Hi! If you’re taking prompts from that list how about the “I love the feel of your hair through my fingers” with Bucky? 😉

whirlybirbs:

Bucky, really, was the physical embodiment of hesitancy most days – and you couldn’t blame him. He had, after all, survived a great deal of trauma in his century-long life. He was coming into himself, finding his footing, finding out who he really was. Not Bucky, not James. Just… himself. 

Touching was a luxury most people didn’t realize they possessed until it was stripped away from them. Adversely, Bucky hadn’t realized what a luxury it truly was until he was so suddenly allowed it. Physical contact with him – the asset, the killer, the Winter Soldier – was prohibited and advised strongly against under H.Y.D.R.A’s stifling boot. He was a dog on choke-chain back then, lashing out when someone neared. He knew nothing but pain and fear back then. 

They muzzled him for a reason.

You’re a touchy person and at first, Bucky hates you. He hates how you smile and touch his arm like the hand attached hasn’t snapped the necks of men three times your size. He hates how you say his name and ask him how he is. He’s horrible, ruined with nightmares, but you don’t need to hear it to know. You treat him like he isn’t fragile, you treat him without that pitiful look Nat is always serving him. 

You’re just… you. 

He thinks it’s sinful that you’re just naturally so nice. And he doesn’t trust you.

But, one day, you realize that touch isn’t well received. He was trying to decide what to eat. He was focused – hyper focused, really, on the pickles in the back of the fridge – because decisions are hard when you’ve been tube-fed slop for forty years by men in lab coats.

He doesn’t hear you, and his entire body recoils in a terrible flinch and you stammer out a wide-eyed apology for scaring him, and Bucky snaps the handle off the fridge in the lounge at the words.

Somehow, though, you’d coaxed him back to your hands with reassurance and maybe one too many late-night television binges. He learns you’re not bad, you don’t have a motive. He slowly begins to trust you – and before you even know it, the super-soldier is no longer some scarred fight-dog with barred teeth. Instead, he’s a lap dog. He follows you, chatters to you, laughs with you. 

You’re the first person, aside from Steve and Sam, he calls a friend in the Avengers compound.

(Yeah, listen, he’s aware Steve sneaks him looks when you guys sit close on the couch. He’s aware you’re pretty and smell like lilacs and you make him happy. He’s aware, okay? Fuckin’ punk thinks he’s smooth, telling Buck to ask you out. Bucky doesn’t do that, not anymore. Romance is dead.)

But, you don’t mind. 

“Your hair is getting long.”

Bucky blinks. “Is that bad?”

“You kinda look like Jesus,” you say, tilting your head and looking at him in the glow of the television. His features look softer, “Which isn’t a bad thing. Jesus was a good guy.”

“You’ve met him?”

It cracks a smile out of you and Bucky feels a little proud. 

You hesitantly reach, fingers curling into his hair to sweep is back off his neck. Bucky swallows, jaw clenching at the sudden contact, but within the beat of a moment he’s remembering it’s you, not some slack-jawed fuck trying to strap his head down for a memory wipe. 

“Sorry.”

“You say that too much.”

“I touch too much,” you say, frowning, “I know you’re not a fan. I’m sorry. I gotta… get better about it.”

“I don’t mind it,” he says slowly, “Just gotta remind myself, y’know?”

You don’t need him to explain. 

A nod. And you wring your fingers. And Bucky isn’t satisfied with that reaction. So, he snags your hand and unceremoniously dumps it atop his head. And you blink at him.

“You can touch my hair. S’ just hair.”

“It’s nice hair,” you say, “Nicer than mine.”

“Not true.”

“Do you use L’oreal?”

Bucky cracks a smile at that, and you curl your fingers into the thick brunette waves. He leans back into the couch cushions, legs spread. He has a bad habit of taking up space. You don’t mind, though, because you’re crisscross applesauce and nearly in his lap.

“Feels good,” he finally says after a few minutes of you casually un-knotting the unkempt mess. The snarls are nothing, really, and he smells a little bit like Steve. You wonder if he’s borrowing his hair product. The two are nearly joined at the hip. It wouldn’t surprise you. 

“If it’s annoying, you can tell me to stop.”

“Don’t. I like how it feels.”

You grin at that, and enjoy the lack of hesitancy in this small moment of intimacy.