Geeky-Trash01

"Doll."

"Hm?"

"You have my keys."

"I know."

"...Can I have them back?"

You can't help the grin that stretches across your face. "No."

He sets the boot aside and leans back against the couch, folding his arms over his chest. "You're being incredibly suspicious."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Really? Because you've been whispering with Natasha all week, Sam keeps smirking every time I walk into a room, Steve suddenly finds every excuse in the world to get me out of the apartment..." He tilts his head, amusement already tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. "Even Alpine had a ribbon tied around her neck this morning."

You fail miserably at hiding your smile.

"So there is something."

"There might be."

"You gonna tell me?"

"Nope."

Instead, you step between his knees, cup his face, and kiss him until he forgets whatever argument he was trying to make. By the time you pull away, his expression has softened into that fond, hopeless smile that always appears whenever you successfully distract him.

"Just trust me," you whisper. "Be ready by four. Wear the navy suit."

"The expensive one?"

"The expensive one."

His eyebrows rise. "Now I'm even more concerned."

---

By the time four o'clock arrives, Bucky is convinced the entire team is conspiring against him.

Sam arrives to pick him up because, apparently, his fiancée is still refusing to return his car keys, and Steve somehow ends up in the passenger seat despite insisting he "just happened to be nearby." Neither of them will answer a single question.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

"I've been tortured by professionals with better poker faces than you two."

Sam snorts so hard he nearly misses a turn.

"You're both terrible liars."

"And yet," Steve says far too calmly, "you're still coming with us."

Bucky sighs dramatically and settles back into his seat, crossing his arms.

"I don't like surprises."

Steve glances at him through the rearview mirror, his smile turning gentler.

"I know."

---

Meanwhile, you're fairly certain you're going to throw up before your own wedding.

Not because you're second-guessing anything—God, no. If anything, you've never been more certain of a decision in your life.

You're nervous because you desperately want him to understand.

The ceremony isn't being held in one of the sleek venues every wedding magazine recommended. Instead, it's tucked inside a restored historic building in Brooklyn with polished hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of dancing, exposed brick walls, warm amber chandeliers, and tall windows that let the late afternoon sunlight spill across the room like liquid gold.

Everything feels timeless.

It feels like him.

Months ago, while the two of you were lazily watching an old black-and-white movie curled up on the couch, Bucky had gone unusually quiet during the wedding scene. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles against your hand before he smiled at the television with an expression that looked almost painful.

"My ma always imagined my wedding looking like this," he'd said softly. "Simple. Everybody packed together. Music. Flowers. Nothing fancy."

The conversation hadn't lasted more than a minute before he'd brushed it off, but you never forgot it.

So while he'd assumed the two of you were planning a small courthouse ceremony followed by dinner with the team, you'd quietly spent months piecing together something entirely different.

You searched antique shops until you found lace that looked like it belonged in the 1940s. A seamstress helped recreate a dress inspired by photographs from the era, complete with delicate illusion sleeves and a sweetheart neckline hidden beneath intricate embroidery. You borrowed vintage pearl earrings from an elderly shop owner who teared up when you explained why you wanted them, and your hair stylist spent nearly two hours pinning soft victory rolls and loose curls into place.

When you'd finally looked at yourself in the mirror that afternoon, it hadn't felt like you were wearing a costume.

It had felt like you were carrying a piece of his history with you.

Not because you wanted to recreate the past.

Because you wanted him to know that every part of it, the joyful parts as much as the painful ones, still deserved to be remembered.

---

Steve leads Bucky through the old building without offering a single explanation, and his confusion only grows as they approach a pair of tall wooden doors.

"It's awfully quiet."

Steve hums.

"You know what's happening."

"I might."

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"I hate all of you."

"No, you don't."

"...No."

Before he can ask another question, the doors slowly swing open.

Soft music spills into the hallway, warm and crackling from an old record player tucked into the corner of the room. Fresh white roses line the aisle, candles flicker against the brick walls, and every single one of the people who matter most to him is already standing inside.

