#like a photo of an old-timey boxer

[anti-imperialist-squad]

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

The one where Bucky and Steve get married

Summary: Where Bucky is the world’s deadliest bridezilla, Steve gets a ‘close’ shave with a Cold Steel Recon knife, Bucky gets sentimental about flowers, and the boys get married.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers; Best Man Sam Wilson, Best Woman Natasha Romanoff; Tony Stark gets a license

Warnings: Bad language words, lots of sassy Bucky, brief mention of knife play. So much fluff. A bit of SMUT, so please follow the rules and be 18+ to read (or at least skip the shaving scene).

A/N: Here’s my story for @hellomissmabel ‘s birthday and 2k follower celebration, congrats again Annie! The idea was to include ‘yellow roses’ into a story, and in case you didn’t know, yellow roses are all about new beginnings. That’s always an excellent theme with our favourite boys, right?

A/N 2: Want to read it in Chinese instead? Find the translation here!

MASTERLIST

***** THE BIG DAY (EARLY MORNING)

Steve Rogers is wrapped in a warm, fluffy blanket burrito when the bedroom door slams open. It booms like canon fire and he jerks awake with a shout, tumbles off the bed, and smashes his head on the nightstand.

Scrambling to untangle from the sheets, he scrubs the grit from his eyes and looks around in a panic.

Bucky Barnes stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but electric blue boxers and a massive smile. He’s holding his toothbrush in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

He is the only human being on the planet who drinks coffee while he brushes his teeth.

He’s fucking weird.

Steve loves him so fucking much.

“Wakey, wakey bitch! We’re getting married today!” Bucky takes a huge slug of coffee, and pops his toothbrush back in his mouth. He’s grinning at Steve while he brushes, flecks of white foam dripping to the floor.

“You’re fucking weird.” Steve mumbles, collapsing back to the floor.

Bucky laughs at the top of his lungs.

*****

SIX WEEKS EARLIER 

Sam sprints alongside Steve. He has so many questions.

“So, you’re doing all the traditional wedding shit?”

“Jesus, of course. Bucky insisted. His list gets longer every damn day.”

Sam’s picturing things like ‘make everyone do the Jitterbug’ and ‘recite old-timey poetry’ so he’s intrigued.

“What’s on his list?”

--- 

Bucky slaps a piece of paper on the table. Steve glances at the headline.

ALL THE SHIT I WANT TO DO AT MY OUR WEDDING

“The hell’s this?”

“We’re getting married asshole. We need to plan.”

“I’m aware you dick, I just thought you got a wedding planner.”

“I fired her. She was fucking with my vision. Anyway, these are things I want.” 

Steve picks up the list. “Writing our own vows, string quartet, customised rings. Sure, these are easy enough. Can I veto us doing the YMCA though? I hate that song.

“No. It’s my wedding and I want to do the YMCA.” The look on his face indicates he is unlikely to be swayed.

“Jesus, bridezilla. Fine.” He keeps reading. “How are you going to throw a bouquet, you’re not carrying flowers?”

Steve looks up.

Murderous Winter Soldier bridal glare.

“Okay, okay, sorry, we’ll find something for you to throw. You want to give fake grenades as party favours?”

“You’re supposed to give party favours that reflect who you are as a couple and since I really like grenade launchers and you really like having grenades launched at you, I think this is good. Maybe later that night, we can have people roll them on the floor and you could jump on them and remind us all that you’re an idiot with no sense of self-preservation.”

Steve clenches his jaw.

Murderous Winter Soldier bridal glare is back.

Steve lets it go. Back to the list. 

“Shoving cake in Steve’s face – what the fuck is this about?”

“It’s a tradition. Don’t argue with me.” 

“But why do you get to do it? Why can’t I shove it in your face?”

“Uh, because it’s my wedding and you said I got to pick anything I want, and this is what I want. Don’t ruin my special day Steve.”

“I’m not, I was just – “

“No excuses. Get on board the wedding train punk.”

Steve crumples the paper into a ball and throws it at him. “You’re a dumbass.”

“Choo choo motherfucker.”

--- 

Sam has to stop, he’s laughing too hard at this point.  

“He also wants everyone to stand up when he walks down the aisle.” Steve shrugs. “But you know. Whatever makes him happy.”

Sam’s nearly hyperventilating. “This is the best damn conversation I’ve had all month. Has he made any decisions you’re actually pissed about?”

Steve huffs irritably. “Well, there’s one thing. This whole ‘carrying someone across the threshold’ shit. He said he was carrying me, I disagreed and said I wanted to carry him. So we had an arm wrestling contest to decide.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And Bucky is a dirty, lying, cheating cocksucker.”

