Basically, Gina (a cousin, year older than me) has had another meltdown because I’m graduating sooner than her. She went to our grandparents (a few months ago after I hosted a niece’s birthday party at my home) and went off about how ‘loose’ I’ve become.
My grandparents, for context, are pretty conservative, but don’t have much say on what me and my sisters. That remains on my parents and then ourselves—at least for me because I’ve moved out.
Gina had done this months ago and, since then, my parents kept this from me.
My little sister overheard them during a weekend sleepover almost two months ago and told me.
I was livid when I found out.
I was also very confused by why she did it.
Later, me and my boyfriend had a conversation with my parents over call and they told us not to worry. That it wasn’t a big deal. That Gina had no real facts to back her claim.
So I let it go.
A few weeks ago, my boyfriend proposed!!! He took me to dinner, drove us to this wonderful overnight camp site, got down on one knee, gave a little speech (he forgot most of it because he was nervous, but he gave me the cards he was practicing with later which was even more adorable), put a custom ring on my finger (he got a stackable set), and it was perfect for me.
So now me and my fiancé (sounds sooo good) were very excited to tell everyone (me that I’m engaged and him that I said yes). We told my parents and his parents first (all of them knew he was proposing which was a shock to me because my mom is not known to keep secrets well).
Then we decided to tell our siblings and then our cousins and extended family (close ones). They were all so excited and happy for us, congratulating and getting ready for celebrations.
A week goes by and Gina invites us and our cousins to her house (she lives with her parents but they’re out that day).
Apparently, Gina and her boyfriend (of six months, I should add) were also now engaged.
Crickets.
Me and cousins stare.
We’re in shock.
Shock is an understatement.
Gina basically went on and said they just clicked and thought it made perfect sense to get engaged. She made it sound like a fairytale but none of us actually liked the guy (he’s very misogynistic and makes jokes about things we care about), but we all knew that we couldn’t change her mind.
Then she said that her date was in August. No, not next year. This year.
We’re horrified.
Now we’re all asking her if she thinks that’s a good idea, if she’d have enough time to plan, if she was even sure. I ask if such a short dating and engagement period is smart.
She turned to me.
And I’m dreading it at this point because I know she’s going to turn this on me.
She basically called me jealous and said that I don’t want her married before her like I didn’t let her graduate before me either. She accused me of being the delusional one and insensible and all over just a horrible person that can’t be happy for her.
I thought I was in one of those Reddit stories.
I still feel like it.
Anyway, there’s so much more still happening (she’s going to my grandparents). I’m in disbelief that someone like her exists.
Hellooo!! May I request Congressman Barnes playing hooky with his girl cause it’s the first warm and beautiful day of Spring?
Is my yearning for the sun showing? Yes, yes it is.
- @indigo-jungle
Ditch Days and Daffodils
Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Warnings: Pure Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Soft!Bucky, Retired Winter Soldier, Congressman Bucky, Bucky Birthday Fic, Sprinkled Light Angst, Past Trauma
Word Count: 4.3k
A/N: Thank you for the request @indigo-jungle. This is for @scoonsalicious and two years of friendship. Love you.
It was the first real warm day of spring in Washington DC. Creeping in like a promise that nobody expected to keep. February had been cruel— snow storms and gray skies, winds that bit through scarves and raised coat collars, and for Bucky it represented endless committee hearings where he would sit in a suit trying to pretend that his tie wasn’t silently trying to strangle him. Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, retired Winter Soldier and reluctant politician, had spent the morning nodding and trying to smile through a briefing on transportation infrastructure while his mind wandered to anything but bridges and funding allocations.
His phone buzzed softly under the table. He tapped on the message and the screen lit up with a photo from you: a selfie of you smiling and holding a bright yellow daffodil as you leaned against the window. Sunlight poured in around you, surrounding you in a warm glow. Another message followed shortly.
It's warm. Like, actually warm. Ditch the suit?
He stared at the screen far longer than he should have. The daffodil's trumpet shape looked defiant, like it had pushed through frozen dirt just to prove a point. But it was the shape of your lips pressed against the bulb that really got his attention. Something in his chest loosened.
Within the next ten minutes, he had clumsily typed out a curt email to send to his chief of staff.
Personal day. Unavoidable. Reschedule as needed.
No explanation. He didn't owe one. God knows that his fellow congress members had left for things he deemed far more trivial than this.
He was back at his apartment within the hour, changing into dark jeans, black boots and a soft gray Henley that clung to his skin in just the right way. Lastly, he slipped on his leather jacket. It still smelled faintly of motor oil and clean sweat. He plucked out his helmet from the top shelf of the closet in the hallway— it was the same one he’d worn in the ‘40s, scuffed around the edges with a few chips in the paint, but entirely functional. He had subtly removed it from a Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian and walked out without a backward glance. Normally he would have worn gloves, but the long sleeves concealed most of his vibranium arm and he was getting used to the stares.
He pulled out his phone and texted you.
30 mins. Be ready. Bring headgear.
You were standing outside your apartment when he arrived, already smiling with your own helmet tucked under your arm. You also had jeans on, your own leather jacket and sneakers that looked like they were ready for any occasion. Bucky swung his leg over his motorcycle— a 1940s Indian Chief, black and chrome— that he had pulled out of storage when he moved to the state. It had been meticulously cleaned and restored back to a functional state by Sean Dugan, who owned a garage not too far from Capitol Hill. The man was the spitting image of his grandfather, Dum Dum Dugan of the Howling Commandos. This was the first time he was riding it since the war ended, but since his last motorcycle had met an unfortunate end, this springtime venture was the perfect opportunity to dust off a piece of his past. The engine turned over with a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through his bones, like an old friend saying hello.
You hopped on behind him without a moment’s hesitation, arms wrapped firmly around his waist like you’d done so many times before. He felt your chin rest on his shoulder for a second.
“Ready?” he asked, voice muffled through the helmet.
“Always.”
