synopsis: Every two months, like clockwork, Tony "breaks up" with you over something ridiculous. However, you stopped taking it seriously about four breakups ago and now just consider it part of the routine that comes with dating him.
“THAT’S IT. WE’RE DONE.”
Tony’s voice rang across the workshop, vibrating off the concrete walls and the shiny, definitely-too-expensive gadgets. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up from your phone. Instead, you calmly replied:
“Cool. So you want your stuff back or should I leave it in the dresser like last time?”
Tony blinked. “That’s it? No tears? No dramatic plea for forgiveness?”
You slid your phone into your pocket, finally glancing up. “It’s been two months, babe. You’re due for one of your classic ‘we’re over because you stole the last energy drink in the fridge’ tantrums.”
“That was my energy drink!”
“It expired two weeks ago.”
He sputtered. “It was aged! Like wine! Do you know what kind of conditions it takes to ferment—”
You raised a brow. “Tony, it was Monster.”
Silence.
Then a grumble.
Tony turned away, grabbing a wrench and muttering under his breath something about betrayal and domestic sabotage. You didn’t bother engaging further, he’d sulk for an hour or two, then show up at your apartment with flowers and a half apology about how your “cruelty only makes him love you more.”
Except this time, he took a little longer than usual to rebound.
And that meant you, unbothered and probably a little too used to the drama, went on with your day like normal. Grocery store first. Oat milk, pasta, something green you’d probably forget in the fridge. You were halfway down the aisle when you got that familiar prickle between your shoulder blades. The unmistakable sensation of being observed.
You ignored it.
Because if Tony Stark had decided to dramatically follow you after declaring your relationship over for the fifth time this year, that was frankly his problem.
You paid, left, and took a short walk through the park, earbuds in, phone out, scrolling mindlessly. You didn’t notice the sleek black Audi rolling past twice, or the man in sunglasses pretending very badly to be interested in a tree. Tony, meanwhile, was absolutely not spiraling. He was just keeping an eye on things.
Which was reasonable.
Perfectly reasonable.
Because what if you were sad? What if you were crying in public? What if you were being hit on by someone who didn’t understand your complicated, deeply meaningful history with a genius billionaire who broke up with you over an energy drink?
That last thought made his jaw clench.
So when he saw you stop outside a café, and then brighten visibly when someone called your name, Tony slowed his car to a crawl.
Oh.
Oh no.
A foreign man's hand lingered on your shoulder for 3 seconds before you two disappeared inside. Hell nah. Tony abandoned the car halfway parked and stormed into the café like a man on a mission fueled by jealousy, caffeine withdrawal, and poor emotional regulation.
“Oh, wow,” your friend said, blinking as Tony materialized beside your table like a summoned demon. “Is that—”
“Yes,” you deadpanned, not even looking surprised. “Hi, Tony.”
He didn’t return the greeting. He stared your friend down like he was mentally calculating how hard it would be to launch him into low orbit before turning to you. “Having a great time, huh?” he said coolly, arms crossed. “So easy to move on. God. It’s like I never even mattered.”
You took a slow sip of your iced coffee. “Weren’t you the one who broke up with me?”
“Semantics.”
“You screamed ‘WE’RE DONE’ and threw a screwdriver at the wall.”
“It was an act of passion.” Tony snapped before he turned back to your friend James. “You flirt with everyone’s exes or just mine?”
“I—uh—I didn’t know he was—”
“HE IS,” Tony barked, pointing between you and himself. “Very much he is.”
You offered James an apologetic smile. “Sorry. This happens sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Tony echoed, offended. “This is not a sometimes situation. This is a rebound-in-progress.”
“I’m not rebounding,” you said mildly. “I’m simply drinking coffee with an old friend."
“Yeah, sure,” He shot back immediately, sarcasm dripping. “And my name isn’t Tony Stark. Do you honestly think dressing up like that doesn’t give people the wrong idea?”
You glanced down at yourself. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers. “…Tony,” you said, patient to the point of comedy, “this hoodie is older than our relationship.”
“That does not make it less provocative,” he snapped back immediately. “If anything, it makes it worse. It says ‘I’m comfortable.’ Comfortable people are dangerous.”
James, poor doomed James, let out a weak chuckle. “I really wasn’t trying to—”
“Oh, I know,” Tony interrupted, waving a hand dismissively without even looking at him. “You were just being nice. Casual. Friendly. Probably about to say something like, ‘Wow, you look great, want to catch up sometime?’ And then what? Then it’s texts. Then it’s inside jokes. Then suddenly I’m the unhinged ex who ‘overreacted.’”
You blinked. “You are the unhinged ex who overreacted.”
“That’s not the point.”
Tony stepped closer to you, lowering his voice like he was letting you in on a secret. “You can’t just sit there, all relaxed, laughing, letting people touch your arm like it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything,” he insisted. “That’s the arm I hold when you fall asleep. That’s my arm-adjacent territory.”
You turned to James with a smile. “See? This is why I don’t react anymore.”
“Oh, so now I’m background noise!?”
“More like white noise,” you said thoughtfully. “Familiar. Predictable.”
He gasped. “That is devastating.”
You sighed and finally reached out, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. Not to placate him, but to ground him. “So, are we still broken up or do you want to get back together?"
“…Getting back together,” Tony said reluctantly. “But I’m still mad.”
“Noted.”
He took your hand instantly, possessive and relieved all at once, pulling you toward the door. As you passed your friend, Tony paused just long enough to sneer. “Chad the Home wrecker.”
summary : Bruce Wayne always imagined what it would be like if one of his children's biological parents would try to take them back. He just didn't think one of them would be Tony Stark.
word count : 0.8k
type : imagines
pairing/s involved : Bruce Wayne x Adopted! Reader, Tony Stark x Biological! Reader
warning/s : none.
here is my masterlist!
Bruce Wayne stalked you before he adopted you.
The perfect start for a heartwarming father-child tale.
You were just a feral raccoon on Gotham's streets, pickpocketing to live another day but with style.
Because unlike the average street rat, you were apparently a tech genius with pocket-sized armory, and zero regard for safety or legal patents.
OSHA violations? You were the OSHA violation.
Bruce noticed immediately.
He has radar for troubled orphans with violent hobbies.
Especially the ones who built an illegal lab out of garbage in an abandoned building like it was a goddamn science fair.
You tried to be sneaky with the voice modulator and suit disguise.
But the man's adopted enough traumatized kids to know exactly how tall you are, your likely BMI, and how old you probably act after trauma number twenty-seven.
Besides, if your tech landed in the wrong hands? Yikes.
Better Bruce's creepy parent surveillance than Joker's Saturday night plans.
"Wow, lucky me. Gotham's brooding bat takes an interest. You got a thing for orphans or what?"
"I am one."
"Oh shit. Sorry."
You got scooped up into the Wayne's Disaster Shelter.
Dick was overjoyed (as usual).
Jason bro-fisted you and said, "Street rat survival team, assemble!"
Tim adored the free nerd competition.
You bribed Cass with sign language and helped Damian upgrade his murder gadgets (Bruce: "Only non-lethal, I swear to God.").
Alfred loved you like his own but also wanted to strangle you every time you exploded something in the manor and then politely help clean it up with tea and cookies.
And Bruce? Legally your father now.
For security reasons, of course. And emotional ones he won’t admit because he's made entirely of shadows and bad coping skills.
But then Tony Stark happened.
Gala Night: Rich People Pretend They Care™.
Bruce in full playboy mode. Tony in full party gremlin one. The Bat kids hiding in various corners eating free shrimp.
Tony meets you. Calls you Wayne’s "newest collectible action figure."
Ha ha.
But then you banter back. Same sarcasm. Same smugness. Same self-sabotaging charm. Tony froze. Not funny anymore.
Bruce’s eye twitches every time Tony breathes near you.
You both have the same mannerisms. The same smart-ass grin. The same way of dodging personal questions like Olympic champions of emotional deflection.
Tony knew. Deep in his drunken, guilty billionaire gut: Oh no. Mine.
Cue late-night JARVIS hacking montage.
Files, orphanage records, street crime reports, horrifying childhood summaries that feel like Tony's cave trauma but worse.
Built a secret scrap lab like a teenage Iron Man Jr. School genius. Criminal record. Charmer of the press. Tactical flirting. Oh God they’re actually mine.
The guilt spiral became worse. "My maybe kid became Gotham’s feral tech goblin because I wasn’t there. Holy shit, I suck."
JARVIS' voice echoed through the lab. "Sir, emotionally unhealthy levels detected."
"JARVIS, put on my latest Spotify playlist."
"The one labeled 'Daddy Issues', Mr. Stark?"
Tony began to sob. "Yes."
Told Pepper. Told Rhodes. Told Happy.
"Lemme guess. You're gonna drunk-crash Wayne Manor and demand a paternity test?" Rhodes asked, deadpan.
"Correction: fully drunk—"
"No." Pepper interrupted. "We're doing this civilly."
"Civil to the man who dresses like a furry bat?"
"TONY."
Bruce ignored all of Tony’s cryptic "sooo hypothetically…" texts for a week straight because he knew exactly where this drama train was going.
Meanwhile, you? You laughed.
"Wow. Adopted by one billionaire, fathered by another. I'm so blessed. Somebody get me a third sugar daddy for the collection."
"I know a guy." Jason smirked, making eye contact with Damian.
"I offer Grandfather!" The young boy raised his hand. "Or Mother, if you prefer women."
But that night? You cried into Dick’s shoulder until you passed out, because what the hell even is your life anymore?
Happy? Furious? Running away to Metropolis? Maybe Clark Kent needs another child.
The manor went dead quiet.
Sarcasm and jokes were replaced by awkward coughs and therapy recommendations.
Formal meeting day arrived: you, Bruce, Alfred, Tony, Pepper.
All pretending this was normal and not a weird custody divorce hearing.
Double paternity tests (Stark AND Wayne labs because billionaires trust no one).
Tony, for once in his life, tried sincerity:
"Hey... Look. I'm not here to screw things up. If you're mine, I wanna make it right. Please."
"Do I get the Malibu penthouse?"
"I'll give you the world." Dead serious. Collective awkward silence follows.
They wanted to keep it secret.
Good luck. The media pounced like starving wolves. "WAYNE’S NEW KID ACTUALLY STARK’S LOVE CHILD???"
The Internet exploded.
Memes. Fanfics. Conspiracy threads. Elon tried to adopt you using a tweet.
Your life was hell.
Bruce and Tony tried to sue everyone. Alfred began pouring whiskey in his tea.
"Don't worry," Tim said. "If the tests are negative, this all goes away."
Sure. But everyone knew the truth already.
And when the test came back positive?
You just closed your eyes and sighed.
Long. Painful.
Like you aged 300 years in a second.
Tony spoke up first, beaming. "...So, Disneyland?"
"No, but I take cash."
"Noted."
Congratulations.
You're officially the multiverse’s weirdest, most exhausted child.
a fic about that thing when you get sleepy around the person you love.
WARNINGS/TAGS: reader is a shield agent, reader's gender is unspecified, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff/soft, the space between friends and something more
Turns out insomnia can be cured, only with very specific ingredients.
One: have Sam Wilson insist on watching Top Gun—again—when it comes his turn for a movie night pick.
This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.
Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.
“This is the last time, Sam!”
But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.
Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.
Two: find a comfortable surface.
The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.
Three: be extremely tired.
The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.
Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.
Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.
Four:
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.
Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.
“Comfy?”
Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.
He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.
You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.
The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.
“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”
Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.
What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.
The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.
That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.
And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.
He smells good.
That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.
Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.
Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.
By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.
─ ·✶· ─
When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.
It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.
Your skin feels warm.
It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.
How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.
Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.
It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.
“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.
He hums back. “Morning.”
“Uh… What happened?”
It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.
“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”
The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.
“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”
He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.
“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”
You blink, taken aback.
“You slept well?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”
Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.
Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?
“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.
Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.
“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”
The second time happens two weeks later.
The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.
It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.
You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.
After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.
Fatigue creeps in.
Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.
Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.
And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.
Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.
But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.
A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…
…is he alright?
Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.
You can no longer move.
Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.
His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.
Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.
But never like this.
It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.
Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.
She’s already smirking.
You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.
Might as well get some shut-eye.
─ ·✶· ─
“Hey.”
You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.
“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.
“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”
You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”
You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.
You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.
At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.
Steve starts it.
“I’ll take the couch.”
You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”
“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”
He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.
You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”
Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”
“Then take the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“The couch.”
“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”
“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”
He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.
Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.
Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.
Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.
Which leads you to this point in time:
Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.
The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.
Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.
His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.
You can’t remember.
He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.
You’re counting.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shift from your side to your back.
“You caught me. You?”
He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.
“Same.”
You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.