“So, you’re saying you lost?”

“What I’m saying, is that I don’t know why I’m still surprised when he cheats at everything, after knowing him for a hundred god damn years.” Steve retorts, scratching his chin. “He’s a real piece of shit sometimes.”

“True. But he’s your piece of shit.”

“True.” Steve agrees. “Thank god.”

*****

THREE WEEKS EARLIER 

Bucky likes lists. He makes them for everything. Sometimes he makes lists and puts ‘make a list’ on the list, just so he can cross it off. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter chewing on a piece of beef jerky, reading his latest updates.

SHIT TO DO BEFORE MY OUR WEDDING

Confirm the cake (Cake tasting was a religious experience. Bucky swears he saw the face of God in that buttercream frosting.)

Pick my entrance song (The best song. He found the best fucking song.)

Order flowers (He’s already picked them out, just needs to place the order. He really hopes Steve gets the sentiment.)

“You better move your ass if you need to order flowers. They book way in advance.” Natasha is leaning over his shoulder, stealing his beef jerky and examining his list.

“Don’t take my fucking things Natalia.” He snatches for the beef jerky, but she ducks away.

“What kind of flowers are you getting? Do I need to help you? I don’t want you to ruin this.”

“Yeah thanks, it’s not real hard, just a couple yellow roses. I’ll manage.”

“Sounds lazy. Tell me why.”

Bucky smirks at her, before it fades into an honest to goodness smile. She watches the adoration flood his features. He tells her a story.

“Did you know, before the serum, Steve was colour-blind?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Interesting. That wasn’t in the files.”

Bucky hums. “Yep. Couldn’t see much besides shades of grey. Remember him saying, when he opened his eyes coming out of that tube, actually saw colour, first thing he noticed was Carter’s red lipstick. Shocked him so much he threw up on her shoes.”

He barks out a laugh at the image. It’s one of those stories Bucky loves to tell, partly because it’s endearing as fuck.

Mostly because he lives for the embarrassment on Steve’s face.  

“Anyway, back in the day, all the guys used to wear flowers when we went out Saturday nights. There was an old lady who had a stand outside the Fulton Street El, and I always stopped to negotiate – I’m a master fucking negotiator, by the way – to get us a couple.”

--- 

1939, Brooklyn: Steve’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a battered tin of shoe polish in one hand, his worn leather boot in the other. He glances to the rusted silver clock on their bookcase, wondering when the hell Bucky’s getting home, when he hears heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

He’s a whirlwind when he bursts through the door, throwing his bag on the floor, toeing off his shoes as he walks.

“I know, I know, I’m late! Don’t be mad, had to make a stop.” Bucky’s breathing fast, sweaty pieces of hair plastered to his forehead when he rips his flat cap off, flinging it across the room. His bright blue eyes are wild with laughter as he throws a packet of parchment paper into Steve’s lap.

He keeps talking, struggling with the buttons of his shirt, his voice muffled when he gets too impatient and tries to rip it over his head instead. “I stand by it Stevie, cross my fucking heart, I’m the most charming motherfucker in Brooklyn. Wait’ll you hear the deal she gave me, god damn.”

He finally gets the shirt over his head, leaving his dark hair sticking in every direction. “Lemme have a quick wash and we’ll go.”

Giving Steve a roguish wink, he rushes off, dirty clothes flying as he strips.

Steve rolls his eyes. He opens the packet and two yellow roses drop to the floor.

---

“So why yellow roses?” Natasha questions. She’s still eating his beef jerky.

Bucky goes back to his list. “One, roses are my favourite. And two, I always get him yellow. Used to be the only colour Steve could see.”

Natasha pauses mid-chew. She opens her mouth to speak, but for the first time in a long while, she can’t find the words. It’s the most genuine thing she’s ever heard him say.

“That’s – really sweet, Barnes.”

“I know. M’fucking awesome.”

*****

THE BIG DAY (EARLY AFTERNOON) 

Steve stands in the bathroom, perusing his face. Running his hand over his beard, he makes a snap decision.

“Think I want to shave.” Steve announces, glancing at Bucky in the mirror. “Might be nice. Fresh start or whatever.”

Bucky’s lounging against the bathroom door. He’s been wandering around the compound all day in those electric blue boxers, shouting directions at everyone, and for some unknown reason, he’s now paired them with his black combat boots.

Seriously. He’s so weird sometimes.

Seriously. Steve loves him so fucking much.

