jet-black ‘67 impala next to your own.
and you know your way around a car, having your own ‘baby-esque’ vehicle that you love more than life itself (can be vintage or newer model, doesn’t matter, because it’s yours). dean had noticed your car in bobby’s driveway immediately, too— who wouldn’t? the man had eyes.
anyways, you walk past baby in all her glory while nodding appreciatively— turning just a little to dean and tossing a free thumb towards her with a grin before saying a quick: “dude. bitchin’ car.”
and after initially being thrown off by the way you carried yourself, a mixture of confidence, respect, and almost familiarity— dean shoots back with a “could say the same about yours.”
at that remark, you freaking smiled. and dean almost fainted right then and there at the sight. you got in your car, and that was it, due to your visit to bobby’s house really being just a pit stop/supply run before you headed right back on the road again, a new hunt already waiting for you in montana.
> because despite sam and dean being the most good-looking hunters you ever laid eyes on, you weren't one to dilly dally over just a pretty face (when lives were on the line, of course). but somehow, you knew that you’d see them again. hunting wasn’t exactly a booming career field, after all.
> that being said, it took dean a while to get comfortable around you whenever you did end up working together— like a while. you’d only crossed wires with the brothers a few times, helping them out when you could on hunts over the next few years. sam and you made easy friends almost immediately, but dean took longer to warm up to you. but you didn’t mind, or take it personally. you never pushed dean to be your friend even with how much you wanted to be.
> when you guys do work together, though, you and dean understand every single pop culture reference you guys throw at each other. he was shocked when he referenced a classic 80s movie (it was weird science) while working one of your first cases together.
and not only did you understand it and laugh— you made your own joke about it. now you two can’t shut your traps once you get going (for the love of god, do not ask about die hard around them).
> dean and you have also almost blown your cover and gotten caught on hunts because you guys laugh/giggle too loud at what the other says (especially in serious situations).
your favorite running joke is finding old portraits of ugly dead guys, pointing a finger at them and saying to dean “huh, i didn’t know you were alive in *checks plaque under painting* 1837” (and don’t worry, he does the same exact thing to you.)
> dean once fell asleep on your shoulder during a stakeout/recon/watching a potential victim’s house and you didn’t move an inch the entire time. when you finally tried to gently wake him up, he had the audacity to sleepily mumble “jus’ five more minutes” into your shirt and cling to you like a koala in the car. you, being the saint and not wanting to argue, let him sleep for another 2 hours couple minutes.
> and soon enough, dean eventually came around. you knew he cared about you way before he did, but you never forced anything. he appreciated that more than you knew.
and it wasn’t just one single moment of realization like in the movies when dean knew he cared about you. it was quiet, simmering, and when he looked, it was already just… there. but the feelings he hadn’t noticed he’d been pushing down for so long came to a head on a hunt when you almost died— the way they always did when someone he cared about was hurt.
after that, something shifted. you could feel and see it, even if dean didn’t say anything outright to you. for one, he called more often when you were away— he’d need help with something you knew that he already knew damn well how to do, or with something you knew he had much better contacts for.
i mean, come on. he knows freaking rowena, and he’s calling you for assistance on a spell? and sometimes, he’d call for no reason at all, making up some excuse just to hear your voice. you never mentioned it, out of fear he’d stop calling entirely.
> because you always loved when dean called.
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you have two ( 2 ) new messages from the author ! ↓
i genuinely believe that i tweak out over this man at least 4 times a day stg. and the gif i picked lives in my mind rent-free. he looks so ethereal sigh i wish he was real 💔
ANYWAYS here’s my taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3
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looking for new work from me? go to @bejeweledinterludes2, my new writing account—all new work is posted there!
like when he truly feels comfortable and can let himself go, a few whines slip out for sure (idk if you've seen devour and are familiar with the infamous chair scene, something like that maybe🤭)
but also he'd get so embarrassed and doesn't like being so vulnerable, because he thinks its unmanly (we need to shift the mindset here!)