Natasha.

Sam.

Steve.

Wanda.

Bruce.

Clint and Laura.

Even Tony.

Their smiles tell him everything before his eyes finally find you.

Time simply... stops.

You're standing at the end of the aisle with your bouquet gathered carefully in your hands, sunlight catching every tiny detail of your dress. The delicate lace sleeves. The fitted bodice. The gloves. The pearls. Your lipstick is the soft rosy shade he'd only ever seen in faded family photographs, and your hair—

God.

Your hair.

He hasn't seen victory rolls outside of museums and old photographs in nearly eighty years.

For one impossible heartbeat, it feels as though every version of his life has collided into the same moment.

Brooklyn.

The war.

Everything he lost.

Everything he found.

Everything standing in front of him now.

His breathing catches so sharply that Steve instinctively reaches for his shoulder.

"You alright?"

Bucky barely hears him.

"No..."

His voice cracks.

"No."

Across the room, your smile falters.

"You don't like it?"

His head snaps toward you.

"What?"

"The dress."

He lets out the smallest, most disbelieving laugh as tears immediately begin filling his eyes.

"Honey..."

He shakes his head over and over, completely overwhelmed.

"I've spent so long trying not to miss that part of my life because it hurt too much."

His voice grows quieter.

"And somehow... somehow you found a way to give it back to me without bringing any of the pain with it."

He walks toward you before anyone can stop him, closing the distance in long, hurried strides until he's cupping your face between trembling hands.

"You look like every dream I thought I'd buried."

Your own tears finally spill over.

"I wanted you to have one day that belonged to every version of you," you whisper.

"The little boy from Brooklyn."

"The young man who danced before the war."

"The soldier."

"The Avenger."

"The man I fell in love with."

"They all deserved to make it here."

That's what finally breaks him.

Not because of the dress.

Not because of the music.

But because for the first time in nearly a century, someone looked at every chapter of his life and chose to celebrate them instead of pretending they never happened.

His forehead falls against yours as quiet tears slip freely down his cheeks, and you simply hold him, surrounded by the family he'd found in this lifetime.

Natasha eventually clears her throat from somewhere behind him.

"If the groom is finished crying, we'd actually like to witness the wedding."

Bucky laughs through his tears, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.

"I wasn't crying."

"You absolutely were."

"It was dignified crying."

"It was snotty crying," Sam corrects.

"It was romantic."

"It was disgusting."

The room erupts into laughter, the tension dissolving instantly as Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

He doesn't let go for the rest of the evening.

Not through the vows.

Not while exchanging rings.

Not during your first dance beneath warm string lights as old records skip softly in the background.

Hours later, with your head resting against his shoulder and his arms wrapped securely around your waist, he presses a slow kiss against your temple before looking down at the lace covering your sleeve one more time.

"You know what my favorite part of today is?" he asks quietly.

You smile. "The music?"

"You."

"The flowers?"

"You."

"The dress?"

He gently shakes his head.

"No."

His thumb brushes over your wedding band.

"My favorite part is that when I looked at you standing at the end of that aisle..." His voice softens until it's barely more than a whisper. "...for the first time in almost a hundred years, my past didn't make me sad."

His forehead rests against yours as the record spins quietly behind you.

You stare down at your phone where his name is still sitting at the top of your messages, thumb hovering over the screen. There’s a draft reply typed out—something witty, something a little flirty, something you’ll regret approximately five minutes after sending.

“Don’t,” you mutter to yourself, locking your phone with a decisive click and shoving it into your bag. “We are not doing that today.”

Growth. Maturity. Healing.

You repeat the words like a mantra as you push open the door to the little corner bakery you’ve started frequenting lately, the one with the crooked chalkboard sign out front and the soft golden lighting that always makes everything feel calmer than it actually is.

The smell hits you first. Warm bread, sugar, something cinnamon-y. It wraps around you like a hug, easing the tight knot in your chest just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, stepping into line. “New plan. Carbs instead of bad decisions.”