He twisted the throttle gently, revving the engine a couple of times. Then harder making the bike surge forward, tires crunching as they spun over asphalt as the two of you sped away, leaving the city behind. Wind whipped around you and with it came the scent of fresh grass and petrichor. You laughed into his back when he took a curve a little too fast. Bucky resisted the urge to turn his head to look at you. The sound felt pure and bright, it made something warm bloom in his chest.
The two of you rode for almost an hour, weaving down back roads and avoiding highways. It was a route Bucky had mapped out during a particularly dull legislative session. No traffic, no tolls, just quiet county lanes lined with budding trees and early blossoms. The temperature of the afternoon had already climbed into the low 70s and the sun was beaming from overhead, generous with its warmth. Without warning, daffodils started appearing in patches along fences, then in bigger drifts, until finally the road curved down and opened out into a shallow valley.
Bucky slowed down, turning off onto a slightly concealed dirt track that was just wide enough for a bike. It crawled through a few yards of foliage before the meadow opened up like a secret. Before you spread out acres of wild daffodils, thousands upon thousands, carpeting the ground in scattered bunches. The hardy flowers bobbed in the breeze like a marching band of golden trumpets catching the sunlight, laughing at winter’s inevitable defeat. There wasn’t another person in sight, just the earth, a clear sky and the sea of yellow.
Bucky killed the engine and silence rushed in around you, broken only by birds and the faint rustle of petals. You scrambled off the back of the bike, pulling your helmet off to stare at the view, mouth open. He left you to gawp while he wheeled his bike a few feet into the field, being careful not to crush too many and parked it in a flower-free patch. The chrome body glinted against the floral surroundings, looking like an emperor amongst its subjects.
“Bucky... this is… insane! It's like someone spilled sunshine.”
You scrambled after him, still clutching your helmet while your sneakers sank into the cool grass between the blooms.
“Found this place last fall,” he said, almost shy. “Thought it might look good in spring.”
“It doesn’t just look good, Bucky. It looks like a painting somebody left behind.” You turned in a slow circle, arms out and eyes wide. Thousands of daffodils bobbed their golden heads in unison, as if applauding your arrival. “How did you even know this was here?” you asked, stopping to look at him when the spinning made you dizzy.
He shrugged one shoulder, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Took a ride last November, couldn't sit through another budget meeting without losing my mind. Pulled over to stretch my legs and saw a few stragglers poking through the dead leaves. Figured if they could survive all winter…” He trailed off, metal fingers brushing the edge of one trumpet-shaped bud without picking it. “Well, seemed worth checking in on them.”
You watched him, eyes roaming over his face. The sun caught on a stray silver strand that threaded through the dark hair at his temples. Tension lived there permanently, but today the furrow in his brow had flattened. He looked younger out here. Not a Congressman. Not a Soldier. Just Bucky.
You set your helmet down on the back of bike seat and pulled out a small canvas bag from the saddlebag you'd packed before he came to pick you up: two wrapped sandwiches, two thermoses, a couple of slightly bruised plums, and— because you couldn’t help yourself— the single daffodil you’d bought from a street cart, the same one you had lured him out of work with. You’d tucked it inside your jacket so it wouldn’t get crushed on the ride.
You laid down your navy wool picnic blanket, smoothing it over a flat patch of grass. He immediately dropped down beside you with a sigh that, honestly, sounded like it had waited months to escape. His long legs stretched out lazily, boots crossed at the ankles as they spilled off the edge while one arm was propped behind his head. The other— the vibranium one— rested across his stomach, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against the henley like he was still hearing the roar of the engine in his ears.
For a long stretch neither of you spoke, lying together in sweet silence. Just the feel of the breeze, the buzz of the bees, and the occasional soft clink of his dog tags when he shifted on the hard ground. Eventually you sat up, unpacking the sandwiches— you handed him the roast beef, and kept the turkey for yourself. He accepted it with a small grateful nod.
You took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then let the words slip out before you could second-guess them.
“I saw your bio at the Smithsonian last month.”
He went very still. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. He wasn’t tense, exactly— just… listening.
“They changed the big exhibit on the Howling Commandos. They’ve got this wall with all the personnel records blown up. Birth dates, hometowns, next of kin.” You kept your voice light, as though this was just something you did casually, for fun. “March 10th, 1917. James Buchanan Barnes. Eldest of four,” you quoted gently.
He didn’t look at you. His gaze stayed on the azure sky. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
Now you turned to him. “I notice everything about you, Bucky. You know that.”
He let out a long exhale before his eyes flicked to yours. “Didn’t tell you on purpose.”
“I figured.” You plucked a blade of grass, twirled it between your fingers. “You hate when people make a fuss. Especially now. With the cameras and your staff. Can you imagine the whole ‘Congressman Barnes turns 109 today’ circus that would happen if anyone found out?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “One oh nine. Jesus. Sounds like a headline waiting to happen. ‘Winter Soldier Celebrates Birthday with Tax Reform.’” He rolled his eyes and sat up to unwrap his sandwich.
You inched towards him, closer and closer, until your knee brushed his thigh. “I’m not making a fuss,” you said quietly. “Promise. No singing, no cake, no balloons. I just… I didn’t want today to go by without saying something. Even if it’s only me who knows.”
He finally turned his head and looked at you with those blue eyes— even after all this time, they still stole your breath away. They searched your face like he was looking for hidden judgment, but finding only your steady warmth.
“Don’t need anything,” he answered. His voice sounded out in a low grumble but you knew better than to take that personally. “This—” he continued, gesturing vaguely at the meadow, the bike, the blanket and you “— this is already more than I could ever let myself want on a birthday.” He paused, staring out into the distance, lost in the past for a brief moment. “Back in the day it was just Steve dragging me to Coney Island… and that was only if we could scrape two nickels together. After the war… after… everything, I stopped keeping track. Easier that way.”
You pressed your hand against your jacket, the single stem was still sitting snugly beside your sternum. It felt almost inadequate now, seeing the sea of sunlight he had brought you to. But you took it out all the same. The stem was a little bent from the ride, but the yellow trumpet was still bright and defiant. You held it out to him with a soft smile.