“Does it happen often?” you ask.
He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”
You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.
“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”
He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.
He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.
You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.
Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.
“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”
He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.
You finally tell him.
“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”
Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.
Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.
On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.
You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.
They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.
But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.
Yet it tastes familiar.
Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?
What on earth does he see in you?
You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.
“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”
His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.
Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.
But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.
To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.
It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.
You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.
How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?
A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.
“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.
“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”
“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.
Your lullaby.
You don’t know he falls asleep right after.
─ ·✶· ─
Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.
Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.
It reminds him of sunflowers.
Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.
Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.
You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.
You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.
What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?
What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?
You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.
Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.
This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.
When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.
Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.
The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.
He allows himself one final thing.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.
Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.
The fourth time happens because you ask for it.
He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.
Wide awake on page 257.
Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.
Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.
He opens the door to see you.
The sight tears him two ways.
You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.
It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.
“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.
He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.
“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”
You part your lips, deliberating.
“I can’t sleep.”
It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.
He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.
Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.
He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.
You finally find the words.
“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”
He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.
He swallows. “Me, too.”
In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.
But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.
And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.
Every night.
“Can I please sleep with you?”
You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.
“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”
“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”
You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”
“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.
Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”
You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.
He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.
You don’t climb into the bed until he does.
“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.
You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.
“It’s not a blankie.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”
He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”
That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.
But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.
That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.
The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.
Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”
There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.
Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.
“Can I hold you?”
He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.
You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.
So he doesn’t answer with words.
His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.
There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.
How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.
For once, he doesn’t give a damn.
He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.
You bring him both.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.
You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.
“Thank you.”
I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.
So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.
He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.
Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.
For now, he allows himself one small thing.
He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.
Each bearing a promise.
There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.
Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.
A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.
He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.
taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie
my first time writing steve...... and i broke my self-imposed ban of no writing in april for him with this idea....... if it's balls, lie to my face
pairing: pirate!bucky x mermaid!reader
summary: After saving a pirate from drowning, you spend more days together than planned. You grow closer, and what was meant to be a short stay becomes harder to leave.
word count: 7.1k
warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, doomed tenderness, pirates & mermaids, ocean imagery, fantasy elements
a/n: salt & steel playlist, in case you're feeling it
Mermaids were not meant to love the surface.
That was the first law, older than coral, older than language. It was sung into the sea long before ships learned to cut through it — woven into the currents, carved into bone and salt.
Do not bind your heart to those who breathe air.
Do not linger where the moon pulls you upward.
Do not save what the sea has chosen to take.
You had broken all three.
The sea had always been kinder to you than the shore.
Down where the water darkened into a deep, endless blue, nothing demanded answers from you. The currents didn’t ask why you lingered near the surface some nights. The coral didn’t care that your heart beat faster whenever cannons thundered overhead. And the fish — sweet, oblivious creatures — never noticed how you paused whenever ships cut shadows through the moonlit water.
You told yourself it was curiosity.
You told yourself it was boredom.
You told yourself it wasn’t loneliness.
But when the storm broke above you — violent, sudden, cruel — you felt it in your bones.
Wood splintered. Metal screamed. Men shouted prayers they didn’t believe in.
You rose cautiously, silver tail glinting faintly as lightning tore the sky apart. And then you saw him. He fell overboard without ceremony, swallowed by the black water like the sea had been waiting just for him.
You didn’t hesitate.
You swam hard, arms slicing through the water as waves crashed overhead. He was sinking fast — heavy boots, soaked coat, one arm limp at his side. His hair floated around his face like ink in water, and when lightning flashed again, you caught a glimpse of his expression.
Not fear.
Resignation.
That hurt more than the blood blooming from his shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him, bracing your strength against the pull of the depths. He was heavier than you expected — solid, warm, real — and when his head lolled against your shoulder, you felt the faintest brush of breath against your neck.
Still alive.
“Don’t you dare,” you muttered, voice lost to the water. “Not like this.”
The sea embraced you both, quieting the chaos above until all that remained was the rhythm of your movements and the slow, stubborn beat of his heart.
When Bucky Barnes woke, the first thing he felt was warmth.
Not the suffocating heat of fever or the sting of pain — but something steady. Comforting. A hand brushing his hair back from his forehead with a care he didn’t recognize.
He tried to move and hissed softly instead.
“Easy,” a voice said.
Soft. Low. Not mocking. Not afraid.
His eyes fluttered open.
The cave glowed faintly with bioluminescent algae, painting the stone walls in blues and greens and kneeling beside him was—
He froze.
You watched him carefully, hands still, eyes wide but calm. You were half-submerged, tail curled beneath the surface, iridescent scales catching the light every time you shifted. Your upper half was unmistakably human — bare shoulders, damp hair clinging to your skin — but there was no mistaking what you were.
“Okay,” he rasped. “Either I’m dead… or this is the worst head injury I’ve ever had.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“I could say the same,” you replied. “Pirates don’t usually fall out of the sky where I’m from.”
He blinked at you, then let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “The only reason I know I’m not dead,” he said softly, “is that heaven wouldn’t have me. And yet you’re standing right here.”
You hesitated, tracing a ripple in the water with your fingertips, before shaking your head faintly. “You don’t look like someone heaven’s given up on.”
He swallowed, gaze dropping to your hands for a moment before meeting your eyes again “You saved me,” he said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You looked away, fingers trailing through the water. “Because you were drowning.”
“…Thank you,” he said quietly and you caught him staring.
Not in the way men sometimes did — not careless, not entitled — but with a curiosity so carefully contained it almost hurt to look at. His gaze wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t cruel. It was like he was trying to memorize something fragile before it vanished.
“You know…” you said gently, fingers brushing the surface of the water, “you can ask.”
He startled, heat rushing to his face. “A–ask?”
He cleared his throat. “Ask what?”
Instead of answering, you leaned back slightly and lifted your tail from the water, scales catching the light as they broke the surface — just enough. Just a glimpse. Not an invitation. A question.
His breath hitched before he could stop it.
“You’re curious,” you said, not unkindly.
“I—” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t want to be rude.”
Something in your expression softened at that.
Most men never bothered to be careful.
“I’d tell you if you were,” you replied. “You’re not.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking away and then back, clearly warring with himself.
“…Does it hurt?” he asked finally, quiet and sincere. “Being out of the water like that.”
Your smile was small. Real.
You blinked. “That’s your question?”
He shrugged helplessly. “Seemed safer than asking if it’s slippery.”
You burst out laughing.
“Okay,” you admitted, wiping at your eyes, “that one would’ve been rude.”
“Good to know,” he said, smiling now — really smiling — like he’d just passed some invisible test.
“But no. It doesn’t hurt.” You sank a little deeper into the water, still amused. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t mind. Not when it’s like this.”
“Like what?”
“Curious,” you said. “Not greedy.”
He nodded, like he’d just agreed to something important. “I can do curious.”
There was a beat.
Then he ruined it.
“So—” he began, too fast, too casual. “Do you… shed?”
Silence.
The sea stilled.
Your eyebrows climbed your forehead. “I’m sorry?”
He froze. Absolutely froze. “I— that came out wrong.”
You crossed your arms, trying very hard not to smile. “Please,” you said. “Explain.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I meant— like— sharks shed teeth, right? And snakes shed skin. And you have scales, so I just thought maybe—” He stopped himself, mortified. “Okay. I should stop talking.”
You stared at him for a long second.
Then you laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not a quiet one. The kind that shakes your shoulders and bubbles up uncontrollably until you have to dunk your face into the water to breathe.
“Oh my god,” you managed between laughs. “No. I do not shed.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Thank god.”
“I molt,” you added sweetly.
His eyes widened. “You’re messing with me.”
“Completely.”
He shook his head, finally laughing too, the sound low and warm. “You’re evil.”
“You asked,” you reminded him.
Bucky decided he needed to get back to the ship the second he realized he couldn’t.
The thought arrived fully formed, sharp and urgent, like instinct snapping into place. He pushed himself upright on the stone ledge, shoulder burning, and looked out past the cave mouth. The island stretched away on either side — pale sand, low palms, rock rising farther inland — before giving way to open water in every direction.
Just water. Endless, glittering water.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “That’s fine. Just need to get my bearings.”
You watched him from the water, chin resting on your folded arms, eyes bright with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Looking for something?” you asked.
“My ship,” he said, like it was obvious. “Crew can’t be far. There was a storm, but—” He squinted harder, as if willing a mast to rise from the sea. “They’ll come back.”
You hesitated. Just a fraction.
“The currents here are… tricky,” you said carefully. “They pull wreckage away from the reef.”
He stared at the water again, jaw tightening. The truth settled slowly, heavily. No sails on the horizon. No smoke. No familiar silhouette cutting through the waves.
“So,” he said after a moment. “I’m stranded.”
You winced. “That sounds worse when you say it like that.”
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “I have a gift.”
He tried to stand again, more stubborn this time. “Easy,” you said, firm now. “You’ll reopen the wound.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t doubt that,” you replied. “But you’re not on a deck with a crew who can stitch you up with rum and bad advice.”
“…I miss the rum,” he sighed.
You laughed and the sound did something strange to him. Settled him. Like the world had tilted into something manageable.
“Well,” you said, tilting your head, “until your ship decides to grow legs and walk back to you, I suppose you’re stuck here.”
He eyed the cave, the glowing water, the very real mermaid in front of him. “Stuck with you.”
You pretended not to notice the way your heart skipped. “I’m excellent company.”
“I’m starting to believe that.”
It didn’t take long for Bucky to make the island his own — the curve of the beach, the rocky cave that became his shelter, the stones that stayed warm in the morning sun. You learned him just as quickly: when he stirred before the dawn, how he flinched at sudden sounds, how he murmured to himself when he thought he was alone, as if the island itself had taught him its secrets.
He kept trying to be useful.
“You don’t need to carry that,” you told him for the third time as he struggled with a bundle of driftwood.
“I’m not helpless.”
“You’re injured.”
He scowled. “Temporary condition.”
You sighed and flicked water at him. “Temporary attitude.”
He spluttered, laughing despite himself. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
You drifted closer, resting your arms against the stone as you watched him finally give up and drop the wood with a grunt.
“You should rest,” you said, softer now. “You’re lucky you still have your arm.”
He glanced down at it, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess I am. A hook wouldn’t really match my… charming personality.”
You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him in deliberate consideration.
“A hook?” You smiled — slow, mischievous. “More likely you’d need a whole metal arm.”
“Well,” he said, flexing his fingers, “Let’s hope I never have to.”
The next morning you surfaced just as the sun rose, tail glinting faintly.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough but tender, forehead still wet from where the water had splashed. “You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“I think,” you teased, letting your hair stick to your cheeks, “you secretly like it.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe I do.”
There was a beat, quiet except for the gentle slap of water against stone. Then he cocked his head, curious. “Do… mermaids always do that?”
“Do what?” you asked, letting your tail swirl lazily beneath the surface.
“This… appear out of nowhere, nearly drowning people, and looking completely unbothered about it,” he said, voice low, half-laughing.
“Only the ones who think humans are interesting,” you replied, smirking.
He exhaled, wet hair plastered to his forehead, gaze flicking to your shoulders before back to your eyes. “…You know,” he murmured, voice low, “it’s unfair. You look too fair to be dangerous.”
You laughed, letting your shoulders rise above the water as you splashed him lightly. “And you look too human to be serious.”
He sputtered, shaking his head, and laughed in return, stepping closer until the cold water swirled around both of you. He complains but never once considers leaving.
You felt the weight of the closeness, and something unspoken in the rhythm between your breaths. “Mermaids can be dangerous,” you said softly, almost as if testing him.
“I can handle danger,” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice steady. “Especially when it looks like you.”
He blinked, realization dawning, and his ears—or wherever his pirate pride resided—turned a shade darker than his wet hair. “…I—did I just say that out loud?”
You arched a brow, tail swishing lazily. “Oh, definitely.”
He ran a hand through his hair, flustered, jaw tight. “Great. Mortified already.”
You laughed, low and teasing, letting the sound ripple across the water. “You know, pirates are supposed to be heartless, mean, terrifying…”
“…And I’m none of those things?” he murmured, voice cracking slightly, eyes flicking away.
You swirled closer, enough that the water lapped between you. “Not here.” you said softly. “Not to me.”
The days that followed took on a strange, gentle rhythm.
You didn’t mean to keep surfacing so close — but it was becoming a habit.
One you only noticed after it was too late, after your head broke the surface and your breath caught at how near you were to the shore. To him.
It had become your favorite thing — the look on his face every time he noticed you. The way surprise flashed across his features before he could hide it, eyes widening just slightly like you’d startled him mid-thought. He never expected you to appear so suddenly.
And every time, it pleased you more than it should have.