Progress.

You’re so busy trying to decide between a croissant and a muffin (or both, let’s be honest) that you don’t notice the man stepping back from the counter at the same time you step forward.

You collide.

Hard.

“Shit—!”

“Oh—sorry, I—”

It’s chaos. Your bag slips off your shoulder, your phone tumbles out, and the iced coffee you’d been holding tips dangerously, sloshing over the lid and straight onto him.

You freeze.

There’s a moment—a long, horrible moment—where you just stare at the spreading stain across his dark henley, your brain short-circuiting as panic floods your system.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I didn’t— I wasn’t looking and—”

“I stepped back,” he interrupts gently, already reaching for napkins. “That’s on me.”

His voice is low. Warm. Calm in a way that immediately slows the frantic spiral in your chest.

You blink up at him and then promptly forget how to breathe.

He’s unfair.

That’s the only word for it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that looks like it never quite behaves and eyes so blue they almost don’t seem real. There’s a softness to his expression, though, something careful tucked beneath all that intimidating size, like he’s worried about startling you.

You, meanwhile, are actively dying.

“No, that is absolutely not on you,” you insist, grabbing napkins and dabbing uselessly at his shirt. “I assaulted you with coffee. This is—this is a crime, actually.”

That gets a small huff of laughter out of him.

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” you say firmly. “It’s cold brew. That stuff stains souls.”

He smiles at that and something in your chest does an unfortunate little flip.

“It’ll wash out,” he assures you. “Promise.”

You finally manage to look away, crouching to scoop up your phone before you can embarrass yourself further. “Still. I owe you. Dry cleaning, at least. Or… a new shirt. Or… emotional damages.”

“Emotional damages?” he echoes, amused.

“I’ve ruined your morning,” you say, straightening. “That counts.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second, something soft flickering there before he shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You huff a quiet laugh, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re being very nice about this for someone who just got baptized in caffeine.”

“I’ve had worse mornings,” he admits.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you gesture toward the counter, where the barista is watching the entire exchange with open curiosity. “At least let me buy your coffee. Replacement coffee. Non-weaponized this time.”

He hesitates just for a second.

Then, “Only if I can buy yours.”

You blink. “That feels like a scam.”

“Compromise,” he counters, one corner of his mouth lifting.

You study him for a moment, suspicion warring with something much softer, much more dangerous.

“Fine,” you say finally. “But if you try to Venmo me later, I’m blocking you.”

He laughs again—quieter this time, but just as warm. “Deal.”

You step up to the counter together, placing your orders side by side. It feels easy. Weirdly easy, considering you just committed accidental coffee-based assault.

While you wait, you shift your weight, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He’s watching the barista, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed now that the initial chaos has passed.

“You come here a lot?” you ask, immediately wincing internally. Wow. Original.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s close to my place. Good bread.”

“Strong argument,” you nod. “I come here when I need to make better life choices.”

He glances at you then, brow faintly furrowed. “Better than what?”

You hesitate.

Your phone feels heavy in your bag, like it’s listening.

“…questionable texting habits,” you admit vaguely.

Understanding flickers across his face—surprisingly quick, surprisingly gentle.

“Ah,” he says. “Yeah. Been there.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Something about that—about the way he says it like he’s not proud of it, like he’s learned from it—makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety.

Your name is called.

You step forward, grabbing the drinks before turning back to him and holding one out. “Here. Peace offering.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m Bucky.”

You repeat your name, and it feels strange, like it matters more than it should.

You linger by the counter for a second too long, both of you sipping your drinks, neither quite moving to leave.

“Well,” you say finally, gesturing toward the door. “I should probably go make more responsible choices.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Me too.”

Neither of you move.

Then he clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Hey, uh—”

You look up.

“If you ever need a distraction from those questionable decisions,” he says, a little tentative now, “I come here most mornings.”