“Maybe today could be the first one you keep track of again? No fuss. Just… this. You, me, a ridiculous amount of daffodils, and the fact that I’m really glad March 10th in 1917 happened… ‘cause it gave me you,” you finished shyly.
He stared at the flower for a long moment, his vibranium fingers closing around the stem with a gentleness that would surprise anyone. He brought it up to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing in. When he looked back at you, his expression held a vulnerability that he rarely showed.
“You snuck that in my bag?”
“Maybe.”
A real smile this time— the small, crooked one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. The one he usually saved for you. “Sneaky.”
“Only on special occasions.”
He tucked the daffodil behind his own ear, the bright yellow a stark contrast against his dark hair and the faint shadow of stubble on his stupidly handsome jaw. It looked ridiculous and perfect at the same time.
“Happy birthday, Buck,” you whispered, breath warm against his ear.
He didn’t answer with words. Bucky didn’t usually communicate meaningful things with words. Instead he turned towards you, sliding his left arm behind your shoulder blades, the right one cupping the back of your neck. He leaned in, pressing a kiss on your lips— slow and deep and intensely grateful. The kind of kiss that tasted like sunlight, old leather and second chances. When he pulled back, his forehead and nose rested against yours.
“No fuss?” he murmured.
“No fuss,” you agreed.
But you both knew the daffodil in his hair was already a little fuss. But he didn’t seem to mind.
He lay down again, pulling you with him so your head rested on his chest. The steady thump of his heart mixed with the tiny clicking of the bike’s engine as it cooled. You traced idle circles over the henley, right above the spot where the metal met skin.
“Tell me something from before,” you said after a while. “From a March 10th that wasn’t… this.” You waved your hand around, indicating life in general rather than specifically the daffodils.
Bucky stared up at the sky for a while, contemplating his answer. His hand stayed snugly around your waist. He hummed softly before sitting up. You scrambled up after him, following the direction in which he was gesturing with the tilt of his head.
“Over here.” He shuffled over to his bike. You followed. He knelt beside the engine, pointing to the old carburetor, the chrome exhaust pipes still gleamed, even after all these years. “So back in the war, we had to improvise. Radios went down all the time, comms failed. But engines... engines talk if you know how to listen.”
He rose up onto his knees and turned the key and then gave the kickstart a gentle nudge. The engine coughed once, then spluttered into life.
“Listen,” he said, closing his eyes to take in the fluctuating murmur coming from the motorcycle. “Hear that?”
You listened. You truly did. “Umm, am I supposed to hear something other than the engine?” you asked cautiously.
“You’ve got short bursts, long ones. Like Morse code?” he tilted his head as he spoke, trying to see if you understood.
You closed your eyes again, concentrating on the way the engine popped and purred in irregular patterns: short-short-long, then a slight pause before it came again, long-short-short. When you opened your eyes again, Bucky was grinning at you, boyish, rare.
“It’s a thing we used to do… as a signal in the Howling Commandos. Like when we were pinned down. Messages like ‘all clear’ or ‘move now’ or ‘Steve's being an idiot again.’”
You burst out laughing. Then you tilted your head and listened carefully to the way the engine continued to rattle, another uneven sequence of pops and low rumbles.
“What’s that one?” you asked.
Bucky listened for a second, brows pulling together in mock concentration. “Rough translation?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget this.”
You examined Bucky’s face. He returned your gaze with a serious one of his own, blue eyes shining. You let the words sit between you, the moment softer than the idling engine. Your face relaxed into a smile and you cast your eyes out over the meadow once more, watching the daffodils sway in the breeze like a thousand small suns nodding in agreement with Bucky’s words.
“I won’t,” you said quietly.
Bucky gave the throttle a small twist, letting the engine answer with a low, steady growl before settling once more.
“Good,” he murmured, unable to hold back the smile twitching at his lips.
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “How about you? Do you want to remember?”
He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. You weren’t even sure he was looking out at the meadow anymore. Slowly he reached up and adjusted the daffodil tucked behind his ear, almost like he had almost forgotten it was there. He secured it before looking back at you with dazzling intensity.
“Hard to forget a day like this,” he said quietly.
The way he was looking at you now was breath-taking, you couldn’t move, mesmerized by the depth of emotion behind those beautiful blues. But the moment was interrupted by a cough from the engine, as if it also needed to voice an opinion. You chuckled and Bucky’s eyes flicked back to the bike. He cocked his head again, like he was listening to something only he could hear. The engine rattled on in its lazy idle, the occasional pop echoing around the meadow.
“Hang on,” he said suddenly.
You leaned closer, squinting at the exhaust pipe like that might help you to understand the sounds it was emitting.
“It’s saying something else,” Bucky whispered against the shell of your ear.
“Oh?” you said, a little more skeptical now.
He listened with exaggerated seriousness, his brows knitted together and lips pursed like he was decoding a particularly complicated transmission.
“Yeah,” he murmured with a nod towards the bike. “Okay… got it.”
“Well?” you prompted, a hint of impatience in your tone.
Bucky glanced at you sideways, that crooked half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It says…” he paused dramatically, giving the throttle the tiniest twist so the engine rattled out another uneven burst of noises, “you packed the good sandwiches.”
You stared at him, eyes narrowing with growing suspicion.
“James Bucky Barnes!” you cried, watching him blink innocently. “You’re making this up!”
His face split into a huge grin, confirming your hunch.
“Oh my god,” you said, shoving his chest with the heel of your hand. “You really had me going there!”
He rocked back slightly from the momentum of your push but caught your wrist before you could pull it away, metal fingers surprisingly warm and steady around your hand as he stopped you moving away.
“Hey!” he laughed softly.
“You are unbelievable,” you continued, your sense of indignation bubbling up, fighting back a smile that threatened regardless. “I was sitting here actually trying to hear Morse code on your… stupid motorcycle.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he smirked.
“For like thirty seconds!”
“That’s a personal best,” he said proudly.
You let out an exasperated huff and tried to shove him again, but he only tugged you forward instead, pulling you right into him until your chest was flush against his. Your laughter made you bump awkwardly against him, his arms slid around you anyway, keeping you close.
