Skittle's Sanctuary

The day started off beautiful. Sunny, unseasonably warm, the perfect picture for a Saturday picnic. And that’s exactly what Bucky had in mind for his best girl—a romantic picnic in the park.

He gathered everything he needed: an old woven basket from his mom, a stolen blanket from the foot of Rebecca's perfectly made bed, a couple plates and utensils, sandwiches with all the fixings he knows you like, and anything else he felt might be necessary to ensure the perfect outdoor meal.

By the time he left the Barnes residence and began the walk to your family’s place, there were a few clouds in the sky. He paid them no mind. Nothing could ruin today.

He knocked on your door, and after a few short moments, you opened it. The moment you saw the basket and blanket, your bright smile grew impossibly wider and made his heart skip a beat.

Conversation was light as you both made your way to Prospect Park. He couldn’t stop glancing at you. The way your dress swayed as you walked, the way your hair fluttered a bit in the breeze, and the way your eyes lit up with excitement as you spoke—it all made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Upon your arrival, you pointed out a large tree at the edge of one of the larger grassy areas, and together you spread out the blanket in the shade. There were a surprising lack of people here today, Bucky thought, but he pushed that thought aside.

You looked up at the sky, noticing the increasing number of clouds and the breeze that seemed to be picking up. Bucky shrugged it off as he placed the basket of supplies on the blanket, taking a seat and began laying things out. He patted the spot next to him, silently urging you to sit with him. You smile and plop down on the soft blanket, ignoring the ever changing weather.

The sandwiches were only about half eaten when it started. The wind picked up, blowing your hair around and lifting the hem of your dress enough you had to hold it down with one hand. Bucky took the opportunity to tease you a bit—until a single raindrop landed on his nose.

It was downhill from there. Rain started quickly, a downpour that seemingly came out of nowhere, and Bucky immediately began tossing things back into the basket. He couldn’t help the feeling of guilt tugging at his gut for dragging you out here and ignoring the signs.

You just smiled, as you always do, and tilted your chin towards the rain for a moment, closing your eyes and laughing as you let the drops cover your face.

He finally grabbed the last of the items and stood, offering you a warm hand up. You snatched the blanket from the ground and ran for cover, with Bucky leading the way.

By the time you made it somewhere dry, you were both completely drenched. Bucky dropped the basket onto the ground and rubbed his face, groaning and shaking his head in frustration. How could he ignore the signs?

Laughing, you set the blanket on the basket before closing the short distance between you. You reached up and gently grabbed his wrists, pulling them away from his face before reassuring him that everything was okay.

All he could do was look at you. Your hair and dress clung to you from the weight of the water, like you had stepped out of the bath and forgot to use a towel. Your eyes sparkled with delight despite the weather’s interruption. And your smile—God, your smile. The sight of it flooded his chest with warmth, and it was in that moment he knew that he loved you.

Before another word could be spoken between you, one of his hands slipped from your grasp and reached around your waist, pulling you close as his other hand moved to push your wet hair behind your ear. His hand lingered on your cheek, the softness of it a stark contrast to his own callused fingers.

When he finally kissed you, it was soft. Tender. He could feel you lean into it before your arms wrapped around his neck.

Time felt like it stopped completely. The downpour of the rain was the only sound either of you could hear, and he never wanted this moment to end.

He’s not sure who broke the kiss first, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered were the three words that slipped from his lips before he could even think about stopping them.

Your lips parted slightly as you looked up at him, your body still pressed to his, your hands now fidgeting with the hair at the nape of his neck. It took you only the briefest of moments before you responded in kind.

And that was better than any picnic he could’ve properly planned.

Flufftober 2025 Masterlist || Previous || Next

He couldn't for the life of him understand why all his friends and co-workers seemed hell-bent on not remembering. Sure, it was just another day on the job, but that didn't mean he didn't want to be remembered in some way. Hell, they even had a calendar with everyone's birthdays written on it.

Though, he had to admit he couldn't explain why his name had been erased from the day. He could've sworn he'd written it down. And in ink, to boot. Yet, here he was without anyone acknowledging the day, and their shift would be ending soon.

Before he could stop himself, he typed, When are we seeing you again? Miss ya.

Soon, you typed back almost immediately.

Not exactly satisfied with your answer, Bucky also recognized you had a busy schedule. Not only were you working towards your master's in actuarial science, but you also had a full-time job. This didn't include your other friends and whatever social life you managed to find in the spare minutes of your day. For reasons he refused to analyze, he shut that train of thought down immediately. It wasn't his business if you dated others though his heart had other ideas on that matter.

"Hey, Buck, we gotta go. Another call to the Tower," Nat called out, her steps rushing towards their gear station. "Supposed to be a big one this time."

"Not again," he mumbled under his breath.

The calls to Stark Tower weren't uncommon for their station. In fact, it's one of the reasons why a lot of the firefighters who worked at Station #107 lived in Stark Tower at a steep discount. It's the only way they could guarantee fast arrival to handle any of the many disasters that one billionaire genius could possibly pull off.

Thankfully, these routine calls to the Tower had become so ingrained. It didn't take them no time at all to get everyone geared and onboard their truck.

"Steve's meeting us there," Nat said, taking the seat next to Bucky. Clint had already claimed shotgun that morning after Steve ducked out, daring anyone to try and take it from him.

Sam grinned from behind the wheel. "Can't wait to see what that man has done this time."

"Only you would be excited about that, Samuel," Nat shot back before sending Bucky a wink. Her typical smirk disappeared after a moment as she leaned in with a slight frown on her features. "You okay? You're not your typical cheerful self."

His tongue burned with the desire to unleash his disappointment, but he bit it back in the end. Instead, he settled for a small shake of his head. "Just tired, I guess. Hard to sleep with these loud mouth-breathers at night."

"Excuse you," both Sam and Clint exclaimed together though Clint added, "I'm a delight to sleep with. Just ask my wife."

"Ah yes, her ear plugs really help keep that love alive," Nat said which earned her another glare for her efforts.

Their playful banter continued, but Bucky had since tuned it out. His gaze settled on the passing storefronts along the few blocks they had to travel to reach the Tower. It never failed to soothe him as they traversed the same streets he grew up playing on, even if he did spend most of his time in Brooklyn in his younger years.

Him, Steve, and you.

The hours you three would spend getting into and out of trouble. Those were probably some of the best times of his life, and he wished the three of you could go back to those days. Before university. Before the Army. Before life had gotten a bit more complicated. Before birthdays became another ordinary day.

"Hey, Buckaroo, you good?" Sam nudged Bucky's arm, nodding toward the building beside them. "You really zoned out there."

Bucky nodded. "Let's get this over with."

Taking his cue, the others fell in line around him as they made their way inside.

The receptionist smiled warmly, spying them. Her hand waved almost frantically despite her professionalism. "We're so glad you're here. The incident happened in his personal suite this time. He refuses to tell us how bad it is, but Ms. Potts isn't happy. She hasn't stopped calling to check on your progress. Security's already cleared the elevators, so you can go right up."

They thanked her and headed toward the bank of elevators near the back of the lobby.

"Why would they clear the elevators without us okaying that?" Bucky asked, the thought suddenly occurring.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares? At least we're not climbing hundreds of flights of stairs."