⤷ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
yes you and me both babe. #deanwhimpers truthers RISE WITH ME !!!!!! and i know about the devour chair scene, but thank you for bringing it back to my attention eek <3 (here @ timestamp 2:19 for anyone who hasn’t seen it. make sure you have headphones. you’ve been warned.)
and i totally agree with him letting a few… well, let’s just say some high noises out when he’s close. and if you asked him about it like it was regular conversation, he’d probably close up and hide in his shell immediately. he’s ashamed of it, ashamed of how he acts when he’s in bed. it’s not manly. it’s not hot. at least, dean doesn’t think it is.
you, on the other hand?
you like it.
it’s one of the hottest things he does, and that’s saying something when it comes to dean: because everything he does seems to be hot. but by far, it’s the way he sounds when he’s in bed with you. the way he lets go, the way he feels comfortable enough to truly be himself around you—it makes you feel out of this world.
it’s around the third time you guys have sex that you bring it up. you’re still navigating each other, whatever this relationship will be, but one thing remains certain: you can’t get enough of one another. you’re in bed when you build up the courage, dean still laying on top of you, basking in the aftershocks.
he was by far the loudest this night, since he didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors or sharing the room with sam. you can tell he’s embarrassed about it. uncomfortable with the fact that you had to hear him like that. with the fact that he let his guard down, showed his true colors.
you’re the first to break the silence.
“y’know, some people might think i’m hurting you when we’re together,” you try and ease his overthinking, your hands still tracing over his bare back.
dean huffs a snort into the skin of your sternum, but it’s halfhearted. “yeah, uh. sorry ‘bout that. didn’t mean to uh. turn you off or anythin’ like that.”
oh, dean. always putting himself down. “you didn’t,” you shake your head on the pillow. if you leaned your head a little more down, your face would be in dean’s hair. “i like the noises you make.”
dean blinks. your confession makes him look up at you from where he’d been laying on your chest. “y’do?” he sounds shocked. appalled. like no one would ever like the noises he makes.
“i mean… yeah,” you sheepishly reply, looking away briefly. “well, i, y’know, wasn’t expecting that from you, but… it’s hot.”
huh. well, if you think it’s hot, maybe it’s not so bad that he does it then, dean thinks. maybe it’s not as unmanly as he thought. he absorbs your words for a moment, eyes searching your face. you’re telling the truth.
“oh,” is all dean has to say at first. “well. then, uh. guess i’ll, uh. keep doin’ that, then.” you smile at the way he’s all flustered, and not from post-sex. your hand goes to his face, cupping it—and dean pushes his head into your palm immediately.
“you shouldn’t be ashamed of that, you know,” you murmur quietly.
“yeah, well, shouldn’t and actually doin’ it are two different stories,” dean mutters back, looking down again, too. “i jus’… i can’t control it. not with you.”
“and i’m not asking you to,” you retort. “like i said. i think it’s hot.”
dean nods, his face melting at your words and your hands still tracing his face. maybe you’re right. now, this shame won’t go away entirely, but he can feel the walls starting to crack. he sighs, but not because he’s upset with you. quite the contrary.
it’s because he’s safe.
in case you missed any of my sub ! dean work, here’s literally everything i’ve ever written about him:
summary you unknowingly cling to dean in your sleep!
content gn!reader, unestablished relationship, only one bed! dean is very in love and would like to share a bed with you every night forever. heaps of soft cuddling and sleepiness! use of sweetheart and angel.
masterlist ; requested
Dean is hot under the covers, because he had the decency to sleep in sweats instead of just boxers, and your fingertips are soft where they graze his bicep. The touch sends his arm thrumming. He's only sharing this knotted mattress since you'd been so insistent about him not taking the couch.
"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. C'mon. We can share."
And he loves you. Moderately or too much, he isn't sure, but enough to unfurl a sweet, figgy maroon over his cheeks when you look at him and smile pearled. He simply wasn't going to let you shift all night on those old, stained cushions while he took the bed.