“They’re turning you into a proper politician. You’re a con artist now,” you muttered.
“I prefer professionally trained improvisation,” he corrected.
You tried to smother your smile as you tilted your head back to look at him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed, shaking your head.
“And you believed me.”
“For like… a second.”
“Still counts.”
He squeezed you once again, a little more briefly, before letting you go. The engine spluttered one final half-hearted clack, before Bucky reached up and flipped the key. The bike settled into silence again. The quiet of the meadow rushed back in around you, filling the space.
You both drifted back to the blanket without further thought, collapsing onto it in the soft (and slightly damp) grass. The daffodils continued to sway around you, their bright happy yellow faces nodding in the breeze as if they’d been listening to your entire exchange. Bucky lay back, leaning on his elbows, stretched out fully, his long legs crossed at the ankles again. You flopped down beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“So,” you pouted, nudging him teasingly with your knee. “You promised me a story.”
“March tenth, huh?” he hummed thoughtfully, lying back completely and staring up at the wide stretch of blue sky overhead.
“Mmm hmm.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, digging through memories that were older than most buildings in the city you’d left behind that morning. You knew he wasn’t withdrawing because his hand was still wrapped firmly around yours.
“Well,” he finally said, “there was one year when Steve and I borrowed a bike.”
“Borrowed?” you echoed, picking up on some hesitation in the way he used the word.
“Stole,” he clarified with a mumble.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He smirked faintly. “It had this huge cart on the front, belonged to a delivery guy on Atlantic Avenue. He was there, same time every day when we got out of school. We figured we’d ride the thing around the block and bring it back before he noticed.”
“And…?”
“Well then Steve decided we should see how fast it could go.”
You snorted. “Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
Bucky smiled again, squeezing your hand. “Kid had legs like matchsticks and somehow he still thought he was invincible.” Bucky shook his head, fond exasperation threaded his voice. “We got halfway down Atlantic Avenue before realizing neither of us actually knew how to steer the damn thing.”
“Please tell me you didn’t crash it.”
“Oh, we absolutely crashed it.”
You burst out laughing.
“Right into a fruit cart,” he added.
“Stop,” you laughed, holding your sides.
“Oranges everywhere.”
“Bucky!” You rolled around on the blanket, trying to suppress your giggles.
“Guy chased us three blocks.”
You were laughing hard enough now that you had to roll onto your side, clutching your stomach. Bucky watched you with quiet amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Worth it though,” he said after a moment.
“For the oranges?”
“For the ride.”
Your laughter faded into something softer. Quieter. The breeze shifted through the meadow one more time, but this time it carried something more than just the warm scent of sunlit grass and petals. Bucky’s voice dropped a little when he spoke again.
“Spring back then…” he said slowly. “It smelled like possibility. Like everything was about to start and anything could happen.”
Your fingers idly traced the edge of the blanket.
“And what does possibility smell like?”
“Fresh bread from the bakery down the block,” he reminisced. “Motor oil. Rain on the pavement. Coney Island when the boardwalk opened back up.”
You smiled faintly, snuggling into his side. “Sounds nice.”
“It was,” he admitted. “Before everything got… bigger.”
You wrapped yourself around his arm, your head resting against his shoulder while you stared up at the wafer thing drifting clouds.
“My mom used to let me plant daffodil bulbs every fall,” you said. “Before the frost set in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “She’d say if you buried them deep enough and wished hard enough, they’d come back every year… like magic.”
Bucky turned his head toward you. “And did they?”
“Every single time.” You shrugged lightly, tears glazing your eyes. “I wish she would come back,” you whispered.
Bucky pulled you closer, his arm snaked around your shoulders supportively and you wiped away the tears on his Henley before they could fall. For a while you both just lay there in the golden quiet, watching the sun slowly move westward across the sky.
Eventually the light softened, turning the sea of daffodils from bright gold to something warmer and deeper. Shadows stretched longer through the meadow and the breeze picked up slightly, fluttering at the edges of the blanket and whispering through the flowers.
Bucky sat up first.
“Wind’s changing,” he said, glancing toward the horizon at the dropping sun.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows.
“Time to go?”
“Probably.”
Together you started packing the small picnic without any ceremony. Sandwich wrappers stuffed into the bottom of the canvas bag, thermoses placed more carefully, the uneaten and slightly bruised plums rolled gently together before disappearing into the saddlebag again. When everything was stowed, Bucky paused beside the bike.
The daffodil was still tucked behind his ear. He plucked it out carefully, straightening the bent stem between his fingers before sliding it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. You watched him do it.
“Souvenir?” you asked.
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Something like that.”
Then he looked at you, blue eyes were quieter now, reflective in the fading light.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
“Thanks for this.”
“For the sandwiches?” you asked innocently.
“For… this.” He gestured loosely around the meadow. “For making this the first birthday in a long time I actually want to remember.”
Your chest tightened.
“Well,” you said softly, stepping closer, “you better remember it. The engine said so.”
His crooked smile returned. “Guess I’d better listen to it then.”
He handed you your helmet and climbed on. A moment later the motorcycle roared back to life, its deep rumble resonated through the valley of daffodils as you climbed on behind him. The sun was now dipping low as Bucky eased the bike back onto the narrow dirt path, golden flowers waving enthusiastically in the wake of its passing as you rode toward the road.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his waist, resting your helmeted head between his shoulder blades while the engine thrummed beneath you. Before setting off, he lifted one hand from the handlebar just long enough to squeeze yours where it rested against his stomach. A silent thank you. The road stretched ahead of you, quiet and empty, the horizon turning soft shades of gold and rose. Spring had finally arrived and Bucky Barnes was already looking forward to the next March tenth.
Warnings: fluff, mentions of Bucky’s past (hints at torture, PTSD, old habits, etc.), heart-to-heart
Summary: Bucky is rediscovering feeling at the butterfly conservatory.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Fluffentine M.List || Navigation
The entrance to the conservatory was a simple door, leading into a small vestibule with informational plagues lined up on the walls. Bucky stopped at the threshold. His body shifted into something you had learned to recognize over the years—assessing, calculating. He had fallen into his usual soldier mode with his gaze darting over the interior.