Not one to argue with that, Bucky didn't bother to say anything, opting to step into the first elevator to arrive. If he pressed the button to the penthouse a little harder than necessary, no one bothered to mention it.

The ride up to the penthouse for once was relatively quiet. No one bothered to take bets on what Tony Stark could've possibly done this time compared to last. No discussion on what they could be facing or what they'd need to handle this latest situation.

In hind sight, Bucky should've known something was up, but his mind continued to brood. A stray thought kept coming up about possibly calling you later. If anything could lift his mood, an hour talking to you would do it. He'd settle for a couple minutes if you were too busy. He really hoped you wouldn't be.

The elevator dinged, then swished open to a loud chorus of "Surprise".

Streamers and confetti shot towards them.

Steve stood next to Tony, beaming. "Happy birthday, Buck."

"Oh, man, look at his face," Sam crowed as he clapped Bucky on the shoulder, moving past him into the penthouse towards the large buffet table resided. "Dude's been moping all day, thinking we forgot all about him."

That pulled a frown across Steve's features. "Clint, didn't you get my text?"

"No," Clint pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen. After a moment, a sheepish expression washed over his features. His gaze met Steve's, then Bucky's. "That's totally my fault."

Nothing Clint said made any sense, so Bucky turned toward Steve who didn't disappoint as he offered, "We all signed a card that you were supposed to get this morning. I, uh, had a last-minute thing come up, which is why I texted Clint to be sure he got it from my desk. That's on me for not following up. I guess I got a little preoccupied. I'm sorry, Buck."

"It's fine," came his automatic reply.

"Now, now, even I know that's a lie," you said from behind him, "What happened? You used to lie so well. How else did we get ourselves out of trouble so often?"

Bucky spun around and pulled you into a tight enough embrace. He didn't think he'd ever get over how well you fit within the expanse of his arms or the sweet scent you favored. While he remained mindful of the scruff lining his face, he couldn't exactly help but nuzzle against the sensitive spot just below your jaw, only pulling back when you squirmed against him.

By then, you were tapping him to let you out, but that didn't stop him from holding on another full second or two. If he could have his way, he'd never let you go again. Instead, he settled for whispering, "Really missed ya, Sugar."

"I never would've guessed," you said so cheekily that his smile spread easily across his lips. After a moment, you softened. "I missed you, too. Happy birthday, Bucky."

If you were surprised he kept you at his side throughout his party, you never said anything about it. No, you rolled with it like you'd always done with him and Steve in your younger years. Already familiar with most of his co-workers, you quickly fell into your natural teasing personality with most of them, giving Sam and even Clint a run for their money.

It was only when you two moved toward the main host of Bucky's birthday bash that you surprised him.

"So, you're the one I'm supposed to keep my eye on with my new role," you said as you eyed Tony with a skeptical analysis that had the genius billionaire speechless for once. "Pepper warned me about you, and I've seen the montage your A.I. created for me of all your mishaps. Gonna make me earn my nice, fat paycheck, aren't you?"

Bucky spun you until you faced him, not Tony. He knew his face had to be comical, but he didn't care as he asked, "You're moving back here, Sugar?"

Your smile widened while you nodded.

"I thought you liked living in Boston. It was your dream to work there."

"Boston's nice," you shrugged, "but it doesn't hold a candle to our city. I got my fancy master's degree from my ridiculously fancy school. Decided to come back here and work. Plus, I had a little birdie who kept talking me up to Pepper about how I'd be a good fit at Stark Industries."

You nodded over his shoulder which Bucky obliged, only to find Steve raising his glass with a smirk that belied just how proud he was of himself. The punk.

It took Bucky a moment to come back to the conversation, hearing you say, "You're looking at Stark Industries' new Chief Risk Officer with the specialized priority of keeping Tony from upsetting their insurance companies more than he already has. I've already started work on some new protocols within J.A.R.V.I.S's programming to help override some of Tony's dumber decisions."

"Excuse you," Tony hollered.

Most of Bucky's fellow firefighters lounging close by overheard what you said and burst out laughing. Not one of them hadn't been grousing at one point or another when it came to the rather unique calls they'd answered because of Tony and his 'innovations' that initially went terribly wrong.

Neither Bucky nor you acknowledged Tony, who'd finally come out of his speechless state. While both of you were certain he had plenty to say, neither of you cared in that moment as you finally asked, "You're fine with me coming back, aren't you? I'm staying with Steve tonight in his quarters while Pepper finishes fixing mine up. So, I won't be in your way should you find some lucky lady to finish your birthday with."

"Oh, Sugar, you're the only lady I want to spend my birthday with." He pulled you into another tight embrace, still unsure if you're really a dream or not. If you were, he never wanted to wake up. As it stood, he couldn't wait to prove you were the only lady he wanted in his life permanently. As long as you wanted to be anyway.

That could wait another day though.

Right then, he had something worth celebrating that birthday, and he planned to embrace it all.

After all, he had what he wanted most standing in that room and at his side.

The second time, he brings it up sideways.

"You get good ones today?" he asks, later, cleaning his rifle with the kind of focus that means he isn't actually thinking about his rifle.

"Some."

"Of the Captain?"

"Some of those too."

He glances at you like he's doing math. You go back to your film log and don't help him with it.

By the fourth time it stops being subtle, mostly because he starts finding excuses to be near you when you've got the camera out.

He’s leaning over your shoulder under the guise of checking the light, angling himself into whatever frame you're setting up until you have to physically nudge him with your elbow to get him out of it. Which defeats the entire purpose, since half your rolls now have Bucky cropped at the edge of every photo like a stray thumb.

"You're in my shot," you tell him, not for the first time.

"I'm helpin'."

"You're not."

He grins like that's the correct answer.

It's Dum Dum who says it out loud, which is somehow worse than if Bucky had figured it out himself. They're passing your contact sheets around the fire one night, the ones you'd printed back at base and never quite gotten around to filing.

Dum Dum holds one up — Bucky mid-laugh, head tipped back, off to the side of a frame that's supposedly about morale on the front lines — and says, "Sarge, she's got a whole gallery of just you," and cackles like it's the funniest thing that's happened all war.

You don't deny it. There's no version of denying it that doesn't sound worse than the truth.

Bucky goes very still in a particular way.

It’s like his whole body just hit a wall it didn't see coming, and then he laughs it off too loud and changes the subject to something about the rations. You let him, because you can see the exact moment it lands behind his eyes. Plus, you're not cruel enough to make him sit in it in front of everyone.

He waits until the fire's burned down and the rest of the squad's peeled off to sleep or pretend to.

It's just you and him and Dernier's terrible homemade liquor. It’s the same recipe that smells like it could strip paint — Bucky's been sipping like it's punishing him for something.

"So," he says at first simply.

He's got the tin cup turned in his hands, not drinking, just turning it. For a man who talks for a living he's suddenly having real trouble finding the next word.

You wait. You're good at waiting — it's half the job, sitting behind the lens until the actual moment arrives instead of the one you expected.

"The pictures," he tries again, and stops.

You watch something in him short out completely — the cocky tilt of his shoulders trying to hold and failing, colour climbing up his neck in a way no amount of nonchalance is going to cover.