Your heart does something very inconvenient.

You glance down at your coffee, then back up at him.

“…carbs instead of bad decisions,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

You hesitate for half a second longer, just long enough to feel the weight of your phone in your bag, the ghost of that unfinished message still waiting.

Then you make your choice.

“Tomorrow morning?” you ask.

His smile softens, something warm and almost relieved settling into his expression.

“Tomorrow morning.”

He was relentless, the super-soldier stamina turning every movement into a perfect, devastating glide. His cock filled you completely, thick and hard, stretching you in that way that made your toes curl and your vision blur at the edges.

Sweat slicked his forehead, dark hair falling into those storm-blue eyes as he watched you, intense and unblinking.

"That's it, doll," he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. "Take me. Just like that."

His hips snapped forward harder, the wet sound of your bodies meeting obscene in the quiet room.

You clenched around him, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.

You were close and he knew it.

Bucky always knew, reading your body like a mission briefing.

One hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with practiced precision.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let go for me."

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you with white-hot intensity. Your back arched, walls pulsing around him as you cried out his name. Bucky groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

"Fuck—I'm—" He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt.

You felt the hot spill of him inside you, pulse after pulse as he came hard, filling you completely.

His body shuddered against yours, metal fingers curling into the sheets beside your head with a soft metallic creak.

For a long moment, he stayed there, cock twitching with the aftershocks, buried deep where he belonged.

Bucky didn't pull out.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath, lips brushing your collarbone as he savored the heat of you around him.

The feeling was addictive—the slick warmth, the way your body still fluttered faintly from your climax, milking every last drop.

He shifted slightly, just enough to make you both gasp at the sensitivity, but he stayed nestled inside, unwilling to break the connection.

"Goddamn," he murmured against your skin, voice husky with satisfaction and something darker, hungrier. "Feels too good to leave. So warm... so perfect."

His hips gave a lazy roll, testing, and you felt him—still half-hard, but already thickening again, the length of him growing firmer with each subtle movement.

Bucky's breath hitched, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as realization dawned. He lifted his head, blue eyes meeting yours with a wicked, boyish grin that made your stomach flip.

"Looks like I'm not done with you yet," he said, nipping at your lower lip. "Guess we're going for round two already, baby"

You laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a moan as he rocked forward again, slower this time, deliberate.

The oversensitivity made everything sharper, every inch of him dragging along your walls in a way that bordered on too much and not enough. His hand slid down your side, cool palm cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled under his touch.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice laced with awe and lust.

"Already getting hard again just from being inside you. Can't help it. You're ruining me, doll."

Bucky kissed you deeply, tongue exploring as his hips began to build a new rhythm.

This time it was unhurried, savoring—long, deep strokes that had you wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The wet slide of him, slick with both your releases, made each thrust smoother, filthier.

You could feel the evidence of his first orgasm leaking out around him, but he didn't seem to care. If anything, it spurred him on, a possessive growl escaping as he fucked his cum deeper into you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. "Bucky... yes—"

He shifted angles, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

The metal arm hooked under your knee, spreading you wider for him, opening you up completely.

"Mine," he breathed, the word a vow against your throat. "All mine."

His pace quickened gradually, the bed creaking under the force of his powerful body. Flesh and metal hands worshipped you—gripping, caressing, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

Pleasure built again, slower but no less intense, coiling in your belly like a live wire. Bucky's forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling as he drove into you.

"Wanna feel you come around me again. Wanna stay right here... fuck, just like this."

You shattered for the second time, clenching hard around his now fully hard cock. Bucky cursed, hips snapping forward with renewed urgency, chasing that edge once more. But this round, he didn't hold back—he fucked you through it, drawing out every cry and whimper until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

Only when you were both gasping, bodies slick and spent, did he finally slow. But even then, he lingered inside you, softening gradually while pressing lazy kisses along your jaw.

"Round three?" you teased weakly, fingers tracing the scars where metal met flesh on his shoulder.