VIOLENT DELIGHTS
SUMMARY: bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath. (but don’t save him! he is exactly where he wants to be).
PARING: grumpy!reader x lovesick!bucky
WORD COUNT: 2.7k
WARNINGS: lovesick!bucky, bucky is an idiot in love, fluff, weapons, suggestive comments, no use of y/n.
NOTE: it’s always grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader. i thought i’d switch it up ;) i’m not too sure how i feel about this tbh, but if i stare at it anymore i’ll go crazy </3
If someone was to tell Bucky Barnes two years ago that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who was all flirty smiles, baked cookies and wore pretty pastel sundresses, respectfully?
He would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
Now, if they were to tell that same Bucky Barnes that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who threw knives for sport and had the permanent expression of I’m going to kill you and enjoy doing it on her face?
. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.
The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.
Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.
It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.
There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.
You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.
“You good?” You ask simply.
Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.
He was doomed from the very start.
———
After your first encounter, he kept running into you.
In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.
Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.
This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.
“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.
“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.
He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.
The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.
And to his surprise? You say okay.
He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"
You shrug, "Sure, why not."
His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."
Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.
The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.
You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.
"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."
"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"
Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.
———
Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.
Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.
Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't.
You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.
You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.
And he. . . doesn’t do anything.
Brain short circuits.
Bucky.exe has stopped working.
What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.
“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.
“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”
You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”
Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”
You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.
Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.
All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?
He’ll never win.
———
You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.
“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”
Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.
A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”
“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”
Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones.
"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.
"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.
"He's trying to get under your skin."
"He's annoying."
"Aggravatingly so."
You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.
"Bucky?" You say softly.
That tone of voice is never good.
That tone of voice means he's in trouble.
He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting.
Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"
You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"
His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"
You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"
Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes.
He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."
You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"
Bucky doesn't say a word.
You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.
The look on your face says he's fucked up.
"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.
"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?"
He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."
You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.
"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."
At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.
"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."
Bucky nods solemnly.
"I did."
"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"
"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"
You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"
"I just— I missed the red sock!"
"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"
"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"
You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.
You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.
He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.
Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there.
Love.
And it's for him.
And isn't that something special in itself?
"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."
You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.
"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”
"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.
He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt.
Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.
Everything the two of you deserved to be.
"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.
"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."
"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."
You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."
You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight.
If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.
He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest.
Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.
Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.
But for right now? You can settle for this.
———
Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.
Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.
Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.
In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.
It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour.
Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.
Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.
"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.
That alone could've made him melt.
His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep.
Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more.
He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.
———
You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.
He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.
Bucky sighs wistfully.
Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.
“She’s doing her job, Buck.”
Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”
“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.
Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.
You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side.
He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.
"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.
You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."
"What about me?"
"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.
"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.
And that's for him.
When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."
Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.
There's no place he'd rather be.
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