To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is.
"You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.
ღ pairing: bucky barnes x wife!reader
ღ warnings: maaybe steamy and also sad, small thunderbolts spoilers, writing errors soooorry
"Buck?"
Your voice echoes in the warmly lit apartment. It's just some minutes past midnight, and in the air a gentle thrum permeates. A kind of stillness filled with exhaustion and comfort at the same time.
"Yes, baby?" Bucky answers almost immediately.
Even though he calls out from your bedroom, you can hear the fatigue beneath his tone. It's almost unnoticeable—he always tries to be put together whenever he talks to you and you hate it—but years of being by his side made you a whisperer or his tell tale signs. From the low lilt of his voice to the slight slur at the end of his sentence, you're no stranger to when Bucky needs to sleep.
Your husband had arrived home late today, presumably working on the whirlwind that was impeaching Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. He comes home disheveled these days, hair tousled with an aching frown on his lips—one you always try to kiss away. You can tell that this is all weighing down on him. The pressure, the bureaucracy, the slinking around your words to be sharp and polite at the same time. And the damn paperwork. It was endless. You don't think you've ever seen this much paper lying around your home and it was the 21st century.
Amongst all the papers and packets that your husband has very much not read yet, you he's been making talks to Valentina's assistant, Mel. He told you about what happened at the gala, how he attempted to convince her to switch sides. Did it go the way he expected? Mm, sort of?
It was endearing, in a way. Bucky always tried to be earnest, though sometimes it's difficult for him to spell out the right words—the right cues. You felt bad for the pout he sent your way as you giggled at his retelling. It took a few words and some kisses to convince him that he was not that awkward, and that you were sure Mel would give him something at least. The way Valentina was moving right now, there was bound to be a reason.
The man had since retired to your bedroom after some heavy coaxing. Bucky was adamant on staying out to help you clean up (he felt guilty for dropping chili sauce on your precious counters), but you didn't let him continue his sentence, knowing just how tired he was. You ushered him back, promising to join the man with an extra minute of head scratches if he followed your words. That seemed to do it, as he finally made his way to the bedroom with a small chuckle echoing.
While you were wiping down the counters, your eyes glanced towards Congressman Gary's dossier on de Fontaine. Less than the actual words on the paper, you focused on the mush of red staining the pristine white. You shook your head at the sight. Unfortunately, you don't think you've ever seen your husband finish a packet from top to bottom.
Not knowing what to do with it, you decide to just ask him. Though you think he’ll most likely tell you to throw it and every other coming packet down the trash, seeing how things are going now.
While trekking your way to him, you can hear him shuffling around in your bed, no doubt leaning onto it for a semblance of support.
When you finally arrive at your destination, the sight that greets you is nothing less than breathtaking—you say this to just about anything that Bucky does.
He's now dressed only in his white tank, evidence of the previous chili-dog accident thrown away into the laundry basket (to which he later promises to scrub it out, of course). He's got his legs spread and was, just as you had thought, leaning back on his arms against the bed. This angle lets you stare at the up and down motion of his breathing, the muscles flexing with tension. And God if this were any other night, you'd take him right then and there.
Once you're finally satisfied with your ogling—which you purposely timed in a way that lets your husband know it was much more than a simple glance—you finally speak.
"You left your packet on the counter. Didn't know if you wanted me to put it away 'cuz of the stain on it or…"
You trail off, giving him a sheepish smile as you leaned against the door with your arms crossed. Bucky's whole body just falls at the mention of the packet, his metal arm running a hand through his hair in quiet frustration. He looks done with it. It's like he's fighting the sleep right out of his eyes, and the dim bedside lamps don't help as it only accentuates a certain gauntness in his skin. Goddamn, he was trying to real hard here, but there was always an itch at the thought of only relying on the legal system. Valentina was a cunning and powerful woman. Bucky just couldn't see how a packet would overturn her entirely.
Without opening his eyes, his hand pats the top of his thigh, and you are compelled to follow that rhythm. You take quick but quiet steps to close the distance, finding yourself standing in between his legs while your hands fall on his broad shoulders. You're careful when you place your right hand down where his skin meets metal. Though he says it doesn't hurt as much as it used to, you always believe in treating his scars with the utmost kindness and care. He moves instantly, leaning forward to drag his hands down the curve of your waist before gripping the back of your thighs like he never wanted to let you go.