He opens his mouth like he's got a whole speech loaded and what comes out instead is: "Why me?"

You could make him work for it. Some evil, self-preserving part of you wants to. Instead you just shrug, easy, like it costs you nothing, even though it costs you a little.

"There's enough cameras on the Captain."

It should be a joke. It sounds like one going out.

But Bucky's face does something complicated when it lands — like he's trying to file it under bit and it won't fit, like some part of him already knew and hearing it said plain just confirmed the math he'd been too chicken to finish.

He opens his mouth, then sharply closes it.

Pride hits him first, fast, his chin lifting before he can stop it. Of course, look at this handsome face. Then the crash — mouth open, nothing there, hand to the back of his neck. You want pictures of me?

You watch, unhurried, camera loose in your lap because for once you're not interested in capturing this. You just want to see it happen with your own eyes.

"...Oh," he finally says. One syllable, and it costs him visibly more than the whole sentence before it.

Then he grabs Dernier's cup and drains what's left of the moonshine in one go, throat working, eyes watering instantly. Even Steve — six feet away, half-asleep against his own pack — cracks an eye open and goes a quite pale just from the smell of it.

Bucky doesn't say anything else. He sits there coughing, eyes streaming, ears red clean past the collar, looking like a man who just survived something far more dangerous than the front.

You lift the camera and take the picture anyway.

this is how ur sneaky self is looking btw bc of the goddamn flashbulbs

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

You were not sunshine personified. You were not happy all the time and you did not light up rooms when you walked in, at least you didn't think so. When you died, Brendon would probably say that, although you'd say the same thing about him because you were both crazy about the other. You had your good days and bad days, and today was leaning towards being a not-so-good day.

You had had a new coworker for a couple months and as long as you didn't have to interact with him, you didn't mind him. But sadly, you had to interact with him and today was the breaking point. He was constantly dismissing your thoughts on patient care, taking an x-ray machine when there was another available but yours “was closer”, and a myriad of smaller, trivial things that over time built up. But today, today this audacious mother fucker decided to interrupt patient care.

He wasn't even assigned this case - an x-ray - but he had finished up his assignment and was passing by the trauma room in the ER. He overheard you explain to the patient what you were going to do and decided to open his mouth. “How come the doctor didn't order a CT scan? This X-ray isn't going to do anything.”

Neither of you were doctors; that was absolutely not his place to try and correct what a doctor had ordered. After assuaging the patient that the doctor had ordered the X-ray first to try and rule out other things, you ushered your coworker out into the hallway and into an out of the way, although still public, area.

“What the hell is your problem?! You're not a doctor! You're not even a radiologist! For fuck sake you're not even ten years into this. You have absolutely no right to tell the patient the doctor ordered the wrong thing. Who the fuck do you think you are?!” You didn't realize it but you were turning a few heads from the central ER hub. “We're supposed to be kind, compassionate, and intelligent and yet you don't have any of that. A three-in-one failure. Repeatedly. That behavior is inexcusable. That wasn't even your order. Fucking ridiculous.” Your face was warm from anger and you knew your blood pressure was sky high. The absolute fucking audacity.

Unbeknownst to you, Dennis Whitaker was watching and listening with a new student. There was a phrase you used -three-in-one failure- that reminded him of something Brendon Park had said maybe last week. He had to use one of the printers at the hub and it was not cooperating. “You are a three-in-one printer and yet you can't do any of it. A three-in-one failure,” was the quote he had used. The irritated expression on your face also resembled the look of disdain that Park would use when someone said something out of turn.

“Huh, I see it now,” Dennis muttered.

“See what?” The student asked, now watching as your coworker high tailed it out of the area you pulled out your phone to call your boss and tell him what happened.

“That tech is married to Park the Shark.” So Park wasn't just a former boyfriend. He was the one you were constantly talking about. That explained why Park treated you differently.

“No way!”

Dennis nodded. “The verbal dressing down. A phrase that Park used recently. That expression? Definitely Shark exposure.”

The student shuddered. They had once said the wrong thing to Park. “Poor unfortunate soul.”

But he was here now. He was always here now.

You chose to lay still for a while, letting the morning seep in from outside the apartment and thought about how different today felt from birthdays past. Ones where you woke up alone in your apartment and spent the first waking moments quietly deciding whether to feel sad about it. Before the fake-boyfriend-who-became-the-real-thing. Before the socks in the underwear drawer and Alpine colonizing your side of the wardrobe. Before the ring on your finger.

Before James Bucky Barnes had made himself so comprehensively a part of your life that your apartment felt wrong when he wasn't in it.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the still fast asleep super soldier. His was jaw soft and expression held a particular defenseless quality that only existed when he wasn't bracing against anything.

You'd seen a lot of versions of this man over the course of knowing him, loving him— the suspicious one, the sarcastic one, the one who looked at you like you'd personally rearranged his understanding of the world— but this one was still the one that got you. Every time.

Happy birthday to me, you thought with a smile, and settled back into him.

Bucky woke twenty minutes later.

You felt it happening, the slight shift in his breathing, the small adjustment of his arm, the way he went from deeply unconscious to quietly, calmly present in a matter of seconds. He'd always done that. There was no groggy intermediate phase that you usually experienced. He was just… awake.

His lips immediately found the back of your neck.

"Morning, Princess," he murmured.

"Hi," you said, turning your head slightly.

"Happy birthday."

That's all it took to undo you. Two words, in that voice, rough with sleep, against your skin. You closed your eyes.

"Thank you," you said.

He pressed another kiss to your shoulder, lazy and warm. His hand spread flat against your stomach, pulling you a little closer, and you felt the easy certainty of it all— the weight of him, this morning, this life you'd somehow stumbled into… and would choose again without hesitation every single day.

"Sleep okay?" he asked.

"Really well, actually."

"Good." He had been worried that the interruption to last night's celebration would have affected you badly. His thumb traced slow circles against your hip. "What d'you wanna do today?"

You shrugged. "Haven't thought about it."

"That's a lie," he said, smothering a grin against your shoulder. "You've been thinking 'bout it for at least… two weeks."

"That may be true... but I wanna hear what you had planned first."

He was quiet for a second before he came in with an accusatory; "Who said I had anything planned?"

"You've been weird about your phone all week, Bucky."

"I'm always weird about my phone."

"Weirder than usual."

He exhaled exasperatedly through his nose and you could feel him deciding what to say. "Okay," he said finally. "Here's what I had in mind. But if you hate any of it, don't tell me, 'cause I put a deposit on the reservation."

You turned over in his arms to face him properly. He was propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with that careful expression he got when he was a little worried how something would land with you, trying hard to look like he wasn't invested when he very clearly was.

"Tell me," you said, softly.

"I thought breakfast here. The good stuff… definitely not the emergency cereal. Then dinner— I booked the rooftop at that place on the waterfront." He paused. "The one you pointed at three months ago and said 'that looks like the kind of place you'd cry because the food is too good.'"

You stared at him. "You remembered that?"

He shrugged, brushing off the gesture. "Dinner at seven. But before that—"

He reached back to the nightstand and came back with something small, flat, wrapped in brown paper. He held it out.

"This first."