This time, though, you realized too late that something was… different.
Bucky was standing at the edge of the waterline.
Shirtless.
Water slid down his skin in thin rivulets, catching in the lines of his chest and tracing scars you hadn’t known were there. His hair was damp, pushed back, and for one terrible, endless second, you forgot how to move.
Or blink.
Or look literally anywhere else.
“Oh—” he said at the same time you ducked slightly lower into the water.
“Sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t mean to— I can— I’ll just—”
You gestured vaguely at the ocean, mortified.
He scrambled just as awkwardly, reaching for the shirt discarded nearby before stopping himself. “No— wait. I mean. It’s fine. You’re fine. I just— usually I hear you first.”
You laughed nervously, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “I’m getting sneakier.”
“Clearly,” he said, glancing at you — then very pointedly not glancing at you — like eye contact might make things worse.
Unfortunately, your own eyes had other plans.
You tried to keep them politely on his face. You really did. But they kept drifting — traitorous — down to his chest, following the rise and fall of his breathing before you yanked your gaze away again.
Heat bloomed in your cheeks.
You cleared your throat. “I didn’t know humans… removed so many layers just to bathe.”
He snorted. “You should see laundry day.”
That did it. You laughed — soft and embarrassed — and finally dared to look at him again.
He was smiling now. A little crooked. A little shy.
“I was just rinsing off,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Salt gets itchy if I don’t.”
You nodded very seriously. “That sounds… uncomfortable.”
“Tragic, really.”
Your eyes dipped again.
You caught yourself this time — barely — and immediately sank a little lower in the water, pretending to inspect something fascinating beneath the surface.
He noticed.
A slow, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “You know,” he said mildly, “most people usually pretend a little harder.”
Your face felt like it was on fire.
“I am pretending,” you muttered. “Very poorly.”
He laughed — soft, surprised — and instinctively sat down closer to the edge, knees bending so his feet brushed the water, bringing himself closer to your level. Close enough that you could feel his warmth even through the water, close enough that your heart started doing ridiculous things.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” your gaze flickered — chest, shoulders, scars — before settling back on his eyes, flustered and entirely unable to hide it now.
“I didn’t expect you,” he added.
You smiled shyly. “I think that’s my fault.”
That evening Bucky sat at the cave’s edge. You floated nearby, half-submerged, hair drifting lazily around your shoulders.
“You ever get tired of this?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “Of what?”
He gestured vaguely. “The sea. The same tides. Same moon. Over and over.”
You considered it. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But then it changes. Storms. New wrecks. New stories.”
He huffed softly. “Figures. Even the ocean has more variety than my life.”
You studied him, really studied him — the lines etched by sun and hardship, the quiet weight he carried like a second skin.
“You don’t have to be in a hurry,” you said gently. “Your ship will find you when it’s meant to.”
He looked at you then, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache.
“…I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
“Maybe,” you said, smiling. “Is it working?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It felt… earned.
You eyed his boots, then tilted your head. “Why do humans wear those?”
He followed your gaze. “Shoes?”
You frowned. “They look like prisons for your feet.”
He laughed. “They protect us.”
“From what?”
“Rocks. Thorns. Sharp things.”
You gestured at the sand and the gentle surf. “Skill issue.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Bucky watched you for a moment longer than necessary.
“Doesn’t it get… heavy?” he asked finally.
You blinked. “Heavy?”
He gestured vaguely at the sea. “Living in it all the time. Carrying it around you.”
You laughed — soft, genuine. “It only feels heavy if you fight it.”
He hummed, thoughtful. Then, quieter: “Figures.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
You drifted backward again, the tide easing you away from the shore.
“Hey,” he said before he could stop himself.
You paused, water lapping gently at your waist. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the distance. “You’re… floating off.”
“I do that.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered “you could warn a guy.”
You smiled, slow and amused, “Or maybe, you could try coming closer.”
“This is a terrible idea,” he said, already crouching to untie his boots.
“Then don’t,” you said lightly.
He didn’t answer. Just stepped into the water, wincing when the cold reached his ankles.
“Cold,” he complained.
“You’re very brave,” you said solemnly.
A wave caught him off balance before he could argue back. He stumbled, cursing, and you laughed—bright and unguarded—as you reached for him.
Your hand found his arm. Steady. Sure.
He went still at the touch, then let out a slow breath.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe this isn’t so bad.”
A small wave rocked you together, your hand brushing his — bare skin to skin.
Neither of you moved away.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused softly.
He huffed, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Don’t ruin it.”
Days passed. Or maybe weeks. Time behaved differently when tides ruled the hours.
Bucky healed slowly. You cleaned his wound, fed him fish and fruit he pretended not to enjoy, and listened to his stories when the nights grew long. He spoke of the sea like it was an enemy and a lover both — treacherous, beautiful, impossible to quit.
He never asked you to let him go.
And you never offered.
Sometimes you sat together at the mouth of the cave, just staring at the horizon. You stayed just below the surface, close enough that he could hear your voice without the echo of water distorting it.
“You miss it,” you said one evening.
He scoffed softly. “Being shot at? Starving? Sleeping with one eye open?”
“Yes,” you replied gently. “That.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“…It’s all I know.”
You nodded, understanding more than he realized.
You became friends in the quiet spaces between words. In shared smiles. In the way he learned to recognize the sound of your approach before you surfaced. In the way you learned his moods by the tension in his shoulders.
And somewhere along the way — without meaning to — you started to want more.
But the sea was not kind to impossible things.
It was late when you realized you were spending more time at the shore than in the ocean. Bucky didn’t even know how many rules you were breaking just by being there. You were supposed to tell him.
But how could you? He laughed easily now — quieter than before, but real — and the sound settled into you like a promise you knew better than to make. He sat on the sun-warmed stone at the cave’s edge, boots dangling uselessly in the water, watching you braid shells into your hair.
“Those mean something?” he asked.
You shrugged, forcing lightness into your voice. “Some do. Some are just… pretty.”
He hummed, unconvinced. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Answer the easy question when you don’t want to answer the real one.”
You stilled.
The sea around you shifted, currents tightening like they always did when you were afraid.
“You’re very perceptive for a pirate,” you said.
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Occupational hazard.”
He waited. Patient. Gentle.
That was the problem.
You exhaled and let your tail sink lower, scales brushing the sand. “Mermaids aren’t supposed to interfere with surface lives.”
His jaw tightened. “And yet—”
“And yet,” you interrupted softly, “we do. Sometimes. Quietly. But never… like this.”
He followed your gaze to where his coat hung drying on a rock. To the bandage you had changed that morning. To the empty place beside him you always filled when the sun dipped low.
“…What happens if you do?” he asked.
You swallowed.
“There are watchers,” you said. “Ancient ones. They listen to the tides the way gods listen to prayer.”
You touched the faint shimmer at your wrist
“They don’t punish curiosity,” you continued. “But love?” Your voice broke. “Love is defiance.”
Bucky stood then, slow, careful not to startle you. He crouched at the water’s edge “Are you saying you’re in danger because of me?”
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
That’s when he saw it.
A faint glow at your wrist.
Not bright. Not constant. Just a subtle shimmer beneath your skin, right where your pulse beat.
He frowned slightly.
“…Does that hurt?”
You stilled.
The water around you shifted, barely perceptible — but he felt it.
“Hurt?” you echoed carefully.
He nodded toward your wrist. “That. It’s… glowing.”
Your fingers curled instinctively, trying to hide it beneath the water.
“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly.
Bucky tilted his head, unconvinced. “You’re bad at lying.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m not lying. I’m… avoiding.”
“That sounds worse.”
You sighed and let your arm sink lower, the glow dimming but not disappearing.
“It’s a tide-mark,” you said softly. “All mermaids have one.”
“And?”
“It’s meant to stay quiet.”
His brow furrowed. “What makes it… not quiet?”
You hesitated.
Then: “The sea notices patterns. Repetition. Attachment.”
The word sat heavy between you.
Bucky’s voice gentled. “Attachment to what?”
You drew in a slow breath. “To the world above the sea,” you said. “That’s how it’s always taught. It’s meant to remind us when we linger too long. When our hearts start reaching for things that don’t belong to the tides.”
The glow at your wrist brightened — just a fraction.
The mark pulsed once.
Stronger.
He went very still.
“Most mermaids never see it,” you said quietly. “They stay where the sea expects them to.”
You tried to smile. It didn’t hold.
“Some see it once,” you whispered. “And they’re smart enough to leave.”
The light at your wrist flared — brighter now, undeniable.
Bucky watched it pulse beneath your skin, jaw tightening as something settled behind his eyes.
“…You’re not leaving.” He studied the mark again, reverent now. Careful. As if it were sacred. As if you were.
His thumb traced the curve of it once — slow, almost worshipful.
And then, before you could stop him —
He bowed his head.
Pressed his lips to your wrist.
The kiss was soft. Barely there. A whisper of warmth that sent a shock straight through you, sharp and dizzying. Your breath left you in a rush. The mark flared faintly beneath his mouth, glowing just enough for him to notice.
He sucked in a breath against your skin.
“…Oh,” he whispered.
You should have pulled away.
You didn’t.
Your free hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing his jaw. You felt the roughness of stubble beneath your fingertips, the tension in the muscle there as he leaned into your touch like he’d been starving for it.
Slowly, unbearably slowly, his gaze lifted to meet yours.
Something shattered in his eyes.
“This is real,” he said, like a confession. Like a vow. Like a realization that terrified him.
“Yes,” you breathed.
That was all it took.
He surged forward — not rough, never rough — and kissed you.
It wasn’t chaste. It wasn’t safe.
It was desperate.
His mouth was warm and searching, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before the world could steal you away. You kissed him back without thinking, without fear, without rules — fingers curling into his shirt, heart breaking open in your chest.
For one perfect, devastating moment, there was nothing else.
The kiss slowed before it ended, like neither of you quite believed in stopping. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breath uneven, fingers warm where they still cupped your wrist.
For a moment, nothing hurt.
Bucky swallowed. His thumb brushed once over the glowing mark, gentler than the kiss had been. “You feel… real,” he said quietly. Like that was something he hadn’t been sure of before.
You smiled — small, foolish. “I am.”
He huffed a soft, almost-laugh through his nose. “Good.” Then, softer, as if saying it too loud might break it: “Then stay.”
The word settled between you. Stay. Not tonight. Not here. Just — stay.
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I don’t do easy,” he replied. “But I do mean it.”
His hand slid from your wrist to your jaw, steady, anchoring. For one dangerous second, you let yourself imagine it — mornings instead of tides, hands instead of currents, a world where the mark faded instead of flared.
You leaned in again, not for another kiss this time, just close enough to feel the warmth of him. “If I stay,” you whispered, “it won’t stop.”
His brow furrowed. “What won’t?”
You lifted his hand back to your wrist.
The light pulsed — once, then brighter. Hungry.
“This,” you said. “It’s not punishment. It’s a warning. It measures how much of me I give to the world above the sea.”
His jaw set. “Then give it, I can take it.” he said without hesitation. “If it’s a warning, we’ll listen to it together.”
That almost broke you.
You leaned forward before you could stop yourself and pressed a kiss to his knuckles — slow, reverent, aching. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark, wrecked, full of things he hadn’t said yet.
“I don’t want to be careful with you,” he admitted quietly.
Your chest tightened. “That’s why I have to be.”
Silence stretched. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. Just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face, like he already knew remembering would hurt.
You let the tide ease you back, just far enough for the air to cool between you. It wasn’t abrupt. It was worse than that. It was careful. Like you were both pretending this wasn’t goodbye — just a pause.
“Come back,” he said, quieter now. Not a command. A plea.
You nodded, because lying felt kinder than the truth.
Then you let the water take you.
Bucky didn’t move. He stood there like the shore itself had decided to keep his shape, chest tight, fingers curled uselessly at his sides as the sea reclaimed what had never been his to keep.
He stayed there long after the water stilled. The shore felt wrong without you — too solid, too empty — like something vital had been torn out and the world expected him to stand anyway.
He pressed his palm to the damp stone where you had been, as if the sea might still remember the shape of you.
It did.
That night, the sea sang to you.
Not the gentle hum you had grown up with — not the lullaby of currents brushing stone — but a call. Low. Commanding. Ancient.
You woke with a gasp, heart pounding, the water around you glowing faintly red.
They had noticed.
From the depths beyond the reef, a shadow moved. Massive. Patient. A Watcher, its presence pressing against your mind like pressure before a storm.
You linger too long, it sang into your bones.
The human lives because of you.
The bond is forming.
You curled in on yourself, tail wrapping tight as pain bloomed beneath your ribs — sharp, searing, like something trying to tear its way free.