“It’s a contained environment,” he muttered, mostly to himself. It was a fact, something he had been trained over and over again to do. It was a hard habit to knock off and you let him look around once more before tugging him to the entrance to the actual conservatory.
The second set of doors opened to humidity, warm and thick. The light, golden and diffused, shone through the glass ceiling. The greenery was a welcome sight. Plants were everywhere, climbing walls, hanging from above, and spilling over pathways.
“One entrance. Glass panels. Secluded places. Lots of places to—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he realized what he was doing. He took a deep breath of wet dirt. He was catching himself before he could keep thinking like the Winter Soldier.
He glanced at you. You were already looking at him.
But you hadn’t called him out—never had you before anyway. Instead, you let him figure it out on his own. You waited for an indication he might need you to step in. When he finally let out another deep breath, he nodded.
You nodded back. “Lots of places to see butterflies,” you finished for him with a gentle smile. His expression softened at your words and he nodded once again.
“Right. Butterflies.” His hand tightened around yours.
You squeezed his hand. “That’s the idea.”
His eyes are everywhere once again, but this time he was simply taking it in. He glanced at the glass panels for sunlight, the greenery for the simple pleasure of nature, and the pathway that winded around the conservatory.
You started down the path, tugging him by the hand as you did often. The butterflies seemed to flutter the moment you two stepped further. They were everywhere all at once—orange and black monarchs, electric blue morphos, tiny yellow ones that flitted like living confetti. They landed on railings, leaves, shoulders of passing children who shrieked with delightful laughter.
One cried and clung to her mother.
Becky’s head turned slowly and followed the children’s path. His lips quirked for a moment. The tension seemed to bleed out of him with each step.
“I’ve seen butterflies before,” Bucky grumbled, but there was a hint of something deeper in his tone.
“I know,” you said simply.
“In books, in files, reference materials, in—in the park,” he continued, pausing as a monarch settled on a bright pink flower. “But… looking is different from watching, right?”
You smiled and nudged his shoulder with yours. “Yeah, it is,” you murmured, your hand squeezing his three times. A silent, coded gesture for the two of you.
He returned it.
You walked further in, occasionally pointing out a butterfly you liked. Eventually, you found a bench tucked away in a quiet corner, surrounded by flowering bushes that seemed to attract the most butterflies. You sat, tugged him down, and just watched.
Bucky was relaxed for a while. There was no one around you two, so he let his guard down just for you. Then he tensed. A tingle on his metal hand. He looked down at the same time as you. A blue morpho sat on his fist.
“Don’t move—” You snapped a picture before he could protest.
He gave you a look.
You smiled back cheekily.
The butterfly flew off soon enough.
Bucky didn’t say anything for a while. Then he spoke quietly. “I haven’t felt butterflies in a long time.” He turned to look at you, his knee brushing yours and his hand coming to hold yours again.
“Well, I imagine butterflies don’t usually sit on people’s hands,” you teased as you sent the image to Steve. Bucky knew he might like the butterfly for reference for drawing. He didn’t say anything, but he did notice it. He appreciated your thought for his friend.
“That’s not what I meant,” he clarified, giving you a soft smirk. He paused, his thumb raking over your knuckles and his expression softening. “I meant the expression, you know? ‘Butterflies in your stomach?’ Nerves, excitement, the feeling when something good might happen. That one.”
“Oh.”
He shook his head slowly. “I thought I’d lost all those emotions, the ability to feel loved,” he continued, taking a hold of your hand with his flesh one. He hesitantly wrapped his metal one around yours as well. “For decades, any flutter in my chest meant fear—from the chair, the torture, the commands. It was associated with bad—someone using me and to do what they wanted me to.”
His gaze lifted from your hand to your eyes. “Then I met you and I started feeling things again—good things. Little by little at first. The warmth when you smiled at me. The peace you brought when you fell asleep on my shoulder. Then it got bigger. Hope, want… and eventually love.”
You were speechless for a few long moment. A warmth spread from your chest to your cheeks. “That’s—it’s not exactly butterflies then—”
”It is,” Bucky cut in softly, his hands squeezing yours. “That flutter when you way into a room, the nervous excitement when I even think about seeing you. That… lightness.”
Your expression softened.
“I didn’t know what it was called at first. I just knew what it felt like.” He gestured around at the conversatory, at the butterflies still drifting through the golden air. “It felt like this.”
“And now you know.”
“And now I know.”
Another butterfly landed on him. This time it sat on his shoulder, a small orange one with delicate black markings. He glanced at it before meeting your gaze with a gentle smile. Then another landed on his head, tickling his hair.
“This is happening a lot.” He sighed as if it was hurting him.
You giggled. “You’re a butterfly magnet.”
“I’m the Winter Soldier,” he said, mock-offence on his face.
Summary: You couldn’t seem to wrap a present so Jason stepped in.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader
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The living room looked like a craft store exploded. There was wrapping paper in various prints—including a Red Hood print that Jason had immediately scowled at—unfurling in waves across the floor. Tape dispensers had rolled under the couch and some tape stuck to the edge of the coffee table. A pair of scissors lurked dangerously close to Jason’s foot.
Then there were ribbons. Satin, grosgrain, curling, and wired, spilling from a shopping bag that you brought home last week.
You were in the middle of all the colourful chaos. You had been wrapping Valentine gifts for your friends and Jason’s family. It was usually an easy task for you, but the wrapping paper didn’t seem to want to cooperate today.
Every time you thought you had the paper folding and creased into the corner, another would pop free. Your frustration was mounting, shimmering under your laughter. There was something hysterical about the whole situation.
Jason watched from the couch with a lazy smile. He had been scrolling on his phone mindlessly before he found your struggle more entertaining.
“Maybe the box has a death wish,” Jason quipped when you muttered a single curse under your breath. He stretched his arms over his head. He draped them over the back of couch. He watched you the way a cat would watch its owner—comfortable, amused, and absolutely no intention of intervening.