Bucky sizes him up, before giving a decisive nod. “I agree. And you should let me do it.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Not likely. I’ll end up with some shit moustache or missing half an eyebrow.”

“Like I would do that. I’m not ruining my wedding photos with your face looking stupid.”

Steve’s lips twitch.

“Fine. Give me a shave.”

Bucky’s delighted. He stomps back into the bedroom and grabs the desk chair, dragging it into their cavernous bathroom. Situating it in front of the mirror, he pushes Steve down and drapes a towel over his shoulders. Fumbling under the sink, he knocks over every bottle he sees, until he finds the half-empty can of shaving cream stashed at the back. He flips the lid off and throws it across the room, aiming for the trashcan. Missing completely.

“Nice one.” Steve comments.

“Shut your pie-hole.” Bucky replies.

Giving the can an aggressive couple shakes, Bucky sprays every last bit of cream into his hands and pauses, peering at Steve with a look of intense concentration. Then his face clears and he slaps his hands onto Steve’s cheeks, smearing the white fluff all over his face and neck.

Steve belatedly realises this may have been a mistake.

When he’s finally satisfied the shaving cream is spread evenly, Bucky gives him a mocking salute. Steve’s momentarily confused when Bucky then props his boot on the chair between Steve’s knees, until he reaches down the side and pulls out his newest tactical knife. A shiny Cold Steel Recon 1.

“No.” Steve argues.

“Yes.” Bucky insists.

“Jesus.” Steve sighs.

Flipping the knife to switch his grip, Bucky climbs into Steve’s lap. He grinds his hips down, rubbing against Steve’s crotch with an exaggerated groan. Steve’s hands automatically grip his hips, locking Bucky in place, a look of resigned patience on his face.

Clasping Steve’s jaw in his fingers, Bucky tilts his head back and forth, a sculptor looking for the perfect angle. When he finds it, he turns Steve’s face to the side and leans forward, the sharp edge of the blade positioned carefully at the bottom of Steve’s sideburns.

Something about the whole thing seems familiar.

--- 

1944, France: The rain is coming down in actual sheets at this point. Bucky trudges to the entrance of the tent, his blue overcoat draped over his head. It’s completely soaked and heavy as hell.

He’s so pissed off.

Ducking under the tent flap, he shakes out his hair and glares at Steve.

“You know what? Fuck France. Fuck Hitler, fuck Hydra, fuck Phillips, fuck the god damn rain, fuck everything.”

Steve looks up from the cracked mirror in front of him, towelling away the remaining bits of soap from his newly smooth face. “So, honey, how was your day?”

Bucky grunts. “Fucking terrible. I’m so ready to go home.”

“You look like shit. If you sit, I’ll give you a shave.”

“I’m out of razors, got nothing until the next mail delivery.” Bucky sighs heavily, flinging himself onto Steve’s cot, disappointment roiling through his gut. His face itches like hell.

“Use a knife. Works just as well.”

Bucky sits up and wonders why he hasn’t thought of this. “Well fuck me sideways Stevie. Still some brains left in that thick skull after all.”

Steve snatches up the bowl of soapy water and plunks it at their feet, splashing Bucky’s mud-covered boots. He grabs the remainder of his soap, and scrubs his hands together, getting a good lather.

Standing above Bucky, he tilts his head and looks down, a devilish little smirk curling up his lips.

Bucky looks up warily. “I’m going to regret that last comment, aren’t I.” he states flatly.  

“Possibly,” Steve mumbles. He sinks down onto Bucky’s lap, straddles his thighs. Pats soap on his face. Grinds himself against Bucky with a breathless little whine.

“Aw hell.” Bucky whispers hoarsely, his hands reaching up to grip Steve’s ass tightly. “You’re such a little tease, Rogers.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Yes, you really fucking are.”

---

A great idea pops into Bucky’s head.

Steve spots the sudden gleam in his eyes, and grunts. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. I’m serious Buck.”

The gleam is replaced by a look of pure innocence, which is to say, a look that spells absolute trouble.

“Put your hands behind the chair Stevie.”

“Yeah, no. Not happening.”

Bucky presses the knife a little closer, the blade biting into Steve’s skin. “If you don’t, I swear to god I’ll shave a bald strip straight through your hair.”

“Well, then I guess our wedding photos will look pretty stupid, and that’ll be on your head.”

Bucky tries another route. His husky, wheedling voice usually works.

“Please baby? I just want to try something.”

Success.

“I hate you.” Steve mutters. Folding his arms behind the chair, he links his fingers together and looks at Bucky with a martyred expression.

