Rusty
Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
summary: You keep growing closer to your neighbour, Bucky. One night, you find out he hasn't had sex in a long time... and you're willing to help him get back into it.
warnings: reader was team Cap in CW, there is somewhat of a plot!! Can you believe it, smut, kinda sub!Bucky, praise kink, oral (f receiving), p in v unprotected sex again sorry guys don't do that wc: 5.3k
note: if my man dies in Doomsday I'm gonna make it everyone's problem —. I wanted to post this yesterday but I had to do a presentation about my research today so I didn't have the time :(
Bucky was… pent up. There was no softer way to put it.
He might not have been conscious for most of those seventy years under Hydra—his body, still relatively young, was proof of that—but time had passed all the same. And it weighed on him, in ways he didn't really know how to handle.
After he broke free—or rather, after Steve broke him free—the idea of anything like intimacy didn't even cross his mind. He'd been too busy trying to piece himself back together, memories resurfacing in fragments he hadn't asked for, forcing him to confront everything he'd been made to forget.
For a long time, that was all there was.
But eventually, after the pardon, after the constant weight of being hunted finally lifted, his body started catching up to him. He was free now.
And that changed things.
That's when you came back into his life.
An Avenger, once, gone during the Blip, only to return to a world that had moved on without you. Whatever life you'd had before, it was gone. So you did what you knew best; you threw yourself back into the fight, into the work.
Bucky knew you. Not well, per se, but enough. You'd fought on the same side, shared the same battlefield.
Him, for his freedom. You—for what you believed in.
He knew you and Sam got along well. And as he grew fond of Sam over time, he found himself growing fond of you, too. It didn't help that you lived in the same goddamn apartment building.
Bucky knew it was pointless. He wasn't the kind of person who got into relationships anymore. Maybe he used to be, but with all the baggage he carried, it would only ever become too complicated.
Still, you made it difficult to hold on to that mindset.
In the mornings, he'd catch you on your way out—yes, maybe he'd memorized your schedule just to "coincidentally" run into you in the hallway—and you'd ask if you looked decent, always a little rushed because you refused to give up those extra minutes in bed.
Or when you cooked dinner and misjudged the portions, ending up with enough food to feed a small army, you'd knock on his door, knowing full well Bucky mostly survived on takeout and wasn't exactly a Michelin-worthy chef.
Or when you asked him to check your sink because it had started making strange noises every time you used it. You'd say you could fix it yourself, but he had that metal arm and knew his way around tools, so he'd have it working again in no time—because of course he would help. It was his pleasure. Literally. The grateful smile you gave him, the featherlight touch to his shoulder as you handed him a homemade cookie—hair a mess, tank top tighter than he knew how to ignore—made crawling under your sink, soaked in dirty drain water, worth it every time.
All of it only made things worse.
Bucky didn't know how to suppress the feelings building inside him, how to keep them from spilling over. Every conversation felt like it might end in disaster, like he'd say too much and ruin everything he was trying so hard to protect.
Because that's how he was around you.
It had taken time, sure, but you'd pulled him out of his shell. You made him feel like himself again, like the man he'd been before everything: before the torture, before the killing. With you, he talked more. And you listened. Sometimes you'd even bring up things he'd forgotten he'd ever told you.
And when he showed up at your door in the early hours of the morning, you were always quick to understand; he'd had another nightmare. You never pushed him to relive it. Instead, you distracted him with random facts, or updates about everything he'd missed since the 40s, like the moon landing.
You'd debate on whatever topic you'd brought up, until suddenly it was six in the morning and you had to get ready for the day.
Bucky would always apologize for bothering you—even though it didn't happen that often—and you'd just smile and reassure him that it was okay. At least now, you were awake early enough to get ready properly for once.
One uneventful night, you found yourself tossing and turning in bed. The clock read 4:30. In an hour and a half, it would ring. But you were already awake, and sleep wasn't coming back.
With an exasperated sigh, you threw off the covers and sat up. Might as well get a head start on the day, for once.
In the kitchen, you noticed the trash you'd forgotten to take out the night before. The early wake-up worked in your favor—you could still get it out on time.
After hauling it downstairs and leaving it with the other bags, you made your way back up… only to drift a little farther down the hall than necessary. Towards Bucky's apartment.
You paused in front of his door, staring at it.
You knew exactly why.
You'd been crushing on him for months now. It was almost embarrassing, really, the way a grown woman like you could go weak in the knees just watching him fix your kitchen sink in a white undershirt, his biceps straining against the fabric.
But it wasn't just that.
It was the way he smiled when you brought him homemade baked goods. The way he fed the neighbour's cat nearly every day because its owner kept forgetting it existed. The quiet kindness in him, always at odds with the way he seemed to believe he'd been ruined beyond repair.