“I’ll fix it,” you whispered. “I’ll let him go.”
The shadow stilled.
Promises are currents, it replied. They pull whether you swim or not.
Bucky noticed the change immediately.
You surfaced less. You laughed less. You stayed farther from him, always just out of reach.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said one morning, blunt as a blade.
“I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” His voice sharpened. “You live in the ocean.”
You flinched.
He softened instantly. “Hey. I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” you said quickly. “I just… can’t be near you like before.”
“Why?”
Because loving you might kill me.
Because saving you might damn us both.
Because the sea does not forgive defiance.
Instead, you said, “Because you’re healing.”
He stared at you like you’d struck him.
“That’s it?” he asked. “You save my life, nurse me back from the brink, and now that I can stand on my own you just— what? Get bored?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
The truth trembled on your tongue.
“You’re going to leave,” you said instead. “You always were.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy as depth.
“…I didn’t want to,” he admitted.
Your heart cracked.
“But I don’t belong here,” he continued quietly. “And neither do you.”
You looked at him then — really looked — at the man the sea had given back to the world. At the way his eyes softened when he watched you move through the water, like he was memorizing something he wasn’t allowed to keep.
“I know,” you whispered.
That evening, you didn’t come back.
You stayed deep, hiding among the wrecks where the Watchers couldn’t see you clearly. You told yourself it was mercy. You told yourself it was protection.
Above, on the empty shore, Bucky waited until the moon sank and the tide turned cold.
When he finally whispered your name into the dark, the sea carried it to you anyway.
And that — that was how you knew it was already too late.
Bucky didn’t say goodbye.
He told himself that was mercy.
He waited until dawn, until the tide was low and the water near the cave lay still and deceptively calm. His coat was dry. His shoulder ached but held. The ship he’d spotted the night before lingered on the horizon — not his crew, but close enough. Close enough to get him back to the world he understood.
You hadn’t surfaced in two days.
That absence sat in his chest like a bruise he kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.
“She made her choice,” he muttered to himself, tightening the strap across his chest. “So I’ll make mine.”
The sea answered with silence.
He walked the shoreline once. Twice. Paused at the place where you usually surfaced — where you laughed at the way he never quite learned to tread water properly.
“…Coward,” he whispered, unsure if he meant you or himself.
Then he stepped into the water.
The waves were colder than he expected.
They crept up his boots, soaked his trousers, tugged insistently like hands that wanted him back. He waded farther than necessary, eyes fixed on the distant ship, lungs already tight with memory.
You don’t belong here.
Your words echoed in his head.
“Maybe I don’t belong anywhere,” he said aloud.
The water surged suddenly — a sharp pull, stronger than the tide should’ve been. His footing slipped on slick stone, and before he could catch himself, a wave knocked him under.
Salt burned his throat.
He thrashed instinctively, arm screaming in protest, but the sea was merciless when you fought it. His boots dragged him down, coat heavy as an anchor.
This is stupid, he thought dimly. You survived wars. You survived men worse than monsters.
But the sea didn’t care about survival stories.
His lungs burned. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
And just as the fight drained out of him — just as he stopped trying —
He thought of you.
Not your tail. Not the magic. Your voice, soft and stubborn. The way you looked at him like he was worth saving before he believed it himself.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave,” he thought, the water filling his mouth. I just didn’t want to be the thing that broke you.
His body went still.
You felt it like a scream in your blood.
Not sound — never sound — but a violent, tearing pull that yanked you from the wreck you were hiding in. The water around you flared bright, painful blue, every scale on your tail lighting like a warning.
Bond formed, the sea whispered.
Life calling life.
“No,” you gasped. “No no no—”
You swam hard, panic shredding your composure, heart hammering as you broke the surface near the shore.
And there he was.
Floating.
Still.
Time fractured.
You surged forward, grabbing him beneath the arms, hauling his weight against you as waves battered your back. His head lolled forward, lips blue, eyes closed.
“Bucky,” you sobbed. “Don’t you dare. I told you not like this.”
You dragged him under — down, where the water stilled — cradling him against your chest. You pressed your forehead to his, tears dissolving instantly into the sea.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here. Please.”
Mermaid magic was never meant to be given freely.
It was life for life. Breath for breath.
You pressed your mouth to his.
Air flowed from you into him — not just breath, but warmth, magic, time. Pain lanced through your ribs as the mark at your wrist burned white-hot, scales along your sides dulling as something ancient tore itself loose.
He coughed violently, body convulsing as his lungs fought back to life.
Your vision blurred.
Bucky woke choking.
Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him upright as water rushed from his lungs. He gasped, dragging in air, vision swimming until it cleared enough to see—
You.
Pale. Shaking. Eyes glassy with pain you hadn’t had before.
“You absolute idiot,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Do you have any idea—”
He grabbed your wrists, panic flooding him as he noticed the glow fading from your skin.
“What did you do?” he demanded hoarsely. “What did you give up?”
You tried to pull away. Failed.
“…I couldn’t lose you,” you admitted, tears spilling freely now. “Even if it costs me everything.”
His breath hitched.
“Don’t,” he said, voice breaking. “Don’t say that like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you cried. “It’s you.”
Something shattered in his chest then — the careful distance, the lie that leaving would save you both.
“I tried to drown,” he confessed quietly. “Because walking away felt worse.”
You froze.
He cupped your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, forehead resting against yours.
“I don’t care what the sea says,” he whispered. “I don’t care what it costs. I’m not leaving you again.”
Behind you, far below, the Watchers stirred.
The sea had taken note.
And this time, it would not be satisfied with almost.
The sea did not rage when the Watchers rose.
It went still.
That was the first warning.
The water around you dimmed, color draining until only shadow and faint bioluminescence remained. The current slowed, thickened, like the ocean itself was holding its breath.
You were still cradled against Bucky’s chest, his arms wrapped around you like instinct alone could anchor you to him. His heartbeat thundered beneath your ear — fast, frantic, alive.
Too alive.
The glow in your veins flickered weakly.
“Oh god,” he whispered, feeling it. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine,” you lied, even as your tail trembled beneath the surface, scales duller than they had ever been. “They’re just… coming.”
The water beneath you split.
Not physically — not like a wound — but spiritually, the way something ancient parts reality just by existing. Shapes emerged from the depths: vast, indistinct, crowned with tendrils of light and darkness. Eyes opened where eyes should not be, glowing with the memory of drowned empires.
The Watchers.
Bucky sucked in a breath. “Those are—”
“Don’t look too long,” you murmured weakly. “They don’t like being… defined.”
Child of the tide, the sea sang, voice layered and endless.
You have broken the covenant.
Pain flared through your chest, sharp enough to steal your breath. You gasped, fingers digging into Bucky’s shirt.
“I saved him,” you said, lifting your chin despite the tremor in your body. “That was my right.”
You saved him twice.
The words slammed into you like a wave.
You gave breath. You gave magic. You gave bond.
Bucky’s grip tightened. “Then take it from me,” he snapped, fury cutting through his fear. “Whatever she gave—take it back.”
The Watchers turned their gaze to him.
The pressure was unbearable.
Human, they echoed. You are already marked.
You felt it then — the truth you’d been too afraid to voice.
The bond wasn’t metaphorical.
It had roots.
They showed you the futures.
Not visions — not dreams — but certainties, laid bare in the water like reflections you couldn’t look away from.
You saw yourself as you were meant to be: ageless, endless, swimming the deep currents long after Bucky’s bones turned to dust. You saw the ache that never dulled. The place in your chest that stayed hollow forever.
You saw the alternative.
Your tail dissolving into light. Scales falling away like dying stars. Legs trembling beneath you, useless and fragile. Time suddenly finite. Every heartbeat a countdown.
You screamed then.
Not from pain — from grief.
“No,” you sobbed. “Please. There has to be another way.”
There is always a balance.
The sea shifted again, darker now.
You saw Bucky bound to land — the ocean rejecting him, water turning hostile, waves rising to force him back every time he tried to sail. The sea he loved becoming the thing that would never love him again.
Bucky shook his head violently. “No. Don’t you dare. I won’t let you—”
You cupped his face, hands shaking. “Listen to me.”
He did. Gods, he always did.
“I was born of the sea,” you whispered. “But I chose you.”
Tears streamed freely down his face now, unguarded, raw. “You don’t get to make that choice alone.”
The Watchers loomed closer.
Choose, they demanded.
What will the sea take?
You closed your eyes.
“I’ll walk,” you said. “Let me walk beside him.”
Bucky let out a broken sound. “No—”
“And let him keep the sea,” you finished. “Please.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then—
So it is written.
It didn’t happen all at once.
The pain was merciful in that way — gradual, spreading like frost instead of fire.
Your tail began to ache, deep in the bone, a pressure that made you curl forward with a cry. Light flared beneath your skin, scales loosening, dissolving into motes of blue that drifted upward and vanished.
Bucky caught you as your body convulsed.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered desperately, arms trembling. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, don’t let go—”
Sweetheart.
You laughed weakly through tears. “That’s… new.”
He pressed his forehead to yours. “I’ve been in love with you since i first saw you. I just didn’t think I deserved to say it.”
The words shattered you.
“I love you,” you whispered back, breath hitching as your tail split — pain blinding, all-consuming — legs forming where fins had been.
The sea roared.
And then—
Stillness.
You collapsed against him, unconscious, human and heartbreakingly fragile.
The Watchers receded, their presence fading into the depths.
The debt is paid.
Bucky barely noticed the silence at first.
The roar of the sea had faded, the Watchers gone, the water calm again — too calm. He was on his knees in the shallows, holding you like the world might take you back if he loosened his grip even a fraction.
You were warm.
Warm in a way you hadn’t been before.
His breath stuttered as he looked down.
No tail.
No scales.
Just you — bare and fragile and heartbreakingly human in his arms, legs tangled awkwardly against his thigh like you didn’t yet know how to exist this way.
“Oh god,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re… you’re real.”
The word felt too small.
He fumbled with his coat, hands shaking as he shrugged it off and wrapped it around you instinctively, shielding you from the wind, from the world, from his own stunned staring. He tucked it around your shoulders, careful, reverent — like you might shatter if he moved too fast.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer he was afraid to stop saying. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I won’t— I won’t let anything take you back.”
His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut as something hot slid down his cheek and disappeared into your hair.
When you woke, the first thing you felt was warmth.
Then air suddenly burned your lungs — too dry, too sharp — and panic surged until familiar hands grounded you.
He laughed — a broken, hysterical sound — and kissed your knuckles reverently. “Welcome to the surface, love.”
The days that followed were brutal.
Walking hurt. Everything hurt. Your body ached with limitations you’d never known — hunger, exhaustion, pain that didn’t fade with a swim. You bled when your feet blistered. You cried when you couldn’t breathe underwater anymore.
And Bucky was there for all of it.
Bathing you. Carrying you. Holding you when the phantom pain of your tail woke you screaming at night.
Sometimes you caught him staring at the sea with something like mourning. Or guilty.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his breath hitched, barely. “For what you lost. For what you had to give up just to be here.” His eyes stayed on the horizon. “You never should’ve had to choose.”
You shook your head immediately, stepping closer before he could pull back into himself. “Don’t.” Your voice was gentle, but firm. “That’s not how it feels.”
He finally looked at you then, and there was something raw in his expression — not pity, not regret, but fear. Like if he admitted it out loud, you might disappear.
“I didn’t lose anything,” you said softly.
His brow furrowed, like he didn’t understand how that could be true.
You reached for his hand, guiding it to rest over your heart. It was steady. Human. Real. “I didn’t leave the sea behind,” you continued. “I still hear it. I still carry it.”
He swallowed hard.
“But even if I had,” you added, lifting your gaze to his, unflinching, “I would’ve made the same choice.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
He lifted a hand as if to touch you, then hesitated — like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. When his fingers finally brushed your hair back, the movement was reverent, almost disbelieving.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
Before you could answer, he leaned in and kissed you.
Not hurried. Not desperate.
Just careful. Grateful.
Like a promise neither of you were brave enough to say aloud yet.
His lips lingered on yours for a heartbeat too long, and when he pulled back, his eyes were closed, as if he were memorizing the feeling — the warmth, the weight of you, the fact that you were still here.
You rested your forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and for a moment the world felt impossibly small. Safe. Like nothing else could reach you.
When Bucky finally found a ship — his ship — he hesitated.
“You don’t have to come,” he said quietly.
You smiled, lacing your fingers with his. “I walked for you. I think I can sail.”
He grinned, eyes bright and wet. “Guess I’m not leaving the sea after all.”
As the ship cut through the waves, you stood at the railing, wind in your hair, heart full and terrified and alive.
The sea watched.
Not angry.
Not kind.
But aware.