Bucky taps his metal fingers against Steve’s bare chest, marvelling at the splotchy pink flush that’s creeping across Steve’s torso. Keeping his knife balanced on Steve’s cheek, he stands, still straddling the chair, while his hand drifts down to the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. He slips the tips of his fingers under the fabric. Nudges Steve to lift his ass so he can tug them down.

Bucky grins.

Steve huffs.

Bucky slides his hand down.

Steve clenches his teeth, trying to stay still.

Bucky wraps cool fingers tight around the base of Steve’s cock and gives a good squeeze.

“Jesus Christ Bucky,” Steve hisses.

Fun fact. Bucky’s been ambidextrous his entire life. It’s one of the reasons he’s so good in combat, can switch hands in a knife fight, can shoot from any angle. His brain can always disconnect the movements, allowing him to use each arm independently and equally.

Right now, he wants to use one exceptionally slow. And the other, well, maybe less slow.

Bucky carefully scrapes the first path down Steve’s cheek with his knife, cleanly removing a line of gold bristles. He hums ‘Here Comes the Bride’ as he wipes the dirty blade on the towel.

His other hand grips Steve’s cock, pumping him with lazy strokes.

Steve groans quietly.

Another deliberate, scratchy slice down Steve’s jawline. Metal fingers move faster, his wrist giving a little twist at the upturn of every stroke.

Steve groans louder.

He balances the knife on Steve’s upper lip, noticing the sweat beading Steve’s forehead. He leans forward and licks it away. Drags his knife down. Jerks Steve’s dick faster.

Steve starts swearing.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Bucky murmurs. Steve says nothing, just gives him a soft grunt.

That won’t do.

Bucky stops moving and nicks Steve’s skin with the blade when he doesn’t respond. “Answer me.”

“Gah! Yes, yes it feels good. Really fucking good.” Steve rasps, closing his eyes. 

“Okay then.” Bucky’s mollified. He repositions his knife on the other side of Steve’s face.

Steve catches his bottom lip between his teeth, harsh pants in his throat when Bucky’s hand starts stroking him again, while the blade moves leisurely over his cheek, over his throat. He feels warm breath on his face and opens his eyes to find Bucky nose to nose with him, a sly smile on his face.

“You gonna come for me?” Bucky growls low, lips brushing lightly against Steve’s. He twists his wrist again, rubs his thumb over the tip of Steve’s cock one more time, and it’s that signature move that drops Steve over the edge. He comes hard, hands still linked behind the chair, hips bucking while he fucks himself frantically up into Bucky’s hand.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, that’s – fuck.” Steve chokes.

“Tell me about it.” Bucky says smugly.

Bucky keeps up the gentle, leisurely strokes while Steve catches his breath. His blade makes a few final swipes across Steve’s face, cleaning up the remaining shaving cream.

He tosses the knife carelessly over his shoulder, where it clatters in the sink. He sits back in Steve’s lap, assesses his work. Gives himself a verbal pat on the back.

“Damn I’m good. At shaving and hand jobs. I could make a career out of it.”

Steve gives him his annoyed Captain face. Bucky likes that look. It’s hot.

“Can you shut up and get me a towel, I have cum in my fucking hair.”

“Just leave it there.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to wear white Steve, it’s our wedding.”

“Oh my god.”

*****

20 MINUTES BEFORE THE BIG MOMENT

Bucky barrels into the room, just as Steve’s fixing the knot on his tie.

He skids to a stop, and they turn inspect each other, a matching pair of shit-eating grins lighting up both faces. 

Bucky’s dressed head to toe in black, a dark blue dress shirt his only concession to colour. Steve’s a mirror opposite, dressed in navy blue, a black shirt completing the look.

“You realise we’re not supposed to see each other before the ceremony.” Steve reminds. “It’s bad luck.”

Bucky snorts. “We’ve fulfilled a lifetime quota of bad luck, Fate can kiss my fucking ass at this point. Besides, I got something for you.”

He produces a small parchment bag, and cracks it open, pulling out two bright yellow roses.

For the first time all day, Bucky’s voice softens, all hints of snark and sarcasm vanishing.

“Not sure if you’ll remember this, fucking surprised I remember, but, uh, yellow roses are kind of our thing.”

The bashful nervousness on Bucky’s face promptly melts Steve’s heart.

“Buck. Yeah, ‘course I remember.”

They’re quiet for a moment, contemplating the decades of misery and horror and death they’ve waded through, to get here today.

Worth it, Bucky thinks fiercely. Completely worth it.