You fell a little harder every time he stepped out into the hallway in the mornings just to tell you good morning, far earlier than he ever needed to be awake. The way he asked if he could help whenever you so much as mentioned a problem, never intrusive, just offering.
The way he was with kids, too. Letting your nephew poke and prod at his metal arm, humouring him, even play-fighting when asked, despite the way his expression sometimes tightened, just for a second.
Yeah. You had it bad.
You exhaled, shaking your head at yourself. This was ridiculous. Standing outside his door like some lovesick teenager?
You turned to leave, but froze when a low, pained sound came from inside his apartment. Your chest tightened. He must be having a nightmare.
You hesitated, hand hovering uselessly at your side as another strained groan slipped through the door, muffled but unmistakable. You shifted your weight, debating—should you knock? Wake him up? Or was that crossing a line?
Then you heard something else. Softer this time. Slurred. Not quite clear.
You leaned in slightly, frowning. He said it again. Your breath caught as you realised he'd said your name.
You went still, staring at the door like it might suddenly open on its own.
What the hell was he dreaming about?
As you heard another quiet sound slip through the door, your eyes grew wide at the realisation that it was a moan.
Bucky moaning your name in the dead of night. Was he having a sex dream? About you? No, that couldn't be it.
Whatever was happening behind that door, you decided to stay out of it, retreating back to your own apartment, mind reeling.
As you got ready for the day, still a little dazed, you left before your usual time, not sure you'd be able to look Bucky in the eyes just yet.
Days passed after that. You slipped back into your usual rhythm, no longer avoiding him. Not that you ever really had; that attempt lasted, what, half a day? Still, you found yourself paying closer attention to him than before.
Since that night, you started noticing things.
The way the tips of Bucky's ears, and sometimes even his neck, flushed pink whenever you grabbed his hand or arm to show him something. How he grew oddly distant, avoiding your gaze whenever you wore a low-cut top or tight jeans. He rarely touched you—you'd always assumed it was tied to his belief that he was dangerous, that he might hurt you—but when he did, when he was the one to take your hand for once, it was always so gentle. Careful. Like you were something fragile he needed to protect.
You caught him staring, too. Only when he thought you weren't looking, when you were busy with something else, completely absorbed. What he didn't know was that you were always hyperaware of him, picking up on every glance, every shift, every quiet habit.
One afternoon, he was helping you rearrange your bookshelves, trying to shove a book into an already packed row.
"I can't make it fit," he muttered under his breath.
You didn't even hesitate.
"Ha. Title of your sex tape."
Bucky rolled his eyes immediately, but you caught it—the quick flash of pink at his ears, the way he shifted his weight like he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself.
Later that evening, you offered him a beer as thanks. One beer turned into two, then three, and eventually you cracked open a bottle of wine, fully aware that neither of you had anything planned for the next day, a sunday.
The conversation drifted easily, eventually landing on relationships—on dating, on whatever passed for a love life these days. Between your demanding job and your not-so-little crush on Bucky, you hadn't exactly been active in that department.
What surprised you, though, was that he’d been the one to bring it up.
When you turned the question back on him, Bucky grimaced.
"Well… I downloaded Tinder a while ago," he admitted. "Didn't really go anywhere, though. Never actually met up with anyone. Eventually just deleted it." He shrugged. "I'm more… old school, I guess."
"So no one caught your eye?" you asked, nodding along.
He didn't answer right away.
You raised a brow, then pressed on. "What about casual hookups?"
Bucky nearly choked on his drink. "That wasn't really… a thing back in my day." He hesitated, suddenly looking unsure, like he wasn't certain he should be saying any of this, even if he brought the topic up. The alcohol had probably made him a little more loose. "And I don't know if that's really… an option for me. If I want to keep my dignity," he trailed off, looking away.
You squinted your eyes slightly, curiosity piqued.
"What do you mean?"
"It's kind of embarassing, actually."
"Come on, Barnes." You leaned back, raising a brow. "I've seen you spill tomato sauce on a white linen shirt and then rub it in while trying to clean it. An old lady once yelled at you in public for offering help because she thought you were calling her useless. You've told me you sometimes mix up shampoo and shower gel. And let's not forget the time we went to a museum; you tried to lean against a statue, casually, but knocked it over—"
"Okay, okay!" Bucky cut in, holding up his hands. "I get it. Jeez, how long were you planning to go on?"
You smirked. "Just saying. You can tell me."
"Well…" He hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I can't really do hookups because I... I haven't had sex in about seventy years."
"Oh."
He grimaced. "Yeah. I'd probably be a little... rusty."
You paused, searching for something—anything—helpful to say. "Well… you've got to start somewhere. I mean, you don't have to, obviously, but if you do want to, then someone’s got to be the first."