You looked at it, then at him. "Bucky, you didn't have to—"

"I know I didn't have to... Open it."

Inside the brown paper was a card.

A real card, not a printed one— thick cream paper, something handwritten on the front in his handwriting. Which had always been oddly elegant for someone who maintained such a persistently uncommunicative personality. Two words were on the front.

My Princess.

You opened it.

His handwriting filled the inside. Neat and carefully spaced, like he'd planned out each line before he committed it to paper.

I've been trying to write something impressive for three weeks. But this is all I got.

You came into my life like a grenade I didn't see coming. Which would be more poetic if I hadn't actually encountered enough of those to last a life time. But the metaphor stands.

What I'm trying to say is: before you, I was just existing. Since you, I've been living. And I know that sounds like something off a motivational poster. And I want the record to reflect that I hate motivational posters.

My point is, you're the best thing I didn't plan for. And I plan for everything.

Happy birthday. I love you. Please don't make me write another one of these for at least six months.

— Bucky

And then, underneath, in smaller letters:

P.S. Alpine tried to help. She sniffed the card, then sat on it… twice. Basically contributed nothing useful.

You sat there for a moment with the card in your hands.

"Bucky," you said.

"Before you say anything—"

"You said you hate motivational posters."

He blinked. "That's what you got from that?"

"I'm getting to the rest of it." You looked up at him. He was watching you with that careful expression— the one he wore when he'd made himself vulnerable and wasn't sure yet if it was going to be okay. "I love you too, Buck," you told him. "This is the best card I've ever received in my entire life, and I'm including my grandmother's birthday cards which always had a twenty dollar bill in them."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "So I'm better than twenty dollars."

"Significantly better than twenty dollars." You leaned across and kissed him— properly, with your hand on his jaw— and felt him soften into it the way he always did when you caught him off-guard with something real, something tender. His hand crept up to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your cheek.

When you pulled back his expression had changed. Less guarded, much warmer.

"Now the present," he said, a shy grin appearing on his lips.

"There's more?"

"There's always more. For you." He reached over you to the nightstand drawer and came back with a small velvet pouch. Dark green, soft, the kind you recognized immediately— the kind that held something special. Your eyes narrowed.

"What's this?"

He held it out. You took it, turned it over once gently before opening it. Inside, on a square of dark felt, was a necklace.

Fine gold chain. And hanging from it, a crescent moon with three stones set along the inner curve catching the morning light. Dark. Deep. The blue of a midnight sky.

Your breath caught.

"Bucky." Your voice came out smaller than you intended.

"Apparently they are Montana sapphires," he said. "I found the pendant in Steve's things a few months back. His ma had kept them— wrapped up in a cloth in an old tin." He paused. "When I saw them, I couldn't stop thinking 'bout you. So I took them to Anita. She sorted the rest."

You looked down at the stones. That deep, deep blue, that sometimes showed in his eyes. Usually in the dark late at night.

Your throat tightened.

"The moon," he added, quieter now, like he needed to get the rest out. "That crescent sketch. The one in your personal folder. You told me once it was the first thing you ever made that you were actually proud of." He gave you a small shrug in response to the look you gave him. "I remembered."

You set the necklace on the nightstand, took his face in your hands and kissed him. He pulled you into him immediately, warm and solid and certain, and kissed you back the way he always did when you caught him off guard with something real.

When you pulled apart he pressed his forehead to yours.

"It's perfect," you told him. "Buck, absolutely perfect."

He exhaled slowly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You turned your back to him and lifted your hair. He fastened the chain carefully, then pressed his lips to the back of your neck. When you faced him again he was already looking at you— at the pendant, at your face— like he was trying to hold onto both images at the same time.

Neither of you said anything else for a moment.

Then Alpine landed on the bed between you with a thump and sat down like she'd been there the whole time.

Bucky looked at her. "Really?"

She purred.

You laughed, and felt him laugh against you, quiet and real.

Round 1

Title: Scream

Summary: Bucky meets a bossy female

Prompt: First Meetings

Note: the inspiration was this post by @phoebe4rt

Bucky finally listened to everyone’s advice and he was going to “relax”. He went to the park. He found a nice shady spot to relax. 

He was lying there maybe 30 minutes when he felt a hesitant movement near his ribs; a tiny paw was determining if it should continue the climb. 

A decision had been made as he felt a second little paw and then a third and a fourth as it climbed onto his chest. 

He cracked an eye open and saw big blue eyes and a white furry face staring at him. 

“MROW!” she yelled at him.

Round 2

Title: Bucky doesn't do games

Summary: Someone wants to play a game with Bucky

Prompt: Game Time

Bucky awoke and tried to get his bearings. He had one arm chained to a wall. He had no idea how someone would have got the best of him to kidnap him like this.

He heard the sound of squeaking and saw a puppet on a tricycle rolling towards him. ‘What the fuck.’

“Hello Sergeant Barnes, I want to play a game.”

Bucky stood up slowly to his full height. “I don't fucking think so,” he said pulling the chain out the wall and headed towards the entrance but not before punching the puppet off the tricycle.

“Stupid little fucker.”

Round 3

Title: 100 Words

Summary: bucky is full of random knowledge

Prompt: Teachable Moments

“Okay, strange fact time. Go Buck,” you said.

“Spanish moss is neither Spanish nor moss. It's a member of the pineapple family,” Bucky said without batting an eye. “Your turn.”

“Avocado tastes like clean dick.”

“That's not a fact that's an opinion.”

“It is fact. But whatever. Avocados were named after testicles because of the shape. Your turn.”

“A writing drabble is 100 words on the dot. No more no less.”

“Bullshit. It can be a few hundred words.”

“Look it up if you don't believe me,” he said with a smug grin.

An itch formed right where the seam of the long sleeved designer dress brushed against the inside of Kelly's right wrist. At first she rubbed it absently, not attributing it to anything other than her sensitive skin. When a spot on the jewel neckline began to bother her, she pulled at the fabric in annoyance, again wondering why her skin was acting up while she was working at the hotel's charity gala, of all places. It wasn't until she saw a reflection of herself in a mirrored wall and realized that the side seam of the dress displayed a noticeable pucker that wasn't noticeable when she tried it on, that she considered the formal dress she bought for what seemed a reasonable price at the resale shop may have been there for a reason.

"You're fidgeting," said a voice at her side and she turned to look at her boss, Hillary, who was gazing at the assembled guests with a slightly forced smile. "What's bothering you?"

"My dress is attacking me," whispered Kelly, in response. "I think it's a knock-off, and not even a good one."

Hillary glanced over the dress for an instant before looking back at the party. "Well, ignore its flaws. We need this event to go well and if you can't hold it together for a few hours then we'll both be out of a job. You also forgot your name badge." Her demeanour instantly became friendlier as a rather large man wearing a too-tight tuxedo approached. "Senator Markham! I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

"Mrs. Ford, my favourite events manager." He leaned closer to her, pushing the boundaries of her personal space. "Tell me, do you have those little meatballs with the sauce ... you know the ones?"

She smiled as if they were sharing a secret. "Actually, I have them in the kitchen, just waiting for you to have your fill before the others get their chance at them. Shall we?"