And somewhere in the depths, the Watchers turned away.
You know how guys have the happy trail? What do you think the MCU men's is like?
Gonna tell you something Anon, I love it when guys have that. It's cute and attractive.
Pairing: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton, Thor, Loki, James “Logan" Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Tony Stark, Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
Tags: fluff, suggestive, body worship, teasing, muscles, established relationship
Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions
A/N: Probably one of the most attractive things on guys. At least to me. Other than strong hands.
Steve keeps himself very neat, not really because of you, not at first, it's just a habit that he still has from his army days. That being said he didn't miss the way you look at him when he does it. He knows you're looking so he takes his time.
Bucky is a bit more clumsy with it since losing his arm. His new one is good but it's cold on his skin when he needs to groom himself and be nice. But... maybe you can give him a hand when he needs it.
Clint doesn't bother with it much because he doesn't have much of a visible happy trail. It is there when you really look or run your hand down his abs. That being said he doesn't quite see why you like it so much, it's just body hair.
Thor never quite cared to keep himself overly well groomed or to cut down on any body hair. When he tried his hair grew back rougher, which you can feel as you touch his stomach. To him it was never something he had to think about, besides you like it.
Loki brags about how good he looks. Every part of him, even the happy trail which he always keeps well maintained. As he gets ready for bed he might take it slower, to give you time to look.
Logan has always been covered in a lot of rough, bushy hair and his happy trail is no different. For him it's like a path that you can follow as you kiss his body. In fact he has referred to it as that numerous time, making you blush at the implications.
Remy often gets asked if his hair is red everywhere, and yes it is. He chuckles when he tells you that you should check for yourself. Despite how he may seem he does keep himself well trimmed, from his belly all the way down.
Kurt does have a bit more hair there and it's quite soft and fluffy. It's one of the rare parts on his body that's not as cold as the rest of him. But it is quite dark, almost black in contrast with his blue skin.
Tony wants you to look at him as he gets changed. He wears his pants a bit lower when he knows he can work from home. Seeing you ready to kiss every inch of him won't make work easier.
Peter has a happy trail but it's a bit sparse. He doesn't have much body hair on his belly and is a bit ticklish when you touch him there. It's one of his weaknesses so he always blushes when you do it.
Summary: Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?
PSA: just a girl… standing in front of her Stardew collab, asking it to love her. Check out the full collab here! my friends are so talented and their minds blow me away, both Lewis and Haley are posted!
Word Count: 6.1k
Warnings: cursing, insecurity, religious imagery and metaphor (no Catholic guilt inducing smut though), anti-social reader, yearning, it’s mutual but shshhhhh they don’t know, hot and heavy make out, not beta-read, not edited, fuck it we ball.
There a few reasons why you love plants.
For one, they're simple.
They write their DNA in a language that you can understand. Each leaf, petal and root a different part of one larger story. They fit under your microscope and let you study them until your vision goes blurry.
Plants are complicated. Sometimes they thrive. Sometimes… they don't. A plant that was green and lush yesterday can be brown and wilted tomorrow all because the sky looked at it wrong.
Plants are like people. The rain makes their skin soft. They turn their faces to the sun to feels its heat on their skin. They are resilient, yet prefer a gentle touch. They know the difference between surviving and thriving.
Plants are quiet.
In that way they way they're actually better than people.
When you lay down in a meadow the grass curls around you, bristles tickling your skin as if to hug you hello. Wildflowers fight through soil and emerge from the long abandoned farm on the far side of the valley. They grow tall and proud, tilting in your direction as if offering themselves for your admiration.
Plants are considerate, gentle, ever present.
Before a storm, plants will speak. Their leaves will rustle with wind and that breeze will carry their whisper to you. We will survive. They say, with the certainty only known by beings older than time itself. We were here before you, we will be here after.
Plants exist outside of time.
They will continue their slow climb toward the sun, long after your bones become soil and your blood fertilizer. Until all that's left of you exists within stems and leaves. When all of humanity is gone, green will fight through smog and ash and burst free, starting the cycle anew.
After all, there must always be a tree from which Eve can pluck her apple.
You think about Eve a lot these days.
How did she make that choice? Just how tempting was that fruit she so callously plucked?
Was it perfect? Shiny and ripe for the taking. Dangling from its stem with a tease of come take me.
Was it more subtle? Did Eve's sin have time to fester and build until it was a coil pulled so tight inside her that it wasn't just one simple act at all. It was an explosion.
Did Eve stare at her sin across an overgrown field, uselessly clutching her pencil and pathetically empty sketch book? Watch as he toiled with dirt and shined under the suns abuse? Would she laugh at you? Remind you that your fruit isn't forbidden, just unknown.
For you, it feels like one and the same.
Still, you can't seem to look away.
You're not sure how long you've been watching him. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. You're not especially good with time though, could be an hour for all you know.
It would just be really pathetic if he's been struggling with the same root ball for an hour.
His face contorts to something unsatisfied, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line as he stares down at the already wilting green. It's almost comical as he looks back towards the crate of plant waiting for him, and the three he's already got in the ground.
His smushes it between his fingers, harsh and grabby as he pinches it to smithereens. He doesn't stop until there's nearly nothing left, a few sad roots dangling limp in his palm as he places it in a much too deep hole.
Bucky Barnes is like a hosta. He grows sturdy, undeterred by shady spots, of lack of water. Honestly you think if Bucky could build a tent around his entire crop he would. As another bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, caught on a thick forearm and wiped away before it can reach his eyes.
From far away he's gorgeous, lush and thick. Eye catching without even trying to be, naturally spell binding. He crept into your garden slowly. An offer to let you study the plants on his farm, which then turned to you giving him fertilizer that you made with your research.
Nearly six months since his sudden and unceremonious arrival, it's as if he's taken up all the room in your flower bed.
Larger than life, than your experiment's and hobbies. Than your rather unfavorable feelings about other people and longstanding habit of avoiding them.
Like a stubborn root you can't seem to get rid of him either, try as you might.
Your voice echoes before you realize you've even decided to speak.
"You're mutilating them."
Bucky jumps his broad shoulders go taut, entire body freezing.
You don't notice, eyes locked on the strangled rootball in his big hands.
"I'm sorry?" He asks, swiveling his head until finally he finds you.
You walk through weeds the toward him, having to lift your legs a little more to clear the dense grass and knotted foliage. You take your time, carefully stepping over mushrooms and dodging dandelions.
You feel his eyes on you throughout, piercing and curious, and probably part offended. You've never been especially good with people either though.
When you're finally close enough, only a few feet away, you speak again.
"I said you're mutilating them." You repeat, this time gesturing to the poor parsnips at his feet.
Bucky pauses, following your gaze with similar disappointment. "Oh."
His hands, which you can now see aren't even covered in gloves, come to sit as his hips. Dirt smudges onto his white tank top, even catching the tops of his jeans. Looking lower you're even more displeased at the state of his shoes, what probably used to be light color sneakers.
Not bothering to ask, you pick up one of the plants from the crate and take it in your hands. It's misshaped from the stores planter, nearly a perfect rectangle. "Poor thing." You whisper.
Gently, you begin to massage the rootball. Slow, steady squeezes until it begins to soften in your palm. You wait until it's limp, then get on your knees and dig a hole in the same row Bucky had started.
You only dig a few inches down, enough to hold to the root. "Loosen the dirt, don't dig." You tell him, using the hand shovel to create a sort of crater in the hole. "The roots need something to grab onto."
You place the parsnip in the dirt, gently filling the sides until you're satisfied with its security.
You wipe your hands on your overalls as you stand, brushing off the excess soil and finally returning your attention to Bucky.
"You try."
Bucky nods, using his forearm to wipe some sweat from his forehead.
He grabs another plant, and stares at it for a moment, as if begging it to cooperate.
You can't help your sigh when once again digs his fingers directly into the rootball and starts to pull it apart.
Sensing your frustration, Bucky freezes.
"What?" He asks, sounding more worried than upset.
With a huff you move to stand in front of him.
You surround his hands with your own, cupping the plant in his palms.
"You want to massage it." You tell him, applying just enough pressure to feel the plant give under your combined touch. "You need it to be relaxed."
Bucky hums, "Like foreplay." He says.
You can't help the way you go taut, hands pulling away as if burned.
He says it so casually, as if sex is something you talk about. As if it something you do, something you do with him. As if letting another person be that close to you isn't a nightmare in and of itself.
Although you suppose if that nightmare had brown hair and blue eyes and the prettiest pink lips you might not be so opposed.
"Sure-" You stammer, already taking a handful of steps back towards the direction you came. "Yeah exactly like foreplay." You voice betrays you pitching an octave higher on the last word.
Bucky's staring at you like you're a question, that same furrow from before back between his brows. His hands have stopped moving, as if you're more important than anything else he had been busy with.
Mercifully, he doesn't push. "Thanks," he says instead. "Find anything good today?" He nods back towards the section of the field you had been taking residence in.
You nod, face still burning with embarrassment. "Yes actually-" you start before you can stop yourself, the words flowing like an avalanche. "I found a plant, well it's actually a kind of weed but there's this plant phalaris arundinacea or um, some people call it canary grass. Anyway it usually only grows by rivers but you have this whole cluster of it which is really weird because it's like a hundred feet from your little pond and the rest of the soil around it is pretty dry and-" you catch yourself.
Your mouth feels like cotton because of fast you had started talking, your tongue swelling with embarrassment as you realize the extent of your ramble.
"Sorry." You mutter, "That's actually super boring."
Bucky shakes his head, finally beginning to return to his parsnips. Slowly he gets on his knees, bending one leg at a time and giving you a truly gratuitous look at his thighs.
"I think it's interesting." He says, "besides if everything else is out of place than maybe I'm exactly where I belong." There's a lilt at the end, like he had intended for it to be a joke but the punchline got lost in truth.
It makes your heart pull tight, a feeling you normally reserve for trampled flowers and injured birds.
"Maybe," You say, "Or maybe the plants just know better than us."
You shrug, watching as Bucky carefully copies what your had done in the dirt. You cringe as it gathers under his nails, catching in the crevices of his knuckles. You have an extra pair of gloves, maybe you ought to drop them off one morning. You could slip them in his mailbox, he'd never even have to know it was you. If he's serious about this farming thing he'll need good gloves or he'll destroy his hands and gosh they are good hands-
You force yourself to look away, eyes averting to literally please anywhere else. "Its not the only one." You change the topic, "I mean only spot."
Bucky hums, "with weird plants?"
"Yea." You nod a little too quickly as you say it. "Up on the mountain, there's Sunflowers growing from cracks between the some of the rocks and I figured it was an anomaly but now that there's two of them I think they could be connected."
Bucky finishes pushing the dirt back in around the last root ball and reaches for another. "How can you tell if they are?"
You chest does a little jump, eagerness sparking. He asked! He asked a question about your plants!
"Well since they're different plants I can rule out it being a strain or breed thing." You rationalize, "So I'd have to start with the soil, but I need to samples and I'm not allowed to hike alone anymore-"
"Wait what?"
"-and no one ever wants to go with me!" You steamroll right over Bucky's question, completely obvious to the alarm in his eyes. "They all complain about how much I go off trail but it's not my fault! All the best stuff is, I mean I once found an entire patch of wild potatoes!"
"Wild potatoes?"
"No one complained that time! Everyone had fries for a month thanks to me, but no-" you drag out the 'o' sound, rolling your eyes as you do so. "- You get lost one time and suddenly it's a problem. So I have to wait until someone else plans a hike and I can convince them to let me come."
Bucky finally stands, huffing with effort as he does so.
"I could go with you." He offers, shrugging his shoulders. "I uh- hike."
His voice pitches an octave higher on the word 'hike,' surely just in enthusiasm.
"Really?"
"Yeah." Bucky insists, "sounds like it's important."
You're not sure what to do with yourself, heart slamming hard against your ribs as if trying to crack them open and escape. You're used to being shut down, waved off, your thoughts and hypotheses disregarded.
Yet here is your hosta, shoulders broad and jaw set. Something in his eyes that makes you almost believe he genuinely doesn't mind doing this for you.
You nod, the movement tight. "Okay."
Bucky hums, returning his knees to the dirt. "Okay."
A plan is made between mumbles, meet here at six tomorrow morning, hopefully be through the worst of the hike before the heat of the day. You offer to make sandwiches and Bucky begrudgingly promises to wear something other than jeans.
Once all is set you finally retreat. Settling back into the grass a few yards away and returning to your (still empty) sketchbook and woefully unimpressive notes. Ignoring the pang of disappointment when Bucky goes back to silence too.
The wind blows around you, swishing through the weeds and singing something like laughter. You wish it would tell you what's so funny. You wonder if the tree laughed at Eve.