He quickly pins a flower on his jacket, and moves closer to Steve with the other.

“Anyway, so I’m telling the florist all about us, and she mentioned something.” He pushes the straight pin through the thick fabric, hooking the rose onto Steve’s lapel. “She told me yellow roses have a meaning. You know what it is?”

Steve shakes his head. Partly because he likes to hear Bucky tell a story. Mostly because there’s a lump in his throat and he can’t speak.

“Yellow roses, they mean new beginnings. Chance to forget the past, get a fresh start.”

He gives the flower a final adjustment, stands back to admire. Lifts an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve nods slowly. Curls his hand behind Bucky’s neck and pulls him close. “Sounds good to me.”

*****

THE BIG MOMENT 

The enormous canopy resembles a clean white circus tent, sitting at the edge of the compound’s property. Like the master tactician he is, Bucky had paced out the measurements eleven different times, picturing every minute detail of every possible scenario, before he settled on this configuration. 

About fucking time all those years of intricate ops planning came in useful.

Guests are filing in, the chatter of familiar voices rising and falling. They kept the invitee list small. Bucky might have invited the entire population of New York City if Steve had let him (he wants everyone to witness the best god damn day of his life), but Steve was hoping for something more intimate.

“Okay. After all Steve,” Bucky told him graciously. “It’s your day too.”

They also agreed on a small wedding party. Three friendly faces standing up with them. Sam and Nat were a given. The third was somewhat of a surprise.

--- 

Tony strolls into the kitchen while Bucky’s making another list and Steve’s making another coffee. 

“Boys. Who’s officiating your wedding?”

“Well – “

“No problem, glad you asked, I’m happy to do it. In fact, here’s my new officiant’s license. I was ordained through Google at 10:43 this morning.”

Steve glances to Bucky, who looks up from his list. He scrutinises Tony for a minute and shrugs.

“Works for me. Long as you don’t fuck up my special day, I don’t give a shit.”

Tony claps his hands together. “Excellent, there’s the tearful appreciation I was hoping for.”

---

Steve stands at the front of the aisle, hands jammed in his pockets. Sam and Tony are flanking him, trading amused glances as Steve fidgets nervously.

Just like Bucky requested, there’s a four-piece string quartet set-up behind them, the violin and cello a soothing sound on his nerves. Until Steve’s realises they’re playing a medley of Britney Spears and Led Zeppelin.

Which, okay, it makes sense. Bucky’s two favourite artists.

Literally, Bucky Barnes is so fucking weird.

Literally, Steve Rogers is so fucking in love with him.

There’s a change in tune and the crowd turns to stand.

At the far end of the aisle, Bucky steps up with Natasha at his side.

After an internal debate with himself, Bucky asked her to escort him down the aisle. Said he was afraid if she went first, no one would pay attention to him, and since it was his big day, that would really piss him off. In reality, he had a minor panic attack at the thought of walking by himself. Not that Nat needs to know.

Although, she probably definitely knows. After all, it’s Natasha.

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, and for a moment he forgets to breathe.

People say a lot of shit about weddings. About how you’re going to feel when you see your person at the other end of the aisle, about how it feels like there’s no one else in the world except the two of you. How everything around you goes quiet.

Steve always scoffed. “Dumb.”

Bucky scoffed louder. “Lame.”

Both realise in this instant, how utterly wrong they were. It’s actually true. Time stops. The world fades away. You really do only see each other.

Natasha urges Bucky forward, and Steve’s ears prick at the song the violins are now playing. Bucky decided to go with ‘Sexy Back’ as his entrance song.

Of course he did.

It’s a lifetime until they reach the front of the aisle, but they finally arrive.

Natasha releases Bucky’s arm, flashing a fond smile as she considers them. Satisfied with what she finds, she gives them both a gentle slap on the ass, and takes her place behind Bucky.

Steve gives Tony a nod to begin, then turns every ounce of his attention to the man in front of him.

“Dearly beloved, and some who are less than beloved but you were invited anyway, we’re gathered here today to celebrate the union of two very old souls. And yes ladies and gentleman, there will be several old man jokes through the night, because hey, you’ve all met me. So, Steve Rogers and James Barnes. Two guys who have – who have literally walked through hell on earth, just to find each other. If you’ll forgive my sickeningly sappy sentiment for a moment please, let me just say – love is rare. When you find it, if you find it, hold on tight. If you’re lucky, you might end up with something even half as great as what Cap and Barnes have.”

Tony Stark, a fool for love. He’ll never live this down.

“Anyway. Let’s cut to the chase. They want to say some things to each other. Barnes, you’re up.”