Glancing back at Kelly, she ushered him away to fill a plate with his favourite meatballs before they were brought out for everyone else. The look she gave her assistant was a "make sure the staff are clearing the glasses, dirty plates and used napkins" look. Stepping away from where she had positioned herself, the assistant events manager strolled around, occasionally stopping to pick up fallen food before it was ground in the carpet, or using a napkin to discreetly pick up a partially eaten canapé that was left on the tablecloth. Some people had no manners at all when the party wasn't at their place.

As she turned away from depositing the contents of one of those napkins into a garbage can behind one of the serving stations she recognized a man leaning against a pillar who watched everything and everyone. It wasn't an unusual thing, as this was Washington, and there were an abundance of people, both single and married, who often used functions like these to connect with someone, female or male, depending on their inclination. But this particular man was watching things in a way that was more than checking people out for a possible hookup. Nothing escaped his notice. It made sense, considering how famous, or infamous he was, the newly elected Representative from Brooklyn, New York, James Buchanan Barnes. She imagined the way he was casing the room was a holdover from his days as an assassin.

As she kept an eye on him, she noticed that he occasionally tugged his shirt collar away from his throat as if it constricted him. Perhaps he was having wardrobe issues as well. That was confirmed when he was introduced to someone who wanted a selfie with him. He adjusted the collar again then winced slightly as the few steps he took suggested to Kelly that his shoes were also bothering him. As soon as the person moved on to the next photographic subject, Barnes looked at his watch and visibly sighed. Barely an hour into the event and he already wanted to leave. She sympathized with him and even envied him a little as he could probably leave now while she was stuck here until well past the last tipsy guest had been escorted out and put into a limousine or ride share.

Bumped from behind by a laughing woman well on her way to being over served, Kelly stabilized herself, then got back to her job, although some man gave her the creeps when he sidled up beside her, visibly ogled her body and whispered "how much," seemingly mistaking her for a paid escort. Before she could answer politely that she was event staff, she was surprised by the sudden appearance of a flute of champagne from out of nowhere. Its appearance conveniently coincided with the creepy man's look of fear as he backed away. The hand holding the glass was metallic black with gold accents. Turning towards the arm it was attached to, she breathed in audibly at the face of the living legend himself, Bucky Barnes. This close up he was devastatingly handsome.

"You don't have a drink," he said, in a voice that made her insides twist a little, in a good way. "It might be the only way to survive this evening."

"No ... I don't ... um, I can't as I'm working," she stammered. "I work for the hotel." She glanced at the glass. "Thank you anyway."

"My mistake," he answered, withdrawing the drink, "although I should have realized you were staff since you were cleaning up. I thought staff wore a uniform while they work."

"For daytime business events, yes," she nodded, finding it a little difficult not to stare at his eyes. "For formal evening events the hotel manager prefers that events management staff wear something more dressy." She patted her upper chest. "I forgot my name badge so it wasn't really obvious."

His slightly lopsided smile at her admission was completely charming. "Well, I'm Bucky," he said.

"Kelly," she answered. "I know who you are." She looked away for a moment. "You don't seem thrilled to be here."

"I wasn't, until I noticed you." It was his turn to look away, distracted by someone else's overloud response to a cheesy joke. "Is my discomfort that obvious?"

"You were pulling at your collar and I think your feet are bothering you." Kelly rubbed her wrist again and chuckled. "I'm not much better. This dress has some loose threads or something and it's irritating me here and here." She indicated her wrist and neck as she spoke. "At the time I bought it I thought I was getting a good bargain on a top designer dress but now ...."

"I think you look great." He looked past her as he ran his hand through his hair, then down to the back of his neck. "Someone is trying to get your attention."

Turning around, Kelly noticed Hillary looking at her with raised eyebrows. Busted. She turned back to the well built man.

"I'm not supposed to fraternize with the guests. Sorry, but I have to get back to work."

Backing away, she kept him in her view until she almost stumbled into a table. Bucky grinned and shook his head, then drained the glass. Turning to leave, he stopped and turned back to where she was kneeling while picking up a discarded plate and glass that had been left on the floor.

"Hang in there," he murmured.

"You, too," she answered, and this time watched him leave via the doors, hoping she might see him again as Washington really was a small place in many ways.

That wish came true sooner rather than later as midweek she was sent to another hotel with a van and a driver named Travis to pick up some decorations they lent out and needed back. On their arrival they were unable to park at the loading dock due to construction that blocked access to the back lane. They would have parked where guests dropped off their cars for valet parking but the concierge nixed that, telling them to go down the street a bit and he would inform their events people to bring out the decorations on a luggage trolley. That was the plan. The execution of the plan took a left turn when the luggage trolley lost a wheel and tipped over, sending boxes across the sidewalk. Some of them spilled open, and while the person who pushed the trolley went looking for something to reattach the wheel, Kelly found herself on her hands and knees picking up strings of lights in the shape of birds and butterflies while people stepped around the mess. Several of them made less than helpful comments as they did. Then a pair of muscular legs, in shorts and running shoes, stopped and she looked up into the amused blue eyes of Bucky Barnes.

"Is being on your knees part of your job description?" he asked, kneeling down to join her, and picking up a string of lights.

"No, but maybe they should give me hazard pay for it today," she replied, taking the lights from him, folding them up and placing them in a nearby box. "Thank you."

He gestured to Travis who stood and watched. "Isn't he supposed to help?"

"Teamster," she replied, with a shrug. "His duties are very specific; he loads, unloads and drives." She leaned closer and whispered. "He makes more than I do."

Nodding his head in understanding, Bucky helped gather the remaining light strings, then assisted Kelly to stand by offering her his hand. They both stood back as the driver picked up the full boxes and loaded them in the van. The other employee hadn't yet returned so Bucky propped the damaged trolley up against a retaining wall and got the concierge's attention that they were done. For the few minutes it took to load the van they waited together on the sidewalk; her in slacks, blouse and a hotel blazer, him in his running gear.

"Didn't I read somewhere that your metabolism burns off everything you eat or drink?" she suddenly asked, looking up at him. "Somehow I never pictured you needing to exercise."

"It does normally, but since I was elected I'm not as physically active as I used to be." He patted his belly, which she thought looked pretty good in the tight compression shirt he wore. "I'm a bit thicker in the middle now. I try to get more exercise to counter the amount of late night takeout I eat."

"Your wife or girlfriend could help you with that," she remarked, then she considered the implications of that remark. "I meant in the sense of making nutritious meals." Okay that was sexist. "I meant ...."

A chuckle made his face light up in delight. "I know what you meant. No wife, no girlfriend and I wouldn't expect them to cook for me. What I eat is my responsibility." A mischievous look appeared in his eyes as he glanced at her left hand. "What you choose to do with your husband or boyfriend is your business." The driver had finished loading the boxes and was watching this exchange. Bucky gestured towards him. "Your ride is ready to go. We can debate gender roles another time."

Backing away, he waved at her, then turned around and resumed his run. Kelly watched him go, then looked at her bare ring finger. There had been a husband once, and a few boyfriends since the divorce but it had been a while for anything since the last one. A cleared throat behind her made her turn to see the smiling driver.

"You should ask him out," said Travis. "There's some chemistry between you two."