When he looks up at you, you see the smidge of defeat in his eyes, and the tired smile he sends your way just makes you want to cradle the man in your arms for eternity.
"Don't think this old man is cut out for this type'f thing, sweetheart." Bucky mutters almost inaudibly.
He tips his head back as he quietens, as if the weight above his head is too heavy to carry.
Despite the joke on his age, there's a small drop on your heart. It's different when Bucky says he's tired. It's because he's been doing life for a very long 110 years. You've always encouraged him to pursue everything he wanted, from the smallest thing like learning how to cook his favorite dishes to bigger ones like campaigning to be a congress member. So when he says that he doesn't feel fit to continue, a piece of your heart breaks because you understand how hard he tries. To move on, to become a better man.
You lift your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, pushing forward lightly to let him rest on your stomach so it doesn't ache.
You shake your head while combing through his hair, pushing the loose strands behind his ear while gently replying, "Silly, everybody starts somewhere."
Bucky shakes his head against your waist, and you have to hold back a giggle at the sensation and the gesture. Sometimes your husband does things that are very childlike, and not only is it absolutely adorable, but it reminds you that he is just a human like everybody else.
"Feels like I haven't even stepped foot while everybody else is on the goddamn finishing line." He mumbles. Its nearly inaudible, but you can hear loud and clear the weight behind those words.
"That's not true." Your protest is as much convicted as it is true, and you make them known as you pull away from his grip, grabbing his shoulders to straddle him. Both your knees are bent beside his thighs, setting comfortably on the edge of the bed. It's an extremely familiar position—in many contexts. But it's the most intimate to you. Vulnerable. To be mere breathes away from his face, all of you and all of him meeting in the middle.
You know what he says isn't true because Bucky doesn't do things half-assed. He worked his way up on a very, very difficult campaign, rising above in a world that doesn't always make space for him. He has made it so far, from the Winter Soldier to Congressman Barnes. It hurts you that despite everything, he still has doubts about himself.
Even when he's hurting he holds you in his arms so gently, one arm propping behind your back while the metal one is stationed right on your neck, trailing down to your waist to join the other. Bucky pushes his face into your neck, molding it perfectly into the crook that was made for him. You run your fingers through his hair in response, wishing to relieve all the built up tension.
He breathes in your scent, nosing the skin like that mere contact could calm him down. And you feel the way he deflates beneath you, breath tensing—anticipating—as if he were scared of what he wanted to say next. The words he uttered then were so soft, yet so convicted at the same time. It sounded like he already knew it would happen. "If I went back out in the field.. would you be angry?"
Your fingers came to a pause, lips dropping into a small pout. The man slowly lifts his head up again to see why you've gone quiet and he can't help but give you a small kiss to soothe the upset.
Despite the slightly uncomfortable shift in your chest, you couldn't say you were surprised about his confession. Bucky had always been a man of action more than he was with words. He carries his promises in the way he moves. To repent, to love, to forgive. His silence spoke more than any word ever could. So it's not new to you that his sense of justice is rooted in physically fighting for it. Though you hated seeing him hurt, you loved it even more when he had that gratified smile and a look in his eyes that showed you he was proud of the man he became. You could never stop him from doing what he thought was right.
Toying with the chain of his dog tags you sighed, shaking your head in acceptance, "Worried maybe.. but never angry."
Bucky took your right hand off his chain and placed it on his cheek, softly urging you to look him in the eyes. He wanted to hear you say that right to his face. To look at the truth, the hurt and the apprehension. He wanted to understand you beyond the words that came out of your mouth.
"You mean that, sweetheart?" He kissed your palm like it was glass, savoring every line and crease as if it was heaven beneath his lips. He stopped particularly longer when he met your ring finger, where a golden band had sat comfortably for years.
Bucky was ready to see the light dim in you—he knew you didn't enjoy seeing him go back out there after everything he went through. He was ready to use everything in him to spark it again, to save whatever trust you had left in you.
But he was utterly surprised to see the pure acceptance in your eyes. That kind of willingness to stay beside him along the ride, no matter the bumps and distance in between. You looked at him like you were ready to weather the storms and carry the weight of the world with him—if not for him.
Because this is what love is. Love gives and lets go without seeking recognition, without seeking for something in return. You love because you have the capability to—to make space and celebrate another flourishing in your presence.
