#fagshgdhshd

[rillils]

wakandan kids making bucky flower crowns and braiding his hair

bless you, nonnie 💕💕 here are 1443 words of pure wakanda husbands cheese for you :3

-

There are no less than a dozen children working around Bucky, and on him, and over him, swarming and buzzing amongst each other like busy little bees.

Steve reckons they’ve set up quite the system for the occasion. It could be worse – three of the older girls are in charge of Bucky’s hair, little Anathi only stopped crying the minute she was (reluctantly) appointed assistant comb-holder, Lwazi will probably need disentangling from two yards of ribbon before long, and the rest of them keep coming back with baskets and baskets brimming with fresh flowers.

It’s like watching a painting come to life, bright voices and giggles and swirls of color on the backdrop of golden sunshine, chaos and beauty at their finest, and Steve could stare for hours, happily mesmerized by it all.

As it is, he barely gets to sit down on the grassy ground before Bucky’s onto him. His eyes appraise Steve for a few long moments, glinting with amusement and no small amount of exasperation. They’re so blue today, god, they put the summer sky to shame.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Bucky reminds him, making a visible effort to keep still while the girls braid tiny blossoms into his hair. He’s got a child sitting in the circle of his crossed legs, Mbulelo – turned eight just last month, he’s a proper big boy now – weaving flowers into a chain with deft fingers, and trying to fend off a very interested baby goat in the meantime.

“You’re not gonna kick me out of the party, are you?” Steve grins back, reaching over to grab the furry offender – Rob, of course it’s Rob, the little rascal – before it can snatch any more flowers from Mbulelo’s basket.

Bucky considers him, taking in the squirming goat in his arms, the beard Steve made sure to trim neatly for once, and what he hopes are his most earnest Earnest Eyes.

“Mm, perhaps I’ll let you stay after all,” Bucky decrees at last, all benevolence and a sprinkle of mischief.

Mbulelo chimes in a moment later, twisting the long stem of a daisy into his chain, and Bucky replies in his own, still tentative Xhosa, causing them both to laugh. It’s warm – so warm Steve feels goosebumps race across his skin, tingling up his arms, at the nape of his neck.

No matter what the movies say the future will look like, in twenty, fifty, in seventy years, Steve already knows what he wants the next century to look like for him. And what he wants, is nothing less than a hundred years of this: of Bucky’s nose crinkling when he laughs, of his chest shaking, and his face, his cheeks, his mouth, alight from the simplest joys.

He wants to get used to it – the sound of Bucky’s happiness, in all its shapes and hues, the wordless, the Yes, the I love you, the C’mere, and the softest, most intimate breath of Steve, and Steve, Again – and he hopes he never will get used to it. Let Bucky’s laughter always shiver warmly down his spine, each time like a new pleasure, never taken for granted.

“Mbulelo says he’ll make you a flower crown, too,” Bucky informs him, blue eyes glittering in the bright sun, “if you behave yourself.”

Steve pictures it; both of them crowned with matching shades of pink, and orange, and white and buttery yellow; their fingers entwined; Bucky’s perfect lips when he’ll say, I do.

He settles Rob more comfortably in his arms, and drops a kiss between Rob’s fuzzy ears, his gaze never leaving Bucky’s own. “I promise.”

--

In the cool shade of their bedroom, Steve cups Bucky’s face in his hands and kisses him, deep and gentle, dipping his tongue into the softness of Bucky’s mouth to discover the lingering aftertaste of mint behind his teeth.

“Steve,” is the sweet sigh against his lips – and he’s kissing Bucky’s smile, and his thumbs catch in Bucky’s dimples, twin almonds hidden like precious secrets under Bucky’s beard.

“God, god, I love you–“

Steve’s hand strays naturally, following the sinuous curve of Bucky’s neck, seeking the dark silk of his hair – but Bucky catches his wrist, pulling away from him abruptly.

“Nope,” he says, popping his glistening lips, “I just got my hair done and you’re not allowed to wreck it yet.” He pats Steve’s cheek consolingly, gracing him with one last peck on the tip of his nose. “Come on, you might as well help me get dressed while you’re here.”