"Thanks, but no thanks," she answered, putting her hand on the door handle. "I was married to a politician and most of them don't have room in their egos for anyone else."

"He's not like other politicians, though, is he?" He looked in the distance, at the barely visible runner, with a look that was either of longing or admiration. "He's not like other men at all."

"No, he's not," she thought, then sighed audibly. "Let's go before Hillary thinks we've driven to New York."

It was over two weeks later before Kelly saw Bucky again, a length of time that had her dreaming or thinking of him several times wearing those shorts while peeling that compression shirt off. This encounter was at another formal function in the hotel ballroom. She wore a different dress this time, one that she made sure had no sources of irritation to bother her, plus it had pockets. She also remembered her name tag, not that it really mattered, as she still received a few leering looks, and a couple of brazen individuals of the male species offered her their hotel room card, wanting a personal delivery of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. Somehow, they didn't quite believe that she wasn't available for room service.

Then Bucky arrived with an attractive woman at his side and Kelly felt something break a little in her chest when she saw them. If she had paid closer attention to them, she would have realized that the vibe between the pair was quite platonic. They were polite with each other, but there was no physical contact, and only the occasional side remark that drew acknowledgment. Instead, Kelly tried to keep on the opposite side of the ballroom from him, not wanting to be reminded that he could date who he wanted. Then the other woman excused herself to take a phone call and he looked over the assembled guests, searching for that one particular face.

An upset exclamation about a missing earring had Kelly on her knees, lifting up tablecloths in search of the jewelry item while the owner and her husband did the same in another aisle.

"You have followers now?" asked Bucky, as he kneeled down beside her. She bit the inside of her cheek at his flippant comment. He noticed how the couple were searching for something. "What are we looking for?"

"A missing earring," she breathed, trying not to look at him. "We'll look for a few more minutes then make an announcement. It has to be here somewhere."

She turned away, noticing how he frowned slightly at her.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Why would I be angry?" Exasperated, she glared at him, which was a mistake. Why did he have to be so damned good looking? "I don't want to take you away from your date."

"My date? Carol?" He looked over at the blonde woman, realizing that Kelly didn't recognize Captain Marvel who was in Washington for some meetings on alien diplomacy. "She's not my date. We were both invited and since we know each other from the Avengers, we decided to share a ride." The edges of his mouth rose a little. "You're jealous."

"No. Why would I be jealous?" She refocused her attention on the floor, then huffed and shifted so she was perched on her lower legs. "We're not dating or anything."

"No, but you're acting like we are."

"I am not." Suddenly aware that some people were now looking at them, she lowered her voice. "I just .... Why are you so irritating?" It looked like he was going to answer, but she suddenly spotted the glint of the missing earring and crawled over to it, lifting it up in triumph. "Found it!"

There was a smattering of applause as she got up and placed the earring in the outstretched palm of the woman who lost it. Receiving a quick hug for her troubles she watched as the husband helped his wife reinsert it in her earlobe. Bucky was still there, but Kelly moved away from him, not wanting to have any sort of conversation with him in front of an audience.         

He didn't follow right away. Looking back at him, she watched as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Slipping a card out, he went to a bartender and asked to borrow a pen, writing on the back of it. Catching up to where she was, he stood directly in front of her, holding the business card between his thumb and forefinger. For what seemed like a long moment, he studied her face, then he ran his free hand through his hair and squeezed the back of his own neck for a moment.

"If I offended you, I am truly sorry. In the 1940s I used to find dating easy but times change ... I changed, too, and sometimes I feel like I'm still trying to figure out how to speak to a woman." He took her hand in his free one and placed the card in her palm, folding her fingers over it. "I would like to go on a real date with you. If you don't come, then I'll know that I have to work more on my approach."

Leaning over, he kissed Kelly gently on the cheek. For a moment she felt the warmth of his lips on her skin, accompanied by the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather, and something inside of her whispered that she could avoid a lot of sleepless nights if she just surrendered now. Quietly, he took his leave from her side, and spoke to the blonde woman who nodded her head and squeezed his arm in understanding. Then he left and Kelly found the courage to read the back of the card.

Have dinner with me, tomorrow. 7 pm. Corbezzolo

Her heart was pounding. Bucky Barnes wanted to have dinner ... with her, at one of the more popular Italian restaurants in Washington. It wasn't far from where she lived. People waited in line for hours for a table because they didn't take reservations, yet he wanted her to meet him there at 7 pm, tomorrow. There would definitely be a lineup by then. He included a phone number, his personal one she presumed.

The sound of a breaking plate, and the sight of an unsteady guest who was laughing over the mess on the floor brought her back to the reality of her job. Hillary was already trying to get him away from the scene, waving at one of the security staff to help. Sticking the card in her dress pocket, Kelly went over and kneeled down to pick up the broken pieces. A server came with a broom and a dustpan, helping to sweep the fragments up, then took it from her to dispose of them.

She returned to making sure everything in the banquet room was going as it should, while wondering if she should accept the invitation. There was always a risk associated with dating a politician but that usually applied to those who were married while looking for a side piece, like her ex-husband. Barnes was single. So was she and there were no hard and fast rules from her employer about her private life, other than keeping it private and not flirting with guests while she was working. He definitely ticked off all the boxes physically and despite how they parted she was attracted to his manner, finding him to be very self-aware.

It was well after midnight before she finished work, and called for an Uber to her Columbia Heights apartment. Opening the back door of the vehicle, she got inside, brooding about how Bucky apologized to her for his behaviour. His behaviour ... she groaned. It was loud enough to draw the driver's attention.

"Are you alright?" asked the man.

"No," she admitted, then leaned forward. "What would you do if you were in my situation? You met a guy a few weeks ago and there were sparks but you were working and he respected that by not asking you out while you were on the clock. Then you saw him again, while you were working and those sparks got brighter and a little louder but he still didn't ask you out, because of the job. Then he shows up to another event you're working at and you get a little huffy with him for bringing a date. This time, you snap at him, but it turns out the date was just a friend, and he apologizes to you for being clumsy." Her eyes teared up. "Then he asks you out for real but doesn't wait for an answer; only says that he'll wait at the restaurant for you to show up and if you don't he'll assume he has more work to do on his dating game."

She looked earnestly at him through the rear view mirror. He looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Ma'am, I'm married. I don't think you should be asking me this."

Flopping backwards onto the seat, she sighed and looked outside. The driver said nothing else although it seemed like he wanted this ride to be over now. If she didn't go out with Bucky whatever this was would end before it even started. If she did go, what did that say about her? After her divorce she swore she would never date a politician and yet, here she was, seriously considering going out with one of the most famous politicians in the country. Why was her love life this complicated?

All day, Kelly fretted about the date. She slept in, got to work late, spilled coffee on her slacks, and still hadn't decided if she was going or not. On the plus side, Bucky was handsome, polite, and earnest. He was also sexy as hell. That encounter with him in shorts and the hint of a slightly padded six pack under that compression shirt had occupied her mind more than once. It was only a matter of time before her imagination took those thoughts even further.

What would be the downside of going out with him? First of all, he was a politician and she had promised herself never to be involved with anyone in the political field ever again, not after the humiliation she had experienced with her ex-husband. So why did you accept a job in Washington then?