For all his bravado, Bucky suddenly feels like his mouth is full of sand. But then Steve gives him a wink, and the anxiety disappears.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Stevie. I’ve spent too many years lost in my own head. Stuck behind the glass, terrified and screaming, with – with no one to hear me. I thought I’d be trapped in there forever, but then you showed up, kicking down every door to get me out. Nothing’s ever come easy for us, Fate’s kicked us both in the balls over and over, but here’s the thing. If I had to go through everything again, for even the slightest chance I could end up here today with you, I’d walk straight into the fire with a smile on my face. Don’t have to be scared anymore, I know you’ll always bring me back. ‘Cause you – you’re the only god damn thing I’ve ever been sure of.

Bucky’s practised in front of his mirror every night for months. On one hand, he’s annoyed with himself for choking up at the end. On the other, he’s pretty proud of the way Steve’s face has gone all scrunchy. He chalks it up as a win.

Steve clears his throat.

“Buck, I’ve spent damn near all my life chasing you. Trying to keep up when we were kids, following you into the war. Running across the globe to get you back once I found you again. My whole life, it’s been pivoting around this one single thing, this – this anchor. And that’s you. I’ve loved you since we were kids, and I’ve been in love with you, hopelessly, madly, and completely, since before I even knew what it meant. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth Bucky, into hell and back, if it means I get to wake up beside you every morning, and fall asleep with you every night. I’ll love you a million different ways, as long as you’ll let me. Now until forever.

Steve knows there’s an endless supply of sarcasm, lewd innuendos, and dirty jokes Bucky has stored up over the years, ready to fire at him in a moment’s notice. But with these words, he’s finally turned Buck speechless. And it’s pretty fucking awesome.

“Rings and vows?” And yes, Tony might kick his own ass later, when he thinks back to the pathetically high-pitched register of his voice in this moment.

Steve reaches behind, feels Sam slip the ring into his hand. He picks up Bucky’s right hand, takes a deep breath.

“I, Steven Grant Rogers, take you, James Buchanan Barnes, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to love, through good times and bad times, and everything in-between. I promise to stay at your side, to stand with you and for you, from now until death should part us.”

Bucky blinks rapidly as he looks back at Steve, trying to keep the tears away. He reaches blindly behind him, feels Natasha drop Steve’s ring in his hand.

He grips Steve’s right hand, gazing at his fingers for a moment. Before the wedding, they had agreed since Bucky would use his right hand for the ring, Steve would do the same. To everyone else, it’s a small thing.

To Bucky, the gesture is priceless. He looks up into Steve’s sky blue eyes.

“I, James Buchanan Barnes, take you, Steven Grant Rogers, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to love, through good times and bad times, and everything in-between. I promise to stay at your side, to stand with you and for you, from now until death should part us.”

Bucky slides the ring on. He turns Steve’s hand over and presses a kiss into his palm.

Christ, there’s not a dry eye in the fucking house, Tony thinks contemptuously. As he furtively dries his eyes. He nearly shouts the final words in a rush, praying to get them out before his voice cracks.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York and the official paperwork I got off the internet saying I’m legal to perform this ceremony, I now pronounce you married.” Here Tony pauses for a breath, glances between them. “Okay boys, you’re good. Go on and make out.”

They stare at each other, savouring the moment. Steve and Bucky. Bucky and Steve. It’s one hell of a love story.

Like magnets, they come together, and because Steve knows Bucky’s a sucker for overly dramatic displays of affection, he goes in for the kill, spinning him sideways and dipping him back.

Clapping and wolf-whistles surround them. Friends laughing as the kiss goes on and on.

They finally break apart, foreheads still touching to catch those last words, the ones spoken for each other’s ears alone.

“We still doing that whole end of the line thing?”

“Nah, not long enough. Till the end of time, Buck.”

 *****

(For anyone wondering, much to his chagrin, Steve did in fact dance to the YMCA at his wedding. Phil Coulson has 43 high-res photos to prove it.)

*****

TAGS: @buckyappreciationsociety @stentorian-lore-n @4theluvofall @eve1978 @ihavemymomentsstill @psingh97 @badassbaker @justreadingfics @palaiasaurus64 @mrshopkirk @lovelynemesis @whiskeyandwashitape @interestedbystanderwrites @psychicwitchphilosopher @hellomissmabel @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19

[yahoo-roto-arcade-blog]

Colts pressing fantasy questions: Andrew Luck no top-five lock

Andrew Luck isn’t an obvious top-five pick heading into 2017. (Photo by Michael Hickey/Getty Images)

3-Point Stance: Gore’s truth remains inconvenient

As the mercury rises, Brad Evans and Liz Loza will tackle pressing fantasy questions tied to every NFL team. Read, ponder and get a jump on your offseason research. Monday’s topic: The Indianapolis Colts

In two of his four years as a pro, Andrew Luck (52.5 ADP, QB3) has finished among the top-five fantasy producers at the position. OVER/UNDER a final fantasy rank of QB5.5 for the Colts’ signal caller in 2017?