“You’re not helping,” you said through a sigh. Your eyes flickered up to see his laidback position and you pressed your lips together.
His lips quirked up into a boyish smirk. “I’m moral support,” he countered with a wave of his hand towards himself. “Just look how supportive I am.”
“You’re sitting there—”
“Not there. Here.” He pointed down at the couch as if that was something better.
You narrowed your eyes.
He shrugged.
You turned back to your wrapping. You placed the tape on the wrong side. The paper ripped from the other corner. You leaned back on your hands with a defeated sigh.
“I give up,” you announced with a shake of your head. You glanced at Jason who was still smiling in amusement. “I’m sending everyone gift cards.”
Jason’s arms dropped from the back and he sat up straight. “Giving up and gift cards? That’s your solution?” He looked appalled, which somehow only made your shoulders slump further.
“It’s a valid strategy—”
”No, no.” He pushed the scissors away with his foot. Jason stood, his broad shoulders blocking the light for a moment before he sat beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushed yours as he got settled. He spread his legs out and grabbed the box you were trying to wrap.
You eyed him. “What are you doing?” You asked, your brows pinching together in confusion. You turned to face him better, crossing your legs under you.
“I’m going to wrap it.” He nodded at the wrapping paper. “Pass it over.”
“You just watched me fail for twenty minutes.”
”And now I’m invested. Humour me.”
You didn’t question him more, knowing it either be vague, sarcastic, or genuinely surprising. You grabbed the pink and red Nightwing print one and gave it to him. He took it, staring at it for a moment. His lips twitched.
Then he got to work. His fingers, the same ones that could field-strip a rifle in the dark, were careful and gentle with the delicate paper. There was a focus in his eyes, a concentration that was almost meditative. He measured, folded, creased with precision. In under two minutes, the box was perfectly wrapped. Sharp corners, taut paper, and a neat seam on the bottom that made it look professionally done.
Much to your dismay.
Jason held it up triumphantly. “See? That’s how you do it.”
You glanced between him and the wrapped gift. “Okay, fine,” you conceded reluctantly. You glanced at the ribbons and a spark lit in your eyes. “But can you do the ribbon is the real question.”
Jason let out a snort. “Please,” he said as he grabbed a spool of satin ribbon. You didn’t point out that he had chosen the most slippery one. “You just—”
He wrapped it around the box twice. He tried to tie a bow, fumbled once. He tried again, but the ribbon slipped. The third attempt resulted in something that looked less like a bow and more like a knot a sailor would be ashamed of.
Jason stared at it for a good ten seconds. “What the actual fuck?” He muttered, trying to untie the ridiculous knot he had put it in. He tugged it, but he had tightened it around the box and the knot. He gave up and grabbed the scissors to cut it off.
It fell to the ground sadly.
“Having trouble there, professional?”
Jason looked at the pile.
You let out a snort, followed by giggles.
Jason turned his head to scowl at you. The scowl slowly turned into a wicked grin as an idea popped into his mind. He took the ribbon from the ground and held it up, dangling it in front of your face.
“What is this?” You asked, moving back a little. He grabbed your ankle and pulled you close again. You eyed the ribbon and him with suspicion.
Jason’s eyes gleamed and darkened. “Wouldn’t it look so pretty around your wrists?”
Summary: Bruce was still working when you woke and you can’t have that.
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
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The hotel room was everything Bruce should want—quiet, secure, isolated from the chaos of Gotham. Instead, it felt like a holding cell. He’d been here 48 hours and hadn’t once looked out the window at the famous Metropolis skyline. His focus had been entirely on spreadsheets, on security briefings, and on the constant low-grade hum of responsibility that never stops.
Never mind the annoyance he had been harbouring for the conference being postponed. That meant the interviews and media coverage had been delayed as well. Not only had his three day stay extended into a week, but his work had piled up.
The only relief was you. You were his one solace amidst his agitation.
His gaze flickered over the laptop screen once and twice, taking in the numbers. It was all blurring together now. The numbers seemed to crawl around like little bugs. His eyes were dried out, stinging slightly with the dim lighting.
He would have reached over and turned the light on long ago, if it weren’t for you sleeping beside him.
At the thought of you, he glanced over at you. He watched as your chest rose and fell with each steady breath. He blinked and his expression softened.
No one was there to witness his gentle side.
Then your breath hitched. You shifted. The sheets rustled and moved with your movement, the thin blanket clinging to your body. You rolled over and your eyes fluttered open.
“Bruce?” You murmured, eyes blinking to adjust to his screen light. It wasn’t much bright, but, Bruce knew, for someone who had just woken, it was like a flashlight.
He reached out, tugged your blanket over your shoulder and rested his hand there. “Yeah, I know,” he whispered, already anticipating your question and scolding. He brushed his hand down your arm gently. “I’m just—”
“Don’t,” you muttered softly. Your word wasn’t sharp or filled with edge, just a simple reprimand. Bruce’s hand dipped to your hips and down your thigh ever so slightly before trailing back up. “Lay down.”
Bruce couldn’t help but smile. It would be impossible to argue with you. You would probably sit up, smack his arm, and scold him to oblivion. He nodded, closing his laptop and putting it on the bedside table. He took off his shirt and laid down beside you.
You put the blanket over him and cuddled into his side. “Goodnight.”
Bruce smiled and pulled you closer. “Goodnight,” he whispered back, kissing your temple before closing his eyes.
Summary: Bucky doesn’t believe you’re his, but he’ll do anything to keep you happy.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Baker!Reader
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Bucky hadn’t known softness in years until you.
You owned a small bakery around the corner of his apartment building. It was quaint place, filled the sugary scent of sweet pastries with the hint of the bitterness of coffee. The interior was shades of brown and some midnight blue. It was always as warm as your smile.
He frequented it often.
He caught a few glimpses of you.
He fell for your sweet smile.
When he asked you out, you had said yes with that smile.
He had spilled wine on your dress while reaching across the table, forgotten his wallet at home, and stepped in a deep puddle wetting his socks and shoes. Bucky didn’t know why you agreed for a second date or a third. He didn’t even know why you had jumped in delight with his marriage proposal.