"Shut up," she said, under her breath. "Focus."

He was over 110 years old. But he looks a lot younger. I'll bet that body looks as good naked as it does in a tuxedo.

"Stop it," she murmured, as she opened an email from Hillary about an event they were hosting in two months.

Old fashioned. A gentleman. Known to prefer old music. Much of it is still good music. Corbezzolo wasn't exactly known as a romantic place. But it is authentic and you know the food will be good. If the date didn't pan out, it wouldn't take her long to get home on her own. Checking her pocket for change, she pulled out a quarter and stared at it. Heads, she would go; tails, she wouldn't. Standing up, she moved away from her desk, flipped the coin into the air and was disappointed when it landed on the carpeted floor showing tails. Best out of three. Flipping it again, it landed heads and she breathed out. This final coin flip would decide it. Just as she tossed it up, her office phone rang and she lunged for the receiver, hitting the coin on its way down. It flew across the room, somehow slipping into the floor vent and disappearing from view. Shit!

"Hello?" she barked, into the phone.

"Kelly? It's Bucky. I'm sorry to bother you at work but I didn't have your personal phone number. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Why was he phoning? Her mind went blank as she tried to come up with an excuse, then she saw the coffee stain on her slacks.

"I'm not having the best day and I spilled coffee on my lap."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He was silent for a moment. "I know that I said I would leave it to you to decide about meeting me tonight but it occurred to me that it was kind of a cop out. The old me would have sent you flowers but that can be seen as me trying to impress you and influence you into going out with me. Which I want ... but not if you're having second thoughts about it."

"Are you calling to cancel?" she asked, suddenly feeling like this was her worst case scenario enacting itself in real time.

"No. I really want to go out with you. I was originally going to suggest somewhere really nice but it would have meant dressing up and I'm actually more of a jeans and T-shirt guy, even though my job calls for me to dress a lot nicer. Corbezzolo popped into my head because I do like the food and atmosphere there but I didn't know they don't take reservations until I phoned to make one. Apparently they don't make exceptions, even for an elected member of the House of Representatives." His sigh was audible. "I guess I started second guessing myself and tried to solve a problem without waiting for it to become a problem in the first place."

She could hear some muffled sounds in the background and wondered if he was running his hand through his hair, then squeezing the back of his neck. It occurred to her that was his way of dealing with immediate stress.

"We could meet there earlier," she suggested. "It's easier to get a table then, and Corbezzolo is worth it."

"So, you do want to go out with me?"

She did want that but she didn't answer his question immediately. "You know I've been distracted all day trying to decide if I should go to dinner with you. I've been going over all the pros and cons of it and my brain keeps telling me that there really isn't a down side."

A lesser man might have been offended by that admission but his chuckle made her picture his smile. "I'm sure there are. Really, I'm just a guy trying to find his place in a world that is still overwhelming at times. But I am trying."

"I know and that counts for a lot. Let's meet at 6 pm. Whoever is there first can wait in the lineup, if there is one. If there isn't one, get a table and text the other."

"I don't have your number." She gave it to him. The silence after that wasn't as intimidating as it had been before. "Alright, you're saved in my contacts. I'll see you at six."

"I'll see you later, Bucky."

She hung up and looked over at the vent where the quarter had disappeared. It didn't matter now how it would have landed. This call had proven one thing to her, she did want to go out with Bucky Barnes. Truthfully, she had wanted to ever since she saw him leaning against a pillar assessing the banquet room and the people in it. He had intervened against the man who treated her like a paid escort. Outside of the other hotel, where others had stepped over the scattered contents of boxes, he had joined her in picking up the pieces without even asking first. At last night's event before she almost sabotaged any potential relationship, he got on his hands and knees, trying to find the missing earring with her. Then he had apologized to her, in front of everyone, for her wrong assumptions, taking the blame for that on his shoulders.

Travis was right. Bucky Barnes wasn't like other men. He was rare and unique, and if she passed on this opportunity to know him better, that would always bother her, just like the flaws in the dress she wore that first time she met him, the dress she now regretted buying. She had settled for a poor imitation of a good man with her ex-husband and had let the bitterness of that experience colour her expectations. Bucky admitted he had flaws, but was also working on them and that was at least authentic. Since she was feeling good about that she allowed herself to acknowledge something else. Whether they ended up at her place, or his, she was going to enjoy it when he took his shirt off. Sometimes the best things in life came wrapped in a very nice covering.

One Shots Masterlist

Screenshot. Blocked. Done.

Bucky walked in with a mug in his hand and took a seat beside you, which brought a small smile to your face. He liked being close. You were one of the only people he let into his personal space bubble.

“You okay?” he asked when you set your phone down. “You’re being quiet.”

“I’m quiet sometimes,” you tried to tease.

He tilted his head. “No, this is a different kind of quiet. Something happened,” he said because he knew you so well. “And I want to fix it.”

You smiled again. Of course, he wanted to fix it. That was the kind of man he was. 

“Apparently, I’m too old to have hobbies,” you stated.

An adorably confused look crossed his face and you wanted to kiss him for being so cute. “You’re… what?”

“I got some anonymous ask on my blog basically telling me to stop posting fanfiction because I’m too old and I should do something my age,” you explained, showing him the screenshot.

Bucky stared at the screenshot, his fingers twitching before they curled into fists. He didn’t say anything. It didn’t even look like he was breathing.

The cold that filled his blue eyes told you he was about two seconds from somehow climbing into the internet and finding this person.

“And before you asked, I didn’t respond. I blocked them,” you explained, keeping the phone out of his reach. “They’re just trolling or trying to get a reaction.”

One of the wonderful things about your blog was that you could curate it for your own experience. If you didn’t want to respond to rude asks or messages, you didn’t have to. If you wanted to, you could. It was that simple.

A downside of the website was that some people seemed to forget to curate their own experiences, like simply unfollowing or blocking blogs and tags if they didn’t like, agree, or want to see them.

“I am reacting,” Bucky said in a quiet voice tinged with building rage.

“I noticed,” you said, not flinching when he set the mug down with a little more force than necessary and took a deep breath.

“That… is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot of stuff.”

You almost laughed, but he was dead serious.

“Does this…” He gestured to your phone and flexed his fingers again. “Askhole really thinks that there’s an expiration date on hobbies? Because there isn’t.”

You shifted and tucked your legs underneath you, giving him your full attention.

“That’s so fucking…” He let out a bitter laugh. “People collect baseball cards into their seventies. Eighties. They paint miniature trains. Build model airplanes. Knit. Garden. Fish. Hunt.”

“They do,” you agreed, running your fingers through his hair just because you could.

He closed his eyes at your touch before he continued. “People go to comic cons and cosplay. They play D&D. Video games.” His voice was starting to rise and your nails touched his scalp again. “And what about grown ass men who paint their faces and spend entire weekends yelling at sports games?”

“You sound personally offended.”

He looked at you incredulously. “I am personally offended on your behalf.”

You snuck in a kiss because you couldn’t help yourself. You felt some of the anger leave his body when your lips touched. It meant a lot that he cared so much.

“Don’t distract me,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” you whispered back, smiling when you pulled away. “You just have very kissable lips.”