Being with Bucky was never about what you could get, but what you could offer him.
And so in love's quiet surrender you learn to accept without condition. To love without judgement, without the need to change him. Not just whenever he makes you laugh or smile, but all of his darkness. His past, his anger, his sadness. You do not desire for him to become someone else because you understand that he is enough as he is.
"You can be anything you want and I'd still be here to love you." It was your promise, sealed with a gentle kiss on his lips.
And suddenly it wasn't just him against the world. Wasn't just the darkness creeping into his life, never with mercy, never with kindness. There was you at the end of the tunnel, holding out your hand for him. A chance at salvation.
You could be that for him. A saving grace, a friend, a lover. You'd be anything for him if it meant you could see that rare sight of his smile again.
There is no future without him in it.
He tightens his grip around your waist, arms snaking their way beneath your pajamas to touch the skin. Not the bruising, desperate kind, but a touch that grounds him in the moment. That allows him to feel every single emotion following your confession. You arch against him lightly, laying your palm against his clothed chest when the cool metal of both his arm and the ring on the right meet your skin. But it only makes you smile into his lips, remembering that small yet incredibly meaningful detail.
He wears his wedding ring on the right instead of the left.
Bucky told you that it was because he wanted to always feel the weight on his skin. Not the phantom one on his left, but that real, wrapping sensation, so that he'd never forget one of the happiest moments of his life. So he’d never forget that there was someone waiting for him.
Bucky continues to kiss you with leisure, humming in satisfaction when your hands run up and down from the base of his neck to the top of his head. He pushed your body impossibly close, wanting to feel each and every part of you.
When he is finally satisfied with your loving, he pulls away to face you and you see that mischievous look return to his eyes. He leans in yet again, trailing little pecks that trace your jawline before asking,
"Even if I was a paperboy?"
Now this brings an unexpected laugh out of you.
You know for a fact that Bucky actually used to be paperboy back in the 30s. It's a story that you hold safe in your heart, a glimpse of a reality lost to time. You remember the first time he told you about it back before the two of you got married and the pure elation you felt. Although you knew paperboys did exist, it never settled in your head that they were real real. More than that, you never pictured that your very own husband was one back in his days.
With your head thrown back in glee, Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of you. He loved your smile, even more when he was the reason for it. His clear blue eyes took in the very image of you, everything from the hearty breathes you were releasing, the crease of your lips to the way your throat bobbed. He would trade the world for the sound of your laughter and the stars for that glimmer in your eyes.
"Oh I can just imagine little Bucky riding around the neighborhood in his overalls and newsboy cap. I bet you made eeeveryone fall for how cute you were."
It was meant to be a tease on your husband's charming nature, but deep down you genuinely believed that to be true. And you were proven right when he shrugged in response, that annoyingly handsome smug smile settling deeply on his face.
"How'd you think I sold out everytime, doll?"
It's times like these where you see the light come back into his eyes. The nonchalance, the proud puff in his chest. He has such a beautiful smile. The most beautiful.
The surge of love you felt propelled you to wrap your arms around his head, pushing his face to rest on your plush chest. "You were a charmer weren't you?"
"Born and raised, ma'am." He mumbled against the soft fabric of your top. His hand drifted down to the bottom of your ass, caressing in a silent promise for the coming night.
You chased after it, placing your hand on top of his and then dragging your fingers up lazily, tracing the vein on his bicep. It teetered on his shoulder now, where you could feel him shudder and then flex beneath. With this gesture you felt the utter pride and masculinity showing. "You're not even denying it!" You exclaim as his lips move away from that comfortable spot on your chest to press a thousand pecks on your neck and then cheek. His beard—the one that you begged for him not to shave off—ticked you pleasantly. Once he realizes this fact though, he cheekily shakes his head, and you squirmed to get away only for him to snake a hand behind your head to softly guide you back to his lips.
You sighed against him, closing your eyes to savor the feeling. "The man of my dreams."
"You dreaming of me?" It took him a while to answer you, too occupied with tasting your sweetness. He whispered the tease right beside your ears, his lips mapping the shell as he softly nipped your earlobe.
"Every night Bucky."