"Yeah," Bucky sighed, gaze dropping to his hands. He didn't look convinced.
An awkward silence settled between you, thick enough to notice.
"It's not embarrassing, Buck. Really," you said after a moment, softer now. "And if it helps, I haven't had sex in a while either. Not seventy years," you added quickly, "but at least a full year. Which, for me, is basically the same thing."
That got a real laugh out of him. Warm, unguarded.
"If you say so," he said, shaking his head.
The conversation shifted again, this time to one of the books Bucky came across earlier—The Wizard of Oz, he knew that one—and as the night wore on, sleepiness crept in.
By the time the clock neared two, you finally called it a night. Bucky headed back to his apartment while you got ready for bed, the quiet of your place settling in around you.
But sleep didn't come. Because of course, the idea of Bucky having sex was what your mind fixated on now, making it virtually impossible to focus on anything else, like counting sheep.
Suddenly, you remembered that night, you'd heard him moan your name. Was he attracted to you? He had to be… right? People didn't just dream about others like that for no reason. Even if it wasn't anything romantic, there had to be some level of physical attraction.
You settled on that thought, letting it sit—dangerous, but oddly comforting.
Eventually, sleep found you.
The next morning, you woke with a dull throbbing behind your temples. You hadn't even had that much to drink, but between your job and your increasingly nonexistent social life, your tolerance had clearly taken a hit.
As you waited for your coffee to brew, you grabbed a paracetamol and swallowed it down with a glass of water, wincing slightly.
You wondered if Bucky felt the same.
Great. You hadn't even been awake for an hour, and you were already thinking about him again.
A new record.
You were still debating whether to casually swing by his place later or just stay put when a knock sounded at your door.
Your name followed, low and familiar.
Of course.
"It's unlocked!" you called, remembering too late that you'd never locked it after he left last night.
The door opened, and Bucky stepped in, holding a small white box. You raised an eyebrow, curious.
"Got you something on my walk this morning," he said.
You grinned. "Wow. Aren't you sweet?"
He shrugged, like it was nothing. "Figured it might help with the hangover."
You scoffed. "You have very little faith in me. I might not even feel it."
"Yeah?" he smirked. "Just like the last time, when I had to carry you home from the bar?"
"That was one time," you shot back. "Every other time, I've handled my alcohol just fine."
"Sure. What other times? Back in college? That must've been, what, fifty years ago?"
"Hey! You're the old one here."
"And I still hold my liquor better than you."
"That's because you're a literal supersoldier. I could totally outdrink 40s Bucky."
He snorted. "Do you want your present or not?"
Your grin turned giddy. "Obviously. What is it?"
He opened the box, revealing a neatly arranged selection—an éclair, a croissant, and a strawberry tart.
You groaned. "My stomach is turning just looking at that."
"…Right," he muttered. "Didn't think that through."
You laughed. "It's fine. We'll eat it later. I'm not that bad, it'll pass."
As you finished making your coffee, Bucky settled at your kitchen island, casually picking up yesterday's newspaper like he belonged there.
It felt oddly domestic. And that was the strange part.
Instead of the usual flurry of nerves and butterflies, all you felt was something softer. Warmer. A quiet kind of fullness that settled in your chest and lingered. This wasn't just a crush.
Bucky glanced up, catching you staring. He raised an eyebrow in silent question, so you stuck your tongue out at him. He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head before looking back down at the paper.
After finishing your coffee, you stood and opened the box again. "You want something?"
He shook his head. "You pick first."
You shrugged, reaching for the éclair. Just as you'd thought, you felt fine enough. And honestly, a pastry was never a bad idea.
Bucky grabbed the croissant.
"You know," you said between bites, "I didn't take you for a croissant kind of guy."
He looked up, puzzled. "Why not?"
"I don't know. It's very French. And you're very… not."
"You don't think I could pass as French?"
You laughed at the faintly offended look on his face—and in doing so, missed the bit of chocolate that smeared at the corner of your mouth.
"Sure you could," you said, still smiling.
Bucky leaned forward slightly, hand lifting toward your face.
"You've got—uh—" His voice faltered as his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away the chocolate. He seemed to realize what he was doing a second too late, hesitation flickering across his features.
You don't know what you were thinking. You weren't thinking, really. You caught his thumb with your lips, tasting the faint sweetness as you pulled it away, your eyes never leaving his.
Bucky went still. His breath hitched, ears flushing red. The moment stretched—too long, too charged.
As you released his thumb, your eyes widened and reality came crashing back.
"Oh—God—I'm sorry, I didn't—" you rushed out, heat flooding your face. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable—"
He didn't let you finish. Bucky surged forward, closing the distance in an instant, his lips crashing into yours.