“So do you,” he said with a smile before he frowned. “But I’m still not happy because they’re acting like people writing stories is somehow less respectable because what? Other people read them online and not from a book?”

You shrugged a little. “It’s fanfiction,” you said softly.

He shrugged, too. “So?”

“So…” You tried to find the words. “Some people think it's an inferior form of writing and a waste of time.”

His brows pinched, something sad filling his eyes. “I think creating something that makes you happy is one of the most adult and superior things you could do.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Really?”

“Really.” He opened his arms for you to move close. “You have two kids who love and adore you and vice versa, and they’re busy with so many activities that you have a calendar to keep it all straight. You make sure they’re never without.”

Your heart swelled. Your babies. No matter how old they got, they would always be your babies. And you wanted them to thrive in life. That was one of the reasons you worked so hard to give them not just a nice home, but a loving one.

“You work 40 hours a week. Sometimes more,” he said, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You pour so much of yourself into that job and your teammates that it wears on you by the end of the week.”

Mist filled your eyes. You did put a lot into your job because your parents taught you the value of hard work. And as frustrating as growth in your job could be, there were perks to your job and you had a great team. That wasn’t easy to come by.

“And when you aren’t pouring yourself into the kids or work, you have a pretty amazing husband who always wants your attention,” he teased, tilting your chin up with a tender smile. “Seriously, I can’t keep my hands off you half the time.”

Heat filled your cheeks and a laugh bubbled up. It amazed you after so many years how your husband still wanted you. Still admired you. He was an amazing partner and father.

You couldn’t ask for anyone better.

“And when you aren’t dealing with a handy husband.” He smirked a little. “You’re paying bills, handling responsibilities, and checking on others. Online and offline.”

Your heart sank a little. Messages sometimes went unanswered. Asks got buried. Comments got late replies. Not on purpose. Never on purpose.

But you felt guilty just the same. It didn’t feel like enough some days. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough of you to go around. 

“I try,” you said sadly.

“You do your best, and people see that,” he said proudly. “And after all that, you write.”

“Yeah.”

You wished you could write every single day. Life rarely gave you the opportunity to do so. You accepted that.

“I’m in fucking awe of you,” he said so seriously that your mouth fell open. “And not just you, but the community you all have online. They may not have your same kind of life or schedule, but they have their own struggles and they still find the time to create and share. You all help keep fandoms alive.”

Everyone had a life and a story to tell. Everyone had their hardships. That was one of the reasons so many of you gravitated to certain characters and communities. Life was tough enough. Building connections helped.

“I guess we do,” you said, much softer.

“Does that piece of shit askhole realize that your creations have touched people? Helped people?” 

“I haven’t-”

He silenced you with a deep kiss, the words dying in your throat.

“Don’t you dare say that your writing hasn’t touched or helped at least one person because it has,” he said fiercely, cupping your cheek. “Fluff, smut, angst, soft, dark. There’s something for everyone.”

You did your best to provide a variety of stories, and you adored your readers. They were cheerleaders, supporters, and friends. You wanted them to feel loved and cared for. They deserved that. 

“And some coward.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. “Hiding behind a button doesn’t get to treat you like you don’t belong in your own space because of your age.”

Your eyes burned again. “Bucky…”

“Not to mention, you do this for free in the very limited free time you have.” He brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I’m glad you blocked them. You don’t need that trash in your inbox.”

“I’m glad, too.”

It wasn’t the sort of energy you needed in your space, and blocking them helped take your power back.

“And look at me? I’m over a hundred years old. I’m an old fucking man, and I still have hobbies.” He smiled when you snorted. “Like jumping out of planes.”

“You take after Steve,” you joked. 

That beautiful man could be reckless in the best way.

“I like old records.”

“And we dance in the kitchen while listening to them.”

You always felt cherished when he held you close.

“I read,” he said, nodding to the chair where he usually sat to read.

“I should get you reading glasses,” you mused.

Even if he didn’t need them, he’d look sexy in them.

“I’m a science nerd,” he stated proudly.

“I still want to get your glasses.”

Because nerds were sexy as hell.

“I like fixing motorcycles.”

You sighed dreamily. “And you look good on your bike.”

Maybe he could take you for a ride later… in more ways than one.

“I bake with Sam’s nephews.”

You sighed again because the man looked good with kids. “They do love when you add extra chocolate chips to cookies.”

“Extra chocolate chips make it better.” He winked. “And I’m still saving the world every so often.”

You put your hand over his. “My hero.”

“So, if I can still have hobbies at my age, why can’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “If this person really thinks people should stop once they hit a certain, they’re going to live a sad life. If anything, people get better at their hobbies because they’re getting more experience which happens with age.”

You didn’t disagree.

“I don’t care if you’re in your twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, whatever age,” he promised you. “If it brings you joy? If you love it? Then don’t stop creating. Don’t stop writing your stories.”

You closed your eyes when he kissed your forehead. “Even the self-indulgent ones?”

He smiled against your skin. “Especially the self-indulgent ones.”

“Even if I write about other characters?” 

“I’ll support you,” he promised.

“What if someone else says I’m still too old?” you asked.

“Then I’ll remind them, once again, that I’m over a hundred years old and they can get fucked.”

“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”

“You look very good for your age.” You giggled when he playfully growled and managed to grab your phone. “Hey!”

“Forget about them,” he ordered, tucking the device away. “And talk to me about one of the next ideas brewing in that beautiful brain of yours.”

An almost shy smile appeared on your face. Almost. He knew better.

“It might be better if I… show you.”

He leaned back against the cushion and helped you straddle him, his eyes dark as his hands settled on your hips. “I like the sound of that.”

You stopped him before he could pull you down for a kiss. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You gazed at the man who brought so much light into your life. He helped you connect to others. He fueled your creativity. 

You felt very lucky.

“Thanks for loving and seeing me,” you whispered.

His eyes softened. “Thanks for loving and seeing me, too,” he said, meeting you halfway. “And if some askhole bothers you again, send them my way.”

“Yes, sir,” you teased, letting him kiss you.

So, yes, you’d keep posting your stories on your blog.

The self-indulgent ones. The ones you struggled to tell. The ones you put your blood, sweat, and tears into.

You’d joke about the writing process. You’d apologize for late updates. You’d keep on doing what you were doing.

Because there was no expiration date on creativity and hobbies.

And anyone who thought there was?

Well, they didn’t need to read your stories. 

Yep. I'm a mom. A wife. A friend. I work. I adult. Fanfiction isn't just fanfiction, lovelies. It's community. Keep doing you. Curate your own experience. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Drabble #4 - Best Laid Plans Rating: Mature

Bucky had a plan.

Flowers. Wine. Something resembling romance. Eighty years of missed birthdays deserved at least that much. Right?

Steve was out on the balcony in nothing but dog tags and a grin that had been causing Bucky problems since 1930.

"You gonna declare independence from those pants anytime soon?"

Bucky's plan dissolved completely.

Two strides. Flowers hit the floor. He walked Steve backwards into the railing, vibranium hand curling around his waist, mouth finding his throat.

Steve made a sound that went straight to Bucky's cock.

"Happy birthday, punk," Bucky murmured as the sky lit up above them.

That's it for the Mature drabble, thanks for reading!

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