WOWWWW thunderbolts Bucky changed my life you guys (hello prince hair). I initially wanted to write a playful little moment with him but got a tiiiny bit emotional 😅
ALSO ITS CANON TO MEEE that Bucky used to be a paperboy. I literally couldn't stop laughing at the thought
Summary: Bob doesn’t do well with compliments—especially not when they come casually, softly, sincerely, from you.
It started so innocently.
You were both in the Tower’s kitchen late at night, the rest of the team long gone, off doing their own thing or passed out in their rooms, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of Bob’s spoon as he stirred honey into his tea. The light above the stove was the only one on, casting him in this dim, golden glow that made him look soft, and safe, and—
“Fuck, you are so pretty,” you murmured, not even really meaning to say it out loud. Honestly, you thought you said it in your head.
Bob froze mid-stir. His hand stopped moving, his shoulders tense, and his head turned toward you just slightly—like a deer caught in a compliment. “…What?”
You looked up from your mug, confused for a second—until you realized shit I said that out loud. “You’re pretty, like so pretty” you repeated, gently, smiling with a slight eye roll like it wasn’t a big deal. Because to you, it wasn’t. Not in the way it should have been. But Bob? He looked at you like you had just gave him the moon.
“I—” he stammered, feeling his heart rate spike and his palms getting sweat, he doesn't realize the spoon slipped from his grip until a slight clink echoed between the two of you as the spoon fell into the mug. “You think—me?”
“Who else would I be talking to? It's just you here honey” you asked, leaning against the counter. “You’re literally glowing right now. I feel like I need to be paying someone just to stand next to you.”
He blinked. Blinked again. And then backed up two whole steps like he couldn't breathe the same air as you. “You can’t just say that” he whispered, like it was scandalous. “That I mean -- that's just dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” you laughed. “It’s a compliment, Bob.”
“No, it’s a threat to my emotional stability. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you understand how fast my brain is spiraling right now?” He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, only making it worse. “My entire internal monologue is just screaming, ‘She called me pretty, act normal, don’t faint, don’t cry, don’t propose—’”
You nearly choked on your tea. “Propose?”
He clapped his hand over his mouth like he’d just revealed state secrets. “Forget I said that” he muttered into his palm before waving his hand around as he rambles. “Strike it from the record. Rewind time. Go back thirty seconds before I embarrassed myself into a new dimension.”
“Bob.” You stepped forward and gently tugged his hand away from his mouth. “I meant it. You’re pretty. Not just during your glow-in-the-dark god-mode or whatever. You’ve got those kind, beautiful blue eyes, and a warm smile, and your hair does that floppy thing when it’s humid—”
“I hate the floppy thing,” he whispered. “I love the floppy thing,” you corrected, and watched as his cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable red. “You’re gonna kill me with your sweetness,” he muttered, looking down at the floor like it had better answers than you did.
You leaned in closer, nose nearly brushing his, making him look back at you. “Then I guess I’ll have to revive you with kisses.” That earned you a stunned blink, a sputtered half-laugh, and then a wide, dorky smile that split his entire face open like sunlight escaping through clouds.
“…Okay,” he said breathlessly. “But fair warning. You call me pretty again and I’m legally required to build you a shrine.” You grinned and blush slightly. “Noted.”
As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3
He doesn’t fall in love easily—but when he does, it’s forever. He’s not just loving you, he’s choosing you, every day.
• Sometimes you catch him staring at you like you’re a lighthouse in a storm he didn’t think he’d survive.
• When you’re tired, he tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers, “You’re safe. Just rest.”
• Likes sitting in the kitchen with you in the mornings, both of you in your pajamas, reading in silence while the coffee brews.
• His love language? Acts of service. Fixes squeaky doors, replaces broken zippers, makes sure the knives are always sharp—quiet things that say “I see you. I’m here.”
• You dance with him to old jazz music in the living room, barefoot, heart to heart. It’s slow, swaying, like time has forgiven him for a while.
• He has nightmares sometimes. When he wakes up shaking, you hold him while he clings to you like you’re his anchor.
• Occasionally he speaks in Russian or Romanian in his sleep—and though you don’t understand the words, you understand the longing in his voice.
• He keeps a photo of you in his wallet. It’s worn at the corners from how often he takes it out to look at it when he thinks you’re not watching.
• Once, you asked him what he wants most out of life. He just said, “To grow old with you. To have the time to.”