You've been snoring. His lashes are mussed and the motel is dark, but with a faint sliver of gaudy streetlight from the window he can make out the curve of your cheek and parted lips. Another gentle purr falls from them. He finds himself wanting to press deep into the sound.
It's endearing and lovely and you'd be embarrassed.
He's staring. Is he a creep? So much drowsy, besotted fuzz has roiled his mind, he can't consider it for very long, but decides that he isn't. How could this one and only pure, tender thing he feels make him creepy? Doesn't seem right at all.
Your knee bumps his upper thigh and lazily cascades down to his knee until they both meet. Dean can't breathe; doesn't let himself, has to remain very still, though resisting to indulge is asking a lot from somebody this fond of you.
He whispers your name, and everything is quiet besides your unconscious rustling of sheets.
You're gravitating to his body. Delicate fingers mold the slope of his shoulder and trail lazily up until they reach the honeyed hair at the back of his neck, his skin pricks tiny bumps. Green eyes wide and wider when your face comes to his, nose so close.
He'd like to peck a kiss there. You're sleep-soft and pretty.
"Angel," he murmurs, knowing you aren't listening, and settles his hand onto the plush of your waist with such bravery. Your breath fans the subtle dip of his cupid's bow.
If given the chance to slow this forever, Dean would. Doesn't protest when your arms cling and cross over his back, squeezing tight. You pull him towards the crook of your neck and he follows obediently, allowing himself to meld and sniff and sink.
In the morning, he stirs more refreshed than he's ever been, needles in his heart as he sits and slides from the blankets, and doesn't mention anything when you blink awake.
wrote this at two in the morning i offer a big apology if that is obvious <3
cw use of baby, pretty, and sweetheart. cuddling, kisses, crying!
masterlist ; divider
× dean shares his silver rings with you. thinks it's really cute, seeing you twist them around your fingers, holding one in your palm when you're deep in thought or anxious. he'll take your hand carefully and slip his favorite on before he leaves to check out a string of murders in some faraway town.
"nothing will happen. i've gotta come back for this," he says. "keep it safe for me, pretty."
× dean loves calling you while he's away on a hunt, bored and lonely and feeling much too desolate in another stuffy motel room. he misses your voice and smell and smile; wishes you were here to tell him how good he is, how badass he looked ganking that vampire.
"hey, baby," he'll murmur into the phone. "thinkin' about you."
"bet you looked so pretty today."
"you've been thinking about me, too? aw. that's cute."
× it can feel slightly overbearing, but dean is constantly checking in with you. whether that be vocally,
"you hungry? when's the last time you ate?"
"wanna lay down for a while? y'should get some rest, pretty."
"hey. you doing okay, sweetheart? yeah?"
or through his body language, his eye contact, the way he's always watching and making sure you're alright. if he notices a scrunch to your nose or brow, he'll come up beside you and loop an arm around your waist. reminds you silently that he's right here.
× he won't admit it aloud, but he absolutely adores simply laying in bed with you, cheek pressed to the soft of your stomach, arms bent and warm hands kneading gently over your sides. he often falls asleep and stirs with a short grumble, pressing his face against you in a groggy attempt to bury himself there forever.
× when you refer to him as angel or pretty boy, he swoons. the bone of his knees turns mushy and pliable and he might wobble on his feet. he'd never been called such sweet, sincere names before you, and has to stifle small begs of, "please, call me that again, baby. please." every time.
× he's not at all trained to handle emotions and can barely work through his own. but when you cry, or you're feeling down, lost, angry, he does his very best to comfort you. tries to force out a helpful sentence or two, though they're awkward and tangled and he's not confident in the words.
he prefers to use his body. holding you, kissing gently at your temples, wiping your wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb. keeps you close until whatever you're feeling either wanes or passes completely.
"you're okay, baby. c'mere. s'okay."
"look at me, hey. please? show me those pretty eyes."
