bucky barnes has to get glasses...
bucky barnes x fem!reader - established relationship | I have no idea why this idea popped into my head. Anyway, I love a man in glasses | divider credit to the talented @saradika-graphics
content warnings: a bit steamy, but no smut! | word count: <1k.
“I can’t read the plate.”
That’s how the whole thing started. On a stakeout mission, Bucky realised that he was struggling to decipher the numbers and letters on the registration plate of some banged up Ford they were tracking. A once-over in the med bay then led to a referral to an optician, and Bucky Barnes - the feared assassin, once Russia’s omnipotent ghost - was prescribed glasses.
He knew he was getting older. Hell, he was older. There had been the occasional grey hair popping up in the scruff of his beard that you teased him for endlessly. His back ached after missions and workouts, and whilst his stamina still triumphed over any regular man’s, Bucky knew he was slower than before. But the glasses felt like someone had smacked the label ‘geriatric’ on his forehead and handed him a zimmerframe. And so, he wore them sparingly. He reluctantly put them on during missions and did his best to block out Yelena’s unnecessary comments. He dug them out to watch television with you in the evenings, and slipped them on to read in bed. Because yes, not only did Bucky need glasses for long distance, but the optician realised that reading glasses would also be rather handy. Two types of glasses. He wondered if he should expect his pension in the mail soon.
To Bucky’s left, he hears you turn the page in your book. It’s nearly ten o’clock at night and the two of you are cosy in bed - the duvet pulled up to the waist - with nothing but bedside lamps to light the pages. In your hand is the latest autobiography you’d swiped at the store, and in Bucky’s is a file review for the next mission he was due to leave for next week. Despite the glasses, it’s hard to focus on such a boring read. Bucky wonders if you feel the same as he hears you promptly close the book and return to the bedside table. The sheets rustle as you shift closer to him, and with a featherlight touch, your lips ghost his neck.
“M’reading,” he mumbles. You hum, soft like a cat’s purr.
“Looks boring.”
“It is,” he agrees, eyes never wavering from the page. You leave another kiss, this time lingering, your breath hot and tantalising against his skin. His eyes close with a small sigh.
“I can think of more interesting things to do,” you murmur, followed by a third kiss. Bucky glances at you.
“Oh yeah?”
Your smile is coy. “Oh yeah.”
As your hand slips up and along the back of his neck, massaging out the kinks from the day, Bucky’s allows himself a moment to revel in the feel of your touch. What was once fleeting kisses is now an assault on his neck. Tender and teasing, the rough scrape of teeth soothed by the brush of tongue and lips. Something between a groan and a hum leaves Bucky and he can feel your smile against his jugular.
“I should really read this,” he says, resolve already breaking.
“Read it later.”
“Okay,” Bucky replies. The folder slams closed and his lips are on yours in an instant. Between heady kisses he mumbles, “twist my arm, why don’t you?”
You giggle against his mouth, fingers slipping into his hair. The folder topples onto the ground as you climb into his lap, legs straddling his waist, and Bucky takes his time painting a tapestry on your neck. A beautiful arrangement of hickeys and lovebites that you can lecture him for tomorrow. Things that start off innocent often devolve into debauchery. Bucky likes you on your back. You’re all smiles and giggles, breathless and pitchy with moans, and Bucky thinks he likes you best like this. Soft and warm, cosy in your shared bed. As he reaches up to take off his glasses, your hand catches his wrist.
“Can you leave them on?”
“Leave them on?” Bucky checks, brow crinkling.
“Yeah,” you say, your smile turning shy. “I think they’re sexy.”
Bucky can feel the surprise on his face. “You do?”
“Oh yeah,” you breathe, nodding. It's genuine, the desperation in your voice, the heady look in your eyes gazing at him like he was oiled up and fresh from a shower. Your finger traces the curve of his jaw. “Very sexy.”
Bucky smirks. “Well, in that case...” He wastes little time to reconnect his lips to yours.
After that, Bucky Barnes is a man who wears glasses religiously, even at the times he doesn’t need to.
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