He thought he was dreaming when you came up the aisle made in your backyard. It was always going to be a small ceremony. A few of his friends and a few of your loved ones. He hadn’t cried, but he had squeezed your hand to make sure you were real. He didn’t let go for the whole night.
But he did his best to keep you happy. He loved that smile on your face.
It was that smile that had stolen his heart, after all.
A/N: Another short one! I know. 😔 I’m disappointed in myself, too. I didn’t expect February to be this busy. I’m trying to get all of these finished before the end of February (which is in 4 days). They’ll be coming out one by one and very quickly. I’m so sorry!
Summary: The meaning of home evolved and Bruce didn’t want it any other way.
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Female Reader
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Many years ago, Bruce came home to a quiet manor.
The solitude of the ancient place was familiar, known to him since he was eight. Omitting the occasional creak under a staff’s feet on the old floorboards and the gentle rustle of trees from the garden outside, there was an absolute stillness that made the manor his fortress.
Then you happened. You brought this wave of sunshine into his life that he didn’t think he needed. But as soon as he lived with it, he knew he couldn’t ever live without it. He needed you in his life.
Soon after you, he found himself with an energetic, eight year old Dick. He was loud and mischievous after the initial period of hesitance and awkwardness.
Now his manor was filled with laughter during the days. The playful shriek followed by a delightful laughter echoing through the corridors. The pattering of little feet and the gentle chides around the corner. The sprinkle of colour between the throw pillows to the drawings on the fridge.
Bruce might’ve not been familiar with it before, but now he couldn’t ever go back to coming home to quiet solitude.
Coming home was now a whirlwind of energy and every colour imaginable in every corner of the manor. It was the sound of laughter and the smell of sweet, sugary snacks that he snuck Dick when you weren’t looking. It was the feel of warmth and love, amidst the treasurable chaos.
A/N: I didn’t think I’d get sick this early into this fortnight event. I kept this short and sweet for that reason. I’m so sorry, but I’ll try and catch on by day ten! Thank you for reading!
Summary: Dick knew when to love you loudly and when to love you silently.
Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader
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Dick loved loudly.
He made proclamations of his undying devotion to you in the middle of the streets when you walked back from dates. He kissed your hand and twirled you in the kitchen, even if you two were hosting a dinner party. He made it his goal to somehow worm you into every aspect of his conversations.
All his friends and coworkers had heard all about you in chunks of information. Every time he introduced you to his friends, they would have already known everything important about you.
His family would always tell you that Dick wouldn’t stop talking about you. Stephanie thought it was cute while Jason rolled his eyes with a groan. But they all loved you anyway.
Dick loved loud and proud, but there were days when he knew you didn’t need that. Soft days where all you needed was to be seen. More specifically, seen by him.
Sometimes you need small bits of love. A little bit of love here and there. Not all together.
This morning, he started with coffee.
You were running late for work after the electricity went out last night and powered off your alarm clock. It was old school, but you loved that clock. You had freshened up, skipping half of your morning routine which Dick knew was something you wouldn’t like.
He brewed coffee and made it exactly the way you liked it. “Sweetheart?” He called out gently, not too loud. He didn’t want to overwhelm you more than you already were.
“Coming!” You pulled on your coat, running back and forth from the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen.
“Here.” Dick poured the coffee into a travel mug and slid it across the counter. While you were grabbing papers from the coffee table from last night, Dick slid a little note into your purse. He knew you wouldn’t see it until you were settled down at work, but he didn’t need to know how you would bite your lip, relax, and maybe blush.
You quickly grabbed your laptop and slid it into the purse. “Okay, I’ve got my stuff and thank you.” You held up the mug before leaning in for a sweet peck.
Dick let the kiss linger until you pulled away. “I love you, sweetheart.” He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I love you, too,” you murmured before you glanced at the clock on the wall. You quickly pulled away and pulled on your shoes. “Okay, gotta go. Bye! Love you!”
Dick gave a small wave that you missed in your haste to leave. He smiled. He loved you, loudly and silently.
Warnings: fluff, sexual innuendos, reader could be seen as neurodivergent
Summary: You have a habit of hiding Jason’s things.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader
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“Hey, babe?” Jason called out from the front door, rummaging through the coat closet. He checked for the third time before making his way through the apartment. “Have you seen my black leather, one with the broken zipper?”
You peeked out from the kitchen and shook your head. “Nope,” you replied with a pop.
Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly at that.
You only ever said nope when it was a definite yes, but you didn’t want to tell him.
This wasn’t the first time you stole and hid one of his jackets, shoes, or even his helmet. He knew you hated when he left. Whether that be on patrol as Red Hood or when he left for boys’ night—like tonight.
You darted back into the kitchen. Jason trudged into the kitchen—with his boots on, which he knew would annoy you.
“Baby?” He drawled out in that tone that made the base of your spine tingle. He used it every time he wanted something from you.
Your eyes flickered up to him and then back to your dinner. You were making yourself some plain pasta and mixing salad for the side. The aversion of your gaze made his brows raise in amusement.
“Where’s my jacket?” He asked again, coming to a stop beside you. You hadn’t even chastised him for keeping his boots on. You were definitely hiding his jacket.
You cleared your throat and shrugged. “I don’t know. How would I know? I don’t put your jackets away. Why can’t you find it?” You were rambling.
Such a pretty little liar.
But a bad one.
Jason sighed and kissed your temple. “Where is it, baby?” He asked slowly, planting kisses down your cheek and jaw, making his way to just behind your ear. He grazed your pulse point with his teeth.
Your breath hitched. “I don’t—I don’t know, Jay, and—”
“Come on, you little minx,” he mumbled against your skin, leaning down and kissing the nape of your neck. “Tell me where it is, baby.”
Summary: Bucky knows just how to appreciate what he has with you.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
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Bucky came home late at night. He toed off his shoes and placed them on the rack.
He had long learned that you liked things tidy and he hated watching you have to do it yourself. Something about you doing the chores around the house, especially dirty ones, bugged him.
He didn’t interfere when you did clean, though.