Liz – UNDER. Behind a line that allowed 41 sacks in 2016 and coming off of shoulder surgery, Luck’s 2017 prospects are undoubtedly iffy. But the fact still remains that the Stanford product has averaged more than 20 fantasy points per game for three years running, and has ranked in the top-ten among FF points per game production since entering the league.

A lot of that has to do with the team’s deplorable defense, which newly appointed GM Chris Ballard made a point of addressing in April’s draft. While I commend Ballard’s plan of attack, it’s going to take more than one season for this sieve of a unit to do an about face. With just two starters from the previous regime set to return, the group is in straight-up rebuilding mode, which is good for potential Luck owners.

Additionally working in Luck’s favor is the healthy return of Donte Moncrief. A metrics monster and red zone raider, the size/speed specimen caught 7 TDs in the nine games he started. Interestingly, three of Luck’s single passing TD efforts came while Moncrief was hobbled. Having both Moncrief and Doyle (who emerged as another red zone weapon) on the field provides Luck with extra ammo near the goal line. He’s a stud talent and my QB4 for drafting purposes. FF: 368 completions for 4,431 passing yards and 36 TDs + 317 rushing yards for 2 TDs (assumes a full 16-game season)

[Fantasy Football is open! Sign up now]

Brad – OVER. Pogonophobia? No, I don’t fear beards. My home office is located in the heart of blanketed faces (Denver) for the love of Jake Plummer. However, many concerns associated with Luck shiver the core. For starters, he’s an historically battered quarterback coming off shoulder surgery who has yet to start a throwing program. The accumulated rust could weigh heavily early in the season. Previous back ailments raise more red flags. Additionally, and probably most worrisome, he works behind a largely dysfunctional offensive line, which is toxic for the long-holding passer. Total it up, and the QB is a dice roll at his top-55 ADP.

Luck sharpened across the board after a disastrous and injury-shortened 2016. He completed passes with improved accuracy (’16 cmp%: 63.5; ’15: 55.3) and uncorked more often downfield (’16 YPA: 7.8; ’15: 6.4). His No. 4 finish in fantasy points per game suggests he’s again on firm ground. But as discussed above, his protection remains ghostlike. Among eligible QBs, he ranked dead last with a 55.6 clean pocket percentage last season. No surprise, the friendly apparitions up front collectively finished 32 of 32 in pass-blocking efficiency.

Alarmingly, the Colts did little to address their most glaring need via free agency choosing to add line depth via the NFL Draft. Ultimately, the front office is banking on its young unit to congeal. Holy #TeamHuevos! The new normal in Indy, numerous hurries and hits on Luck, will only continue.

The Colts’ receiving arsenal is entirely competent and, when healthy, Luck’s QB1 track-record is documented, but due to the risks attached he falls just outside my top-five. I’ll gladly wait several rounds later to snag the likes of Marcus Mariota (95.7 ADP, QB8), Kirk Cousins (102.9 ADP, QB11) or Philip Rivers (117.4, QB15).

BELIEVE/MAKE BELIEVE. Seemingly always outrunning Father Time, Frank Gore finally gets got in 2017.

Brad – MAKE BELIEVE. Gore may have once dated Cleopatra, but despite his ancient age, he remains quite youthful. It’s unwise to bet against him. For five-straight years I’ve predicted him to finally fall victim to Father Time, but the seemingly invincible back continues to crank out highly employable fantasy lines. He’s consistent, rigid, tough between the tackles and a sound investment at his heavily discounted ADP (89.7, RB35). His 658.2 standard fantasy points accumulated after Age 30 ranks No. 8 all-time among geriatric backs. He’ll only climb that list.

Admittedly, Gore’s secondary profile raises many questions about longevity, but all indications imply he’ll again secure roughly 70 percent of the opportunity share. The Colts’ persistent pass-blocking issues aside, it ranked No. 3 in run-blocking last year according to Football Outsiders. Meanwhile, backups Marlon Mack and Robert Turbin are expected to spell him only occasionally. If he again defies conventional wisdom, it’s realistic he bags his tenth 1,000-yard campaign while chipping in 6-8 TDs. Don’t be an ageist. Gore, the Curtis Martin (CONSISTENT!) of his era, is a viable RB2.