You're no stranger to the strangeness of nature.
Sure, you've dedicated most of your life and free space in your brain to figuring out some of its strangeness, but even you know there are things beyond even your comprehension.
Like the way it seems to pick and choose when it's alive.
Not alive in the green leaves and turning toward the sun sense. No, alive as in conscious.
There are times when it's as if the plants hear you, like petals have turned to tiny listening devices. Times when it's like they manipulate themselves to create a new reality. Soil becoming an instrument in their greater plan as they rearrange it to suit their needs.
Like the first time you met Bucky.
Truthfully, you'd been trespassing on his land for years with no idea that it even belonged to someone. You knew it like the back of your hand, the sad parcel that everyone avoided. Quiet and calm and perfect for anyone trying to stay away from civilization.
It fascinated you too, the way it had reclaimed the fields and land. After years of being worked over, you admired the chaos that bloomed when left to its own devices. Left over crops that persevered, wildflowers that seemingly appeared from no where, vines that wove themselves around old fence posts as if trying to pull them from the ground.
The day he arrived the same plants you'd become so acquainted with, threw you into him.
You'd be just about ready to leave, bag tucked into your shoulder and samples in hand. You hadn't even seen him yet, the bulking figure standing at the foot of the porch. Never one to notice people, you didn't even see him. In fact you had nearly walked completely past him, nose buried in your samples when suddenly your foot caught on a root that certainly hadn't been there when you arrived that morning.
It sent you, your bag, and your armful of foliage flying.
It was two leather clad arms that caught you, a subtle 'oof' muttered as he took the force of your fall.
Few weeks later it was a present from the weeds. A tiny little white thing that tracked muddy little paws all over your notebook one after noon.
A kitten, a teeny little one that purred louder than a plane engine and meowed in your arms until you were standing on Bucky's steps.
"Is this yours?" You'd asked, scratching under its chin.
"No." He'd grunted, glaring at the ball of fur in your arms as it were a loaded gun.
"Oh." You'd whispered, confusion only growing. Of course you didn't know everything that lived in the woods, but in all your years in the valley, you'd never once seen a stray cat. Certainly not the two it would have taken to bring the one you holding to fruition. "It just showed up out of no where, walked right up to me like it was asking for directions."
Bucky shrugged, unconvinced. "You gonna keep it?" He asked.
You mouth was already half way open -about to explain that as much as you'd love too- you couldn't, when the cat jumped out of your arms. Landing on the wood by Bucky's feet, it immediately drew a figure eight walking between his legs. It's little tail curling up as much of his calves as possible.
"Think it wants you to."
Sure enough, Alpine was wrapped around Bucky's finger in week. Sending him running to your door with a nervous question at least every other day (Can cats eat strawberries? I found her passed out by the vines with pink all over. Yes Bucky, probably just snaked herself into a food coma). The now spoiled and fat cat sneaks off the farm and ends up at your door nearly as often. Forcing you to walk with her all the back to Bucky's.
Worst of all was about a month ago. Their most egregious attempt yet.
You'd been knee deep in a cluster of a flowers, some wild lily's in a color you'd never seen before. Your hands buried in the soil as you collected some so you could test the PH later.
Then Bucky had sauntered up behind you, the sudden pitch of his voice throwing you off balance and directly into a pile of flowers. Only you weren't punished with thorns, no pollen. It erupted around you in an angry yellow cloud, plumes of dust spiraling into the air.
The entire mess leaving you covered in bright yellow.
"Shit." Bucky had cursed, already walking forward to help you when you stopped him with a single raised hand.
Ever so careful not to breathe any in, got up, and darted toward the pond. You ripped your clothes off as you ran, abandoning your shirt on a rock and then your jeans at the end of the dock. You hardly heard Bucky yelling after you as you jumped into the freezing water.
When you surfaced, pollen covered the entire pond, swirling in murky yellow bubbles around you. At the end of the dock stood a breathless Bucky, pink cheeked and wide eyed as he stared at the water.
Wordlessly, he stretched out his hand again, and this time you took it, letting his strength lift you from the frigid water. He only lets go once you're safely on the wooden planks, dripping onto the boards as you exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Thanks." You whispered, equally as breathless.
Bucky however, just nodded, his throat bobbing as he took the state of you in.
Bra, panties, and embarrassing white ankle socks. All of which were now soaked through and borderline see-through.
He choked out something about a towel, shaking his head as he started off towards his house, cursing under his breath. Leaving you to wait by the pond, alone with the pip-plop of the water dripping off you and buzzing of frantic bees collecting the pollen you'd stirred up. Even softer, you could have sworn you heard giggling.
Now, as you lead Bucky on the familiar trail, you can't help but watch every leaf a little bit closer.
It's been silent for the better part of the hike, quiet companionship as you slowly work your way up. Bucky's a few feet behind you, lingering close enough for you to hear his footsteps, but far away enough for you to not worry about if he can hear your labored breathing.
Still, heaving chest aside, excitement stirs inside you. A fluttering of joy in your stomach as you take in the mountain around you. The rustles of leaves as birds sing above you, the way your boots crunch on the gravel , a symphony of mother nature's finest.
"Is it supposed to rain today?" It's the first thing Bucky's said in an hour, or grumbled is perhaps more accurate.
You'd checked the weather station three separate times, clear skies.
"No." You gesture to the crystal blue above you. "Looks fine to me."
"Just said it feels like it is all." He repeats, you can hear his arm whirring in protest as he moves it, machine fighting him.
You're struck with a sudden worrying thought. "Oh- is it not water proof?" You concern is instant, enough to make you stop in your tracks and turn around to look at him.
Bucky stops too, and for the first time since you started you actually pause to take him in.
He's glossy, not quite sweaty but enough to make him shine under the bright sun. The jacket he'd started the hike in had been discarded unbeknownst to you, leaving him in a tight black tank top.
The arm hangs low at his side, fist clenching and clenching.
"No, it is." Bucky assures, "Pretty sure this thing could survive just about everything. I don't know I just got a feeling."
"A feeling?" You repeat, skepticism clear.
"Yeah." Bucky nods, looking up at the sky with a glare.
He doesn't say more, you don't find the courage to ask. Instead you keep hiking, turning back to the trail and continuing the trek.
"We're almost there." You shout towards Bucky. "At least I think we are."
The gravel starts to get loose beneath your feet, forcing you to push your heels down harder with every step.
"I mean this all feels familiar." You add, nervously suddenly desperate to fill the silence. "I probably should have written down where exactly they were but I didn't have a pen and everyone was yelling for me to keep moving-"
A rock catches you the toe of your boot, cutting you offer with a swift trip flat on to your face.
The rest of your sentence is lost in a gasp and pained 'oomf' as you fall. Your hands try to catch your weight but between the pack on your back and your typical shit luck they do little to soften the blow.
It stings everywhere, your knees, your calves, your arms and hands. Like your entire body was dragged along the trail until every inch of exposed skin was kissed by a stone.
Bucky's rushing up to you right away, shoving his bag off his shoulder and sliding onto the ground beside your head.
You can hear a him chuckle, low and good humored. You know he doesn't mean to laugh at you, well he does but not that like that. Still, it stings, more than any scrape.
"I know you like dirt, but you don't have to kiss it sweetheart." He jokes.
Your eyes start to sting too, tears burning at the corners. You stay staring at the ground, hands screaming as you brace yourself on them.
Don't look up, don't look up. Don't let him see. You're fine it was stupid you're fine. You're normal-
"Oh shit wait-" Bucky's voice softens, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and turn it toward him. "Hey, hey, hey, you're okay." He coos, thumb rolling over your cheek.
Any humor is gone from his face, fully replaced with worry. It's almost worse.
Fuck.
The tears spill, first one then two. Building until you're close to sobs.
Then the blubbering comes, "I'm sorry-" you gasp, sitting up and doing your best to push him away. "This is stupid I'm sorry."
The words are wet and small, pathetic like this stupid plant and your stupid flowers and you, and God, why can't you just take a joke? Why is your skin so paper fucking thin?
"Hey quit that." Bucky whispers, forcing himself close once again. "Nothing here is stupid, but my bad joke. Okay?"
His hands are back on your face, warm and big enough to dwarf your entire cheek. "I'm sorry." You whisper again, hiccuping as you lean into his touch.
"Who made you think you need to apologize all the time?" Bucky asks, "Did nothin' wrong sweetheart."
Slowly, things level out, your breathing evens and the tears finally start to slow. Bucky doesn't move an inch, his eyes locked on yours as he wipes the tears from your cheeks until they finally stop.
"You okay?" Bucky asks.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He pulls his hands back from your face, taking your wrists instead and using them to turn your hands up so he can see.
"Got yourself good." He says, gently scraping the stuck rocks off of your palm. They're a mess, bloodied and covered in dirt. "Need to clean these."
The whimper that escapes is unconscious, a half baked protest that only makes embarrassment curl harder in your chest.
"I know." Bucky says sympathetically. "I have stuff in my bag." Hes already reaching behind him, grabbing the strap of his pack when a clap of thunder echoes.
It's barely a warning, hardly enough time for your look up in surprise when suddenly the sky opens.
At first it's hardly a drizzle, one or two drops landing on your nose.
Then it's a downpour. Sudden and violent as it washes over you. You're soaked in an instant, clothes wet through to the bone.
Bucky's back to cursing, any softness replaced with stony determination. One second he's pulling his bag over his shoulder and the next he's sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.
You can't even hear your surprised yelp over the rain, the rapid putter-patter of the drops cancelling out anything that might've escaped when Bucky suddenly stands.
Understandably, you jolt against him, arms wrapping around his neck as you fight to hold on.
You're too disoriented to notice much of anything, between the rain, the cuts, and the feeling of Bucky's arms around you, nothing makes sense.
There's movement, the rise and fall of a jog. You can almost make out some of the words Bucky's trying to yell to you. Something about being right, and did he just say cave?
Calling it a cave was being generous.
Alcove is more appropriate, just enough room for you and Bucky to escape the rain.
Not enough room for you to sit without touching, your legs all but in his lap as your curl against the wall.
You're both breathing heavy, a come down from the adrenaline as your bodies try to catch up to every sensation.
Bucky's staring outside, looking at the rain with furrowed brows, as if it's offended him someone by daring to fall.
"How did you know?" You ask, turning yourself further in towards him.
Bucky shrugs, "My shoulder," his hand comes up to touch it, kneading over the exposed scar as he speaks. "It aches when it's gonna rain."
"Oh."
"Yeah it's like my nerves can tell? I don't know it's weird, but it's never wrong."
You hum, his gaze is still towards the outside so you let yours fall on him. He looks unreal this close, high definition Bucky.
You wonder if you stared long enough could you could his stubble? It's short, neatly trimmed. As if he just did it this morning, fresh edges under his jaw.
Unthinking you reach out and touch it. With your chest already pressed into his shoulder, what do you have to lose?
Bucky startles at first, jumping under your touch before immediately relaxing. Well, at least as much as you can imagine a man like him does relax.
Slowly you trace your thumb over it, dragging it across the seam of where hair meets skin. Even after the rain you can smell his after shave, deep and musky. He must have just don't it this morning. How early did he have to wake up to shave? Why was it so important for a hike?
"We didn't have to do this today." You offer, even though it's useless now.
"What-" Bucky's already protesting, turning his head to look at you fully. Your hand stops, landing just next to his Adam's apple and holding there.
"If I'd know you were hurting, I mean we could have waited."
Bucky shakes his head. "No I- I wanted to. I was," his throat bobs, you have to fight the urge to shiver at the way it feels under your fingers. "I was looking forward to it."
You can't help but giggle. "You were excited to hike?"
It's dim in your little shelter, but even with the lack of light you can watch Bucky's cheeks turn just a little pink.
"With you."
Your pulse stutters, and for just a moment the fact closeness hits you. Bucky Barnes pressed against you. Bucky Barnes' pulse beneath your fingers. Bucky Barnes gritting his teeth through shoulder pain to spend time with you.
Those last two words echo, bouncing around your brain as if delighted with themselves.
With you. With you. With you.
It's your turn to jump when Bucky touches you, jolting you out of your spiral when hooks a finger under your chin and lifts it up.
"Got yourself good."
His thumb rubs over what must be a cut, another spot where a stone was unlucky enough to catch you.
You try to swallow around your nerves, around the way every feeling you've buried seems to rise up the back of your throat.
"I did?" You manage to whisper.
Bucky nods, eyes fixed on the spot.
"They're gonna wrap me in bubble wrap at this rate." You try to joke, choking on the tension instead.
"No." Bucky shakes his head, eyes darting up to look at yours for just a moment before dropping. This time not as far down as your chin. "I'll just catch you next time."