And Steve, because he’s Steve, and this is Bucky, obliges.

The pants are easy enough; getting Bucky into the matching tunic without disturbing his carefully braided hair, though, that’s a lot trickier. It requires some manoeuvring – and quite a bit of creative cussing – but eventually they find themselves on the other side, everything still miraculously in place. Steve drapes the scarf over Bucky’s left shoulder – deep blue like the sky just before dawn, embroidered in black and silver and gold – and pins it in place with a brooch.

“A wolf,” Steve notices softly, tracing its silvery ridges with his fingertip.

“A gift from Shuri,” Bucky says, his smile fond. “And she likes to think that I’m the cheesy one.”

He turns away from Steve, facing the mirror that hangs above his modest dresser. His long hair swishes with the movement, whispering like a spring breeze against his shoulders. Flowers dance in the glossy chestnut of his braid; pearl white freesias and colorful daisies, tender rose blossoms and tiny lilies-of-the-nile winking like purplish-blue gems from the thick of his mane.

Steve’s fingers itch to comb through the woven locks and undo them, undo it all, pick out the flowers one by one and replace them all with the kisses of his mouth, and watch Bucky’s hair spread prettily over their tangled sheets afterwards.

His gaze meets Bucky’s in the mirror. Steve can feel the frisson moving through Bucky’s body – pleasure, anticipation, nerves – when Bucky asks, more breath than voice, “How do I look?”

Like the only thing I want to look at for the rest of my life, Steve’s heart supplies. He steps behind Bucky and winds both arms around Bucky’s waist, careful not to crush anything as he hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

In the mirror, Bucky’s smile is the sweetest thing Steve has ever seen.

--

The moon is high in the sky by the time they stumble back into the hut, chasing each other’s mouths tipsily up against the bedroom wall.

It’s touch. It’s hands, all hands – caressing, unpinning, peeling soft linen away.

It’s the glint of gold around their fingers, the cool kiss of metal tingling against Steve’s skin everywhere Bucky touches him, a twofold promise of this, this, forever.

It’s his own palm over the curve of Bucky’s naked shoulder, inching into the dip of Bucky’s neck; the teasing brush of his fingertips over Bucky’s hairline, there in the hollow of his nape.

“Do I get to wreck it, now?”

The enticing curl of Bucky’s lip when he says, “Not yet.”

In the morning, he’ll remember the gentle pressure of Bucky’s hand on his chest, pushing him flat against the sheets.

The maddening roll of Bucky’s hips – he’ll feel that still between his hands, rocking slow and greedy in his lap, all hunger, all need.

He’ll know, as he knows now, here, in this moonlit cave of a room, the supple flesh of Bucky’s thighs squeezing tight around him, and the slickness of his skin, the ragged rhythm of his breath, and the frantic beat of his heart, pulsing against him, around him, deep inside where Bucky’s pleasure sparks.

Flowers spill from Bucky’s hair as their bodies move; petals falling like fresh snow around them, lined with silver from the full moon. They scatter across Steve’s chest, kissing Bucky’s own hand where it finds purchase against Steve’s heart, raining like an ancient blessing over their marriage bed.

He won’t forget. When Bucky curls over him, seeking Steve’s mouth at the peak of his passion, Steve swears that he won’t forget this.

He sinks his fingers in Bucky’s hair, sweat-damp and fragrant, freesias and roses and wispy lilies crushed between their bellies, and he feels, he feels, he–

.

It’s in the quiet, after, that Steve’s heart settles.

He strews wet kisses along Bucky’s brow, at his temple, his cheek, and finds a new word – husband – nestled there, waiting in the corner of that sweet mouth.

He holds Bucky close – a king of old, hoarding his treasure in his very arms – and counts the first day of the next hundred years.

#anon #stucky #wakanda stucky #rillers scribbles #thank you so much for the ask nonnie!!! <3 #asdgsjdhfkg #i'm not sure what this is i just know that it happened #the boys getting married in wakanda is such a precious scenario to me i just #fagshgdhshd #and yes bucky named the goat rob because he's a grubby little thief <3 #aaaaaaaand i think that's pretty much it #as the wiseman says #i tried :')