Liz – BELIEVE. Far be it from me to predict a player’s falling off, especially one as tough as Gore. Truthfully, I’ve spent the last two seasons taking advantage of the vet’s value and owners’ concern about his decline. A closer look at last year’s stats, however, indicate a wearing down that gives me pause.

Most troubling was the dip in Gore’s red zone carries. Down from 36 to 30 in 2016, it seems as though the Colts were less willing to use the 34-year-old near the goal line. Interestingly, back-up RB Robert Turbin saw a dramatic increase in totes from 20 yards out, jumping from just 6 in 2016 to 19 (1.3 per game) this past year.

Additionally concerning was Gore’s plummeting juke rate, which is a metric provided by Player Profiler that measures a running back’s elusiveness. Two years ago, the vet’s tackle-breaking ability earned him a top-fifty-five finish among ball carriers, but last year his ranking dropped to sixty-eight.

Despite being one of the most durable backs to play the game (he hasn’t missed a game since 2010), Gore’s upside is in short supply. He’s an RB3 whose value is based solely on volume, which as previously mentioned, is beginning to wane.

OVERVALUED, UNDERVALUED or PROPERLY VALUED (2-3 sentences apiece) — T.Y. Hilton (22.7, WR8), Donte Moncrief (73.2, WR29), Jack Doyle (123.2, TE15)

Liz –  OVERVALUED. Slightly. Hilton gets extra points for being ultra-reliable and durable. He’s surpassed 1,000 yards for four straight seasons, and has managed 46 starts over the past three years. In 2016 he hauled in a career-high 91 balls. However, his target volume was inflated by Donte Moncrief’s seven-game absence. In fact, Hilton averaged nearly two more catches per game when Moncrief was out than when both receivers were on the field. The additions of Jack Doyle and Erik Swoope should also negatively affect Hilton’s opportunities. He’s my WR10 in standard formats. FF: 74-1,186-6

PROPERLY VALUED. SEVEN touchdowns in NINE games. No, you don’t want to chase TDs, but a hyper-athletic receiver with an above average red zone profile on an offense full of smaller ball-catchers is a boon to fantasy owners. Boasting the highest completion percentage (80%) of any of the Colts’ receiving weapons in the red area of the field, Moncrief is a stud regardless of his much maligned after the catch ability. He’s a WR3 for fantasy purposes and a solid pick in the sixth round of 12-team exercises.

UNDERVALUED. Everybody’s favorite “sleeper,” Doyle’s stock is on the rise. With Dwayne Allen off to New England and after earning Andrew Luck’s trust in 2016, Doyle has emerged as the Colts’ No. 1 TE. Ultra-efficient last season, the Western Kentucky product posted a catch rate of nearly 79 percent. He also ranked fifth among TEs in red zone receptions. I highly doubt Doyle remains a bargain through the end of August, but his current price is a surprisingly discounted.

Brad – PROPERLY VALUED. A true king of consistency, Hilton almost always returns on investment. From 2013-2016 he notched a 81-1250-6 average per year output. Locked into a 135-plus target role (27.1% targets share in ’16) he should come close to matching last season’s WR8 productivity. That of course assumes Luck isn’t in a full body cast by midseason. He enters camp as my WR10.

OVERVALUED. Moncrief is entirely touchdown dependent. Disagree. Here are three secondary stats from 2016 that should have you backtracking: 1) 17.4 percent targets share (WR54), 2) 53.6 catch percentage (WR82), 3) 5.5 yards per target (WR98). Putting down the cleaver, he’s a highly effective red-zone receiver (80.0 catch% in ’16) who’s scoped often by Luck in those situations (24.4 RZ targets share). But minimized volume between the 20s should extinguish the WR2 hype. He’s a fringe WR3 at best.

UNDERVALUED. Luck targeted his tight ends 27 percent of the time last season, the third-highest amount in the league. Those plays resulted in a 64 percent success rate, numero dos in the NFL, according to Sharp Football. His name may conjure thoughts of an old-timey boxer, but Doyle is no fantasy sucker punch. His reliable hands (78.7 catch%), notable red-zone presence and expected increased role sans Dwayne Allen (3.7 targets per game in ’16) point to a top-12 outcome. A year-ending tally in range of 65-650-6 is very possible.

Chuck passes at Brad and Liz follow them on Twitter @YahooNoise and @LizLoza_FF