"Yeah?"
He nods and you can feel the weight of his gaze on your lips.
"What if I fall in town?"
"I'll be there." His hand shifts, palm moving until it's holding your cheek again.
"On the beach."
"Yup." His thumb curves lower this time, the pad of it at the edge of your lips.
"In the mines?"
"Why are you in the mines?" His gaze falters, back to your eyes for a second.
"There are mushrooms down there that don't grow anywhere else. They're purple and I think they might have some health benefits like improved energy levels and some vitamin gaps-"
"Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?" Bucky interrupts.
You nod, embarrassed smile moving his thumb as your lips curve. "All the time actually, a lot of people think I better shut up before it gets me in trouble."
"Don't you dare." Bucky's voice has gone the lowest you think you've ever heard it, raspy and almost unfamiliar.
"Get in trouble?"
"Shut up." Bucky clarifies, he's so close now you can feel his nose against your own. His eyes are half lidded, barely open enough for you to make out his blown pupils. "Love hearin' you talk."
It's something no one's ever said to you before, something you had honestly figured wasn't possible. Someone who savors your voice not the absence of it.
Like Eve, the one thing you never knew you wanted has been served to you on a silver platter, how could you not bite the apple?
Bucky's lips are chapped, rough against yours the way your expected them to be. Torn skin catches against yours, making your tongue roll over them to soothe, as if applying a balm.
Bucky's hands are everywhere now, as if your kiss gave him permission he had been waiting for. First it's your face, both cheeks held in his large palms. Quickly it escalates, one dropping to your throat to mirror your own touch. Meanwhile the other falls to your waist, grabbing at the soft flesh there in a half-grope half-pull.
One second you're resting on cave floor the next you're being positioned over Bucky's thighs, hips angles until finally you're encouraged to sit. A pat on your hip telling you to lower your weight.
You drop right over Bucky's thighs, the very tops where his stomach pudges out just a little over his belt and his tank top has been pulled down.
Bucky doesn't let down until he's satisfied he has your full weight, letting out the most delicious groan against your lips as you settle.
"Stupid." He whispers, spitting the word against your lips as if tastes bad. "Sweetheart the only stupid one is me for not doing this sooner."
This time it's your turn to push, your lips harder into his, your chest as tight as possible against him. Your hands finally roam, curving over the detailed path of his body. The rough scar on his shoulder, gentle and slow. Then the slope between his pecs, dragging down hard enough for the tip of your nail to draw a red line. Finally over his ribs, where your fingers slot between each divot.
It's as if the flood gates have been opened, every word you've agonized over, each action you second guessed disappears and is replaced with white hot want. Molten lava in your belly that you never even knew you possessed.
Bucky gasps into your mouth, opening further into your assault.
"Wanna make a map of every spot that makes you sound like that and memorize it." You whisper into his lips.
Bucky nods fervently against you, using his hands to drag you over his crotch, pressing the hard line of bulge to your tingling cunt.
"Whatever you want." He offers, "Study me, dissect me, yell at me about how I'm planting the flowers wrong I don't care." He drags you over him again, swallowing the whimper that bubbles from your lips at the sound. "I'll donate my body to science."
Your brain is slowly falling apart, melting and dripping out of your ears for sure. The rain explodes outside, its downfall turning deafening as the kiss deepens, as if its trying to match your intensity.
Bucky kisses you like it's an attack and a thank you all in the same breath. something between worship and hunger.
Your body feels the most alive it's ever been, for the first time years its as if you're actually in the moment instead of watching it from the outside.
Thunder roars again outside. This time less like a roar and more like the clicking of pieces sliding into place.
It's not until your lungs start to burn that you pull away, lips bruised and kiss bitten. Your chin sore from where the cut caught on stubble. Your body floaty where it rests in Bucky's lap.
The only thing that matches what you feel is the smile playing on Bucky's lips, a subtle curve just sharp enough to make your pulse stutter.
Finally, the rain stops. Tempering off completely within a minute of the last thunderclap.
When you come out of the cave, this time hand in hand, a warm breeze washes over you. Like praise from the life surrounding you.
You can only imagine their glee when Bucky drags you inside his house later, tripping over the stairs in excitement.
There are a few simple reasons you like Bucky.
He likes you for one, that's a pretty good one. If his mumbles when he's balls deep inside you and half drunk on pleasure are to believed, he actually loves you.
He's quiet, but never the kind that makes you feel judged. He's quiet like the plants, always listening, and always ready to offer you the best solution he can find.
He's weird, you might even think he's worse than you are. He's read lord of the rings three times and still refuses to watch the movie. He lights up when you suggest growing plums. Walks into town holding your hand and when people ask if you're dating he just shakes his head. "No," he says, completely straight faced, "I'm being studied."
thank you so much for reading!!!!! I love youuuuuuu!!!
summary: after surviving fifteen brutal months overseas, frank has finally returned home to his wife and children that he loves with an all-consuming devotion, only to meet his nearly one-year-old son who doesn’t yet know who his father is.
warnings: slight angst but not really. fluff. frank is wholeheartedly in love with you and his family. use of pet names (sweetheart, baby girl, baby). domestic!frank. [2k]
The house smelled like garlic, onions, and the tomato sauce simmering low on the stove for nearly two hours. The radio hummed softly in the background — some old rock station Frank liked leaving on whenever he was home. You’d kept it on lately out of habit, the noise helping the house feel less empty. The gentle murmur of the dishwasher filled the pauses between Lisa’s running commentary from the living room, the occasional plastic clatter of toys against hardwood, and Frank Jr.’s happy babbling as he sat on the rug near his sister. ling contentedly. Warm afternoon light spilled through the kitchen windows in long gold streaks, turning the hardwood floors amber, and catching the edges of crayon wrappers and stuffed animals scattered around the coffee table.
You stood in the kitchen with your sleeves pushed up to your elbows, one hand wrapped around a dish towel whilst the other stirred the sauce simmering slowly on the stove. Every few seconds, you glanced toward the living room automatically, checking on the kids without even realising you were doing it. Lisa sat cross-legged on the floor in her favourite pink socks, completely focused on her drawing. Her dark curls were still messy from her earlier nap and breakfast syrup still lingered faintly at the corner of her mouth despite your attempts to wipe it clean. She pressed down hard with her crayons, tongue peeking out slightly in focus as she coloured what was apparently supposed to be your family.
Frank Jr. sat beside her near the couch, chubby legs spread awkwardly as he smacked two toy blocks together with serious concentration. Every so often, he’d lose balance and topple sideways onto the rug only to blink in surprise before pushing himself upright again with determined little grunts. He was getting steadier every day. Walking now — sort of. Not confidently or gracefully, but enough to wobble from the coffee table to your legs if sufficiently motivated by snacks or attention. You still couldn’t quite believe it sometimes.
Frank had gone overseas when you were six months pregnant, and at the time, Frank Jr. had only been a weight beneath your ribs and blurry ultrasound photos folded carefully into envelopes overseas. Now he was nearly one year old and stubbornly trying to walk. Frank had missed everything: the birth, the first smile, the first time he rolled over, the first word that was maybe “mama” or maybe just random noise.
You swallowed hard against the familiar ache in your chest. Fifteen months. Fifteen months since he’d kissed you goodbye in the driveway with one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other spread protectively over your pregnant stomach. You’d survived them somehow: the calls that cut out without warning, the weeks of silence, the fear every time unknown numbers appeared on your phone, and the terrible, quiet ritual of checking the news with your stomach twisted into knots.
You’d mailed photographs constantly: Frank Jr. asleep against your chest, Lisa finger-painting, Frank Jr. in the bathtub covered in soap bubbles, Christmas morning… tiny milestones frozen in glossy little rectangles because it was all you could give him from thousands of miles away. And Frank had written back every chance he got. Short letters usually, his handwriting smudged on rough paper: Miss you. Miss the kids. Tell Lisa daddy loves her. Kiss my boy for me.
“Momma!” Lisa called suddenly from the living room. “Look!”
You leaned around the doorway with a smile. “Lemme see.”
Lisa held up the paper proudly. Four crooked stick figures stood beneath an aggressively yellow sun. “That’s Daddy,” she informed you seriously, pointing at the tallest figure. “He got big boots.”
You laughed softly despite the sudden sting behind your eyes. “Yeah? He does?”
“Mhm.” She nodded firmly. “And this baby Frankie.”
Frank Jr. immediately looked up at the sound of his nickname, blinking wide dark eyes before slamming his blocks together again triumphantly. “Baba!”
Lisa pointed at the smallest figure. “That’s me.”
“I know who you are,” you teased, and she giggled.
Then, after a short moment, she spoke again — but this time, her voice was quieter. “When Daddy gets home… he stay now?”
The question hit you harder than you expected, and your grip tightened slightly on the dish towel. “Yeah, baby,” you said softly, “Daddy’s home now.”
Lisa studied your face carefully like she was checking whether to believe you. Then she nodded once and returned to colouring.
The clock on the microwave read 3:17 PM. He should’ve been there already. Your nerves had become unbearable by noon, and every passing car made your pulse jump, every creak outside sent Lisa scrambling toward the window yelling, “Daddy?!”
Frank Jr. didn’t understand any of it. To him, today was just another day at home with Mama and Lisa. He had no idea his father was about to walk through the door. No idea that somewhere only minutes away was a man who had spent fifteen months surviving war with photos of him folded inside his vest.
You heard the truck before you saw it, the low engine rumbling outside the house making you freeze instantly, every part of your body going still Lisa’s crayon dropped from her hand before she yelled, “Daddy!” She launched upright so fast she nearly slipped in her socks, scrambling toward the front door whilst you stood rooted in place for one stunned second, breath caught painfully in your chest.
Outside, the truck door slammed shut, heavy boots approaching the porch, and then the front door opened. Frank stood there carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder, broad frame filling the doorway completely. He looked older. Not dramatically – not enough that someone else might notice immediately – but you did, and you saw it instantly: the exhaustion carved deeper into his face, the heavier lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders like his body had forgotten how to fully relax. His hair was shorter than before he left, beard slightly outgrown, skin darker from sun and dust and places you tried not to imagine too clearly.
But it was still Frank.
Still your Frank.
And the second his eyes landed on you, something in his expression cracked wide open. Relief. Pure, overwhelming relief.
“Hey, baby girl–” Lisa hit him at full speed before he could finish speaking. Frank dropped the duffel instantly and caught her with both arms, grunting softly from the force as she wrapped herself around his neck. “Whoa– Hey, hey, c’mere…” His voice broke into a rough laugh you hadn’t heard in over a year. “Jesus Christ, look at you…”
Lisa buried her face into his shoulder immediately. “You came home,” she murmured, the words coming muffled against his neck.
Frank closed his eyes, his large hand spreading over the back of her tiny body instinctively, holding her tighter for a second like he needed proof she was real. “Yeah,” he murmured hoarsely. “Yeah, sweetheart. Daddy’s home.”
You stood frozen near the kitchen doorway, suddenly unable to breathe properly. Frank looked up at you over Lisa’s shoulder, and just like that, every wall inside you collapsed. He crossed the room fast, Lisa still clinging to him as he reached you, one hand immediately coming up to your face like he couldn’t help himself. His palm was rough and warm against your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye before he kissed you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
God, he smelled familiar. Soap. Sweat. Cold air. Leather. Frank.
The kiss wasn’t polished or gentle; it was desperate, hungry, fifteen months of missing each other compressed into one moment. When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against yours. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
The question wrecked you for some reason, and you laughed shakily instead of crying. “Took you long enough.”
A rough smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah,” he muttered, thumb brushing against your cheek once again. “Got a little held up.”
Then a small babbling noise came from the living room, and Frank went still. Completely still. His eyes shifted past you slowly to see Frank Jr. sat beside the couch clutching a toy block in one hand, staring openly at the stranger standing in the house. Frank looked terrified — not of combat or war, but of this, of meeting his son.
You watched his throat move hard when he swallowed. “That him?” he asked quietly, voice suddenly rougher than before. And God, the look on his face… it was like somebody had reached inside his chest and split him open. Frank Jr. blinked at him curiously. Then immediately shoved the toy block into his own mouth. A startled laugh escaped Frank before he could stop it. “Jesus,” he whispered softly, his eyes glassing over almost instantly. “That’s my boy?” You nodded, your own tears burning now, and Frank carefully lowered Lisa onto the floor without taking his eyes off the baby. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured distractedly when she protested. “Lemme see your brother, huh?”
Then slowly, he crouched down. His massive frame looked almost awkward lowered to the carpet, his forearms resting against his knees whilst he stared at his son like he couldn’t process him fully. Frank Jr. stared back cautiously, a smile – small, uneven, real – pulled at Frank’s mouth.