He let you broom and mop when you wanted to. He came to your side when you soaped and rinsed the dishes, already grabbing a dish towel to dry them. He held the ladder when you changed lightbulbs and he gave you the tools when you fixed things.
But those instances were rare now.
After those first few tugs at his heart, he started doing the chores for you. He started slow. He didn’t want to overstep and make you think he thought you were incapable.
Now, a year and some months later, he did all the dirty chores when he was home. From sweeping to lightbulbs changing to taking out the trash. You cleaned the kitchen counters and tidied around the house, but he liked it best when you simply organized.
He didn’t stop you from doing anything, though. He just did the work before you had to.
He tiptoed into the kitchen to grab a snack before he headed up the stairs of the brownstone house you two had bought. It was in a small town, filled with people who cherished you almost as much as he cherished you.
Whenever you had the time, you spent it working within the community for the community.
You signed up for the weekend daycare, a set up for the parents who had to work the weekends in town. A small town meant that there were people who were always working. The weekend daycare was fully town-funded program with some donations here and there.
You were always the first to arrive to the farmers market, helping the elderly and the young set up. You were always there, a sweet smile on your face and a warm touch. You never complained and listened to the farmers intently. They adored you to bits.
Bucky opened the bedroom door quietly, trying not to wake you. But you weren’t asleep.
You were propped up against the headboard, reading another book. You looked up when Bucky came in.
You smiled.
He smiled back.
“Hey, angel,” Bucky murmured softly, the comfortable atmosphere making him want to keep it. He liked these quiet moments where a smile was more than enough to convey feelings. “Book’s that good, huh?”
“It is,” you replied in a soft voice. Your eyes raked over his body, evidently looking for any sort of bruise or cut. Even though he had stopped field work and started training rookies, you still had that habit. Just in case.
“I’ll take a shower and then get in bed,” he said, walking over to your side to kiss your hair. He inhaled the scent of your sweet shampoo and conditioner before pulling away. He felt calmer already.
You hummed. “Don’t take too long,” you said before you glanced up at him. Your eyes were enough to pierce his heart, his chest aching in a way that made his cheeks burn.
After all this time, all these years, he still felt like a schoolboy with a crush.
When he looked at you, all he could see was his angel.
Warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of death/bruises/cuts/blood, established relationship
Summary: You forget the most important part of letting Bruce go.
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader
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Your fingers worked up Bruce’s armour, pulling the last of the buckles tight. You didn’t glance up just yet—as usual. You always tried not to look up until he donned the cowl so you could let him go.
It was a bittersweet thing.
You adored him for being the protector Gotham so desperately needed. Every time someone mentioned Batman and his accomplishments, you had this proud feeling spread throughout your body. A smile would be on your face the moment you the news reported about Batman’s saves of the months.
On the other hand, you were very well aware that any night could be the last night you kissed him goodbye. Every night he came home with bruises and cuts, sometimes worse than the others. You played the waiting game every night, sitting in your shared bedroom and watching the news for any mention of Batman.
Because, as much as he was Batman, he was also your Bruce.
You patted his chest and finally looked up at him. “There you go,” you murmured, your eyes flickering between his. The cowl was pulled over half his face now, his jaw and eyes on display. Sometimes even you could see the difference between Bruce Wayne and the Batman.
You stepped back, grabbing the comms and handing them to him. You waited for him to put them in before you crossed your arms.
This was when he was supposed to leave.
But he didn’t. He stayed where he was, expectantly waiting for something you couldn’t remember. He hooked his fingers in your belt hoops and tugged you closer.
That was a Bruce move, not Batman.
You tilted your head. “What?” You asked with a raised brow. Your hands came up to rest on his biceps.
Bruce made a noncommittal noise.
You gave him a look.
“You forgot,” he noted with a small smirk. He leaned down. “My kiss of luck.”
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but your giggle gave away your amusement. You leaned up, going up on your tiptoes, and kissed him sweetly.
Summary: Dick doesn’t understand how Jason understands you.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader
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Dick’s eyes raked over your form as you engaged in a conversation with Cass and Stephanie. At least, you were engaged in your own way, slipping nods and hums. He sipped his drink as he turned back to Jason, who, in his usual fashion, was glaring at Dick for looking at you like that—assessing and calculating.
Dick raised his hands, the whiskey sloshing in his glass and dripping onto the tips of his fingers. “I was just wondering—”
Jason cut him off. “Choose your words carefully,” he warned, his rough voice enough to make others cower. But this was Dick he was talking to. Dick grinned and tilted his head your way.
“She doesn’t talk much,” he stated, letting his hands slip down. He sipped his drink again, his blue eyes glittering with both amusement and curiosity. “How does that—how do you make that work?”
Jason felt his chest tighten with protection, the need to defend you.
Dick sensed the tension and shook his head. “Not like it’s a bad thing. I’m just curious.” He shrugged. “Me and Kori can’t keep quiet. Versus you and her who don’t talk.”
Jason swallowed down his retorts and nodded slowly. He could appreciate Dick to simply trying to understand. Jason didn’t say anything for a while and Dick didn’t repeat himself, giving Jason time to think.
You didn’t talk much.
You had always been gentle, too kind, and much more sweet than anyone needed you to be. You were the type of person that people wanted to smile at, wanted advice from, and wanted to be around.
You had a way with words when you did speak, carefully constructed to communicate with the other person. Never condescendingly. Always with a smile. You spent your whole life being the good the city needed and Jason was more than happy to be your words.
“Her eyes tell me everything,” Jason finally spoke, his gaze turning back up to meet Dick’s.
Reader will be used with she/her pronouns in instances where it’ll be needed.
I’m getting back to writing again and I need this to start.
All fics are meant to be short drabbles (I may get carried away with some, but that's a few between). Some listed fics may be changed in the future if plans don’t work out.
The ones I miss/missed will be posted by the end of February, but I'm hoping to keep on schedule. Thank you for reading!
Edit: I have not finished and will definitely be finishing this before the year ends. I’m sorry for the delay, but I’m really trying to get back into writing for you guys. [04.05.26]