“Hey there, buddy.” The baby frowned immediately. Not crying yet, just uncertain, but Frank’s smile slightly faltered nonetheless. You could practically see the heartbreak flicker across his face at the realisation that this little boy had absolutely no idea who he was. “Hey,” Frank tried again softly. “It’s alright.”
Frank Jr. immediately looked up at you instead “Mama.”
Instead of pulling away, Frank exhaled quietly through his nose and nodded once like he understood. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that’s Momma.”
Lisa climbed into Frank’s side immediately. “That’s Daddy,” she informed her brother very seriously.
Frank let out another soft laugh. “Thanks, Lis,” he murmured gently, though Frank Jr. continued staring suspiciously. Then, very slowly, Frank reached into the pocket of his jacket. “I got somethin’ for you.” He pulled out a small stuffed bear – worn slightly from being packed away too long – and held the bear out carefully toward Frank Jr.
The baby stared at it, then at Frank, then back at the bear. Tiny fingers reached forward hesitantly before grabbing it with a happy noise. “Baba!”
Frank laughed immediately, the sound warm, rough, and completely wrecked with emotion. “Yeah?” he whispered. “You like that?” Frank Jr. smacked the bear against the floor enthusiastically, and Frank looked like he might cry. Instead, he sat there on the carpet staring at his son with this almost disbelieving tenderness, one hand covering his mouth briefly as he shook his head. “He walkin’?” he asked quietly without looking away.
You smiled with a light nod, moving to kneel on the floor opposite your son. “You wanna show Daddy?” You held your hands out towards him and Frank Jr. immediately used the couch to pull himself upright.
Frank’s eyes widened like he’d just witnessed something impossible. “No shit…” The baby wobbled dangerously before taking several uneven little steps toward you, and Frank watched every movement like it physically hurt to miss even one second of it. “That’s my boy.”
Not bragging. Not ego. Just awe. Pure awe.
And when Frank Jr. stumbled halfway there, Frank reacted instantly on instinct — lunging forward to steady him before he hit the floor. However, the baby startled hard at the sudden movement, and his face crumpled.
“Oh, hey– Hey, hey, no, no–” Frank froze immediately, hands hovering uncertainly. Frank Jr. burst into tears. You moved automatically, but Frank beat you to it. “Hey, buddy– Alright, alright…” His voice changed instantly – softer than you’d maybe ever heard it – and scooped his baby into his arms.
Frank Jr. cried harder for exactly three seconds before confusion interrupted him, because Frank was holding him against this huge warm chest, rocking instinctively side to side with the same natural rhythm he’d used on Lisa years ago.
“It’s okay,” Frank murmured quietly against his son’s hair. “Daddy’s got you.”
The room went silent except for Frank Jr.’s sniffles and Frank’s occasional whispers of reassurance, but when tiny fingers grabbed onto Frank’s shirt, he almost stopped breathing. You saw it happen — the exact moment his heart completely gave out inside his chest. His eyes shut briefly, one arm wrapping tighter around the baby automatically and holding him close like something precious.
And when Frank Jr. finally settled enough to rest his head against Frank’s shoulder uncertainly, Frank looked over at you with an expression so open and overwhelmed it nearly destroyed you.
He didn’t look like a Marine or a soldier. Just a husband holding his son for the first time whilst his daughter leaned against his side and you stood only a few feet away.
And for the first time in fifteen months, Frank Castle was home.
⤿ PETER PARKER works like a dog on his classwork, so you of course wanted to hang out on the night before he had two exams. Not that he was complaining, hearing your voice was the best part of his day.
!! fluff. yapper!reader. gf!reader. no real warnings. peter being so patient. the reader is me, i love writing yapper readers bc thats what i do all the time. taglist open. ENJOY.
Peter had three tabs open, two notebooks spread across his desk, and a mechanical pencil balanced precariously between his teeth while he reread the same physics equation for the fourth time.
He was absolutely, undeniably stuck.
Behind him, you lay across his bed on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, scrolling through your phone like it personally owed you entertainment. The soft hum of the desk lamp and the faint city noise drifting through his slightly cracked window made the room feel calm, focused, studious.
At least, it would have been calm and focused.
“Okay, so I was thinking,” you started, not looking up from your phone, your voice already carrying the telltale tone that meant Peter was about to receive a full stream of consciousness, “if pigeons had jobs in New York, what do you think they’d do?”
Peter paused mid scribble.
He didn’t turn around yet, mostly because he knew if he did, he’d get distracted by the way your cheek squished against his pillow or how you gestured dramatically even when no one was looking at you.
“…Jobs?” he repeated slowly.
“Yeah,” you said immediately, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Like personality-wise. I think some pigeons would definitely be construction workers because they already stand around on scaffolding like they’re supervising.”
Peter pressed his lips together, fighting the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth while he highlighted part of his notes.
“Uh-huh,” he hummed, attempting to sound invested but focused.
“And some of them would be, like, crypto bro finance guys,” you continued, now fully sitting up. “Because they’re aggressive and lowkey terrifying and move in packs.”
Peter snorted before he could stop himself, but he quickly covered it with a cough, eyes dropping back to his homework like it had personally offended him.
“That’s… surprisingly accurate,” he admitted.
You gasped dramatically, tossing your phone onto the bed. “THANK you. I’ve been thinking about this since we saw that one pigeon bully that pretzel guy earlier.”
Peter’s shoulders shook slightly as he wrote out another line of calculations, your voice folding easily into the background noise of his concentration. He had discovered, over months of dating you, that your talking didn’t actually distract him as much as it probably should have. It was rhythmic and comforting, like white noise that occasionally said absolutely insane things.
You flipped around onto your back, staring at the ceiling now with your head snug in his pillow.
“Also,” you added casually, “if you had to survive an apocalypse with one Avenger, who would you pick?”
Peter’s pencil froze, his throat tight as he swallowed. Was this a subtle hint... was this you trying to break the news that you
“…Hypothetically?” he asked carefully.
“Yeah, obviously hypothetically,” you said, rolling onto your side to look at his back. “Like personality compatibility, survival skills, emotional support, snacks they’d probably pack, you know. The essentials.”
Peter scratched the back of his neck, heart doing a weird little anxious flip because conversations about Avengers always felt like walking a tightrope while blindfolded.
“I mean… Captain America seems reliable,” he answered cautiously.
You nodded seriously, like you were judging him for a high stakes job.
“Good choice. Stable, has dad energy, and he'd probably ration food properly,” you agreed oh so seriously. “I personally would pick Thor because if I’m gonna die, I want to die next to someone who looks like that. Plus, he's a god.. I feel like that is pretty helpful. But also Spider-Man because he could web us onto, like, a plane overhead and then boom we're free.”
Peter choked on air, causing a violent cough to rattle out of him while you sat up immediately.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” you asked, scrambling off the bed and padding over to him.
“Yeah,” he wheezed, waving you off while his ears burned bright red. “I’m good. Just-.. breathed wrong.”
You squinted at him suspiciously but accepted the answer, leaning against the side of his desk and absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of his hoodie that he’d left hanging on his chair.
“Y'know,” you hummed thoughtfully, “you’d actually be really good in an apocalypse!”
Peter blinked at his notebook, throat tightening.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, forcing himself to keep writing.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “You’re smart, you’re weirdly calm under pressure, and you’d definitely figure out how to make, like, a water filtration system out of a Brita and duct tape.”
He smiled despite himself. “That feels very specific.”
“I have faith in you!” you cheered, bumping his shoulder lightly. "Plus I've thought of this a lot, I also have planned spots where we can go during an apocalypse."
The warmth of it lingered longer than it should have, settling somewhere deep in his chest while he stared at a formula that suddenly looked a lot less intimidating.
You drifted back toward the bed after a moment, grabbing your phone again, but the silence only lasted about 45 seconds.
“Okay wait,” you piped up again, gasping softly. “Do you think sharks know they’re scary?”
Peter closed his eyes, slowly exhaling through his nose to compose himself. “…What?”
“Like, are they self-aware of their brand?” you continued, fully committed now. “Because if I were a shark, I think I’d lean into it. Like, I’d swim slower for dramatic effect, you know? Make my own scary soundtrack, like hum it while I chase people.”
Peter finally turned his chair around, eyebrows raised, completely abandoning the illusion that he was still trying to maintain strict academic discipline.
“You’ve thought about this,” he practically interrogated, his arms crossing over his chest as that boyish smile poked into his cheeks.
“Duh.”
“Of course you have.”
You grinned at him, bright and unashamed, and he felt that familiar, soft punch of affection hit him square in the ribs.
“So... Do you think they know?” you pressed.
“I… don’t think sharks have a concept of branding,” he answered carefully.
“That’s what Big Shark wants you to think,” you shot back instantly.
Peter laughed, the sound escaping him before he could stop it, loud and warm and completely unfiltered. He scrubbed a hand over his face afterward, shaking his head.
“You’re impossible,” he smiled, his eyes full with a fondness that no one else was able to bring out of him, not even his Aunt May.
“You love it,” you replied, pointing at him accusingly.
He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out... because you honestly weren’t wrong, and trying to deny it would be silly considering everyone who saw the two of you knew he was whipped.
He turned back to his homework, cheeks still faintly pink, and you resumed your gentle rambling, now narrating some bizarre video you’d started watching about a guy who tried to teach his cat how to use a treadmill.
Peter found himself nodding occasionally, humming in response at the right moments, his pencil moving faster across the page now as the numbers finally began to make sense.
Your voice filled every quiet gap in the room, weaving between the scratching of graphite and the distant honking from the street below. It was chaotic and unpredictable and sometimes made absolutely zero logical sense. Your topics of choice ranged from a show you wanted to watch with him, to how the difference between a space heater and an air fryer is just the size of the room.
It also made the tiny Queens apartment feel like home in a way he had never been able to explain out loud.
“…and then the cat just sits down,” you were saying, incredulous. “Like fully protests. Just loaf mode. Completely uncooperative.”
“Valid,” Peter murmured, solving the last step of his equation.
You glanced up, surprised he answered with a mildly comprehensible response instead of a grunt. “Are you almost done?” you asked hopefully.
“Yeah, actually,” he muttered, surprised at himself as he set his pencil down and stretched his arms above his head, joints popping quietly. “That… went way faster than I thought.”
You beamed like you’d personally contributed to scientific progress.
“I’m motivational, what can I say!” you grinned proudly with a wink.
“You are,” he agreed without hesitation.
Your expression softened slightly, caught off guard by how quickly he said it, and you walked over again, leaning against his shoulder while peeking down at his notebook like you could decipher any of it.
“This looks fake,” you grumbled, your brows furrowed and nose scrunched while you tried to decipher what looked like a serial killer's letter.
“It’s physics.”
“Same thing.”
Peter laughed softly, turning his chair just enough so you could lean more comfortably against him. Your hair brushed his cheek, and he tried very hard to ignore how his heartbeat immediately picked up like it was trying to win a race.
You traced one of the equations lightly with your finger.
“I like hanging out while you do homework,” you admitted. “Even if I’m literally just talking about sharks and pigeons.”
Peter glanced at you, his expression going warm and a little shy around the edges.
“I like it too,” he mumbled quietly, his fingers lazily running up and down your forearm while you flipped through his notebook.
You smiled, satisfied, before straightening suddenly like you’d just remembered something critically important.
“OH WAIT,” you exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you about the dream I had where you and Spider-Man were in a baking competition together-..”
Peter’s entire body locked.
“...and you were both making red velvet cupcakes but yours had googly eyes for some reason-..”
“Googly eyes?” he repeated faintly.
“Yeah, I don't know why but I liked how it looked! Anyway, Spider-Man kept cheating by using his webs to grab ingredients from across the kitchen but the judges didn’t notice,” you continued, completely oblivious to the existential crisis forming three inches away from you. “And then you got really competitive about it and started frosting aggressively.”
Peter stared straight ahead, blinking slowly. “…Aggressively frosting,” he echoed.
“It was intense,” you confirmed solemnly, nodding your head slowly like you were reliving something anxiety inducing.
He pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, pure love flooding through him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy. He reached over without thinking, tugging you gently closer until you bumped into his side.
You leaned into him automatically, still mid-explanation about how dream judge Gordon Ramsay had apparently disqualified Spider-Man for “unsanitary web usage.”
Peter listened, letting your words tumble over him like sunlight through an open window, warm and bright and impossible to ignore.
And while you kept talking about cupcake sabotage and pigeon employment and the ethical implications of self-aware sharks, he realized he hadn’t thought about how tired he was, or how stressed he’d been about his grades, or how heavy everything else had felt lately.
All he could think about was the sound of your voice and how he never, ever wanted it to stop.