You froze for half a heartbeat, not realizing what was happening. And then, you kissed him back just as fervently, lips moving with his in perfect sync.
The position wasn't exactly comfortable, so you pulled back just long enough to shift closer. Bucky stumbled back into a chair, and you followed, settling into his lap as your lips found his again, just as eager.
One of his hands slid into your hair, holding you gently but firmly in place, while the other rested on your thigh, gripping slightly.
As the kiss deepened, you felt his excitement grow beneath you. Bucky let out a quiet groan, realization hitting him as he pulled back, breathing unevenly against your lips.
"I'm— I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I don't mean to, it just… happens. Can't really control it. Like I said last night… it's been a while, so I'm a little… on edge."
You smiled softly, brushing it off. "Don't apologize, Buck. I don't mind." A playful smirk tugged at your lips. "Actually… this might be kind of convenient. You know, if you ever wanted help with that little problem of yours, you could've just asked."
Bucky nearly choked at that, coughing slightly as he tried to recover.
You softened immediately. "Hey. If you don't want to, that's completely fine—"
"No!" he interrupted, then cleared his throat. "I mean— I do want to. I just… do you?"
You gave him a small, steady smile. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't."
He nodded, more to himself than to you. "Okay. Yeah. Okay." Then he glanced back up at you, a hint of nervous humor returning. "Just… don't expect too much. Like I said, I'm rusty."
You snorted lightly. "We'll fix that. Don't worry."
Something in your tone made the hairs on his arms stand on end, in a way he didn't entirely mind.
"So…" he started.
"Bedroom," you cut in, wrinkling your nose. "I'm not doing this in my kitchen."
He huffed a laugh. "Germaphobe."
You rolled your eyes, grabbing his hand and pulling him up with you, leading the way.
Despite the anticipation buzzing under your skin, there was something surprisingly easy about it—something steady and familiar as he followed you, like this was exactly where you were both meant to be.
As you climbed onto the bed, Bucky followed close behind. You placed a hand against his chest, gently guiding him down.
"At least get me ready first, Buck," you said, a teasing note in your voice. "It's been a while for me too, you know."
"Right," he nodded, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "Told you, I'm rusty."
He shifted lower, hands moving to your waist as he carefully unbuttoned and unzipped your jeans. You lifted your hips to help him slide them off.
Bucky paused for a second, glancing up at you. "Can I—uh… kiss you again first?"
You didn't answer with words. Instead, you grinned, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him back up to you.
He smiled into the kiss as your lips met again, a little clumsy, your teeth knocking together in your eagerness.
Then, he moved down again, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses at your pussy through the thin fabric of your underwear, his hands firm on your thighs as he kept you in place.
Your head fell back at the sensation, a shiver running through you. When he didn't go any further, you let out a soft, impatient whine. "C'mon, Buck… stop teasing."
He chuckled at that, finally slipping your underwear down your legs. But even then, he didn't rush.
He blew cool air on your exposed pussy, making you jolt slightly, goosebumps rising in its wake. You let out a frustrated groan, half warning. "If you don't get your mouth on my cunt right now, Barnes, I swear to God..."
You trailed off as he finally gave in, dipping down and dragging a long stripe up your pussy with his tongue.
"Good…" your eyes fluttered shut, your hand finding his hair, guiding him closer. "Yeah… that's—yeah, that's good…"
That seemed to encourage him. He grew more confident, one hand shifting to draw small, careful circles on your clit that made your grip tighten instinctively. Your hips bucked slightly, chasing your high without even thinking about it.
Bucky let you, flattening his tongue as he ate you out. Your head tipped back, a soft sound escaping you as the tension built, coiling tighter and tighter.
Somewhere in the haze, Bucky had started softly grinding against the matress like he couldn't quite help himself, drawn in by every breath, every sound you made.
And then it tipped over.
Your hand tightened in his hair as you pressed his face against your cunt, moaning as your body went taut. Bucky kept rubbing your clit as your orgasm washed over you, until it became too much and you gently pushed him back with a whimper.
When you finally opened your eyes, Bucky was looking up at you, a little flushed, a little dazed, his lips covered in your slick.
"If this is what you call rusty, I'd love to see you on a good day," you heaved, letting out a breathless laugh. He grinned, dipping down to kiss your lips, making you taste yourself on his tongue.
"I—do you want to keep going?" he asked, a little uncertain now that you’d already come.
Your gaze dropped down, a grin spreading as you noticed the clear evidence of his interest. "You clearly do."
Bucky flushed. "Well—"
You cut him off by shifting forward, your hand finding him through the fabric. His breath hitched, mouth falling open slightly as you guided him back against the headboard.
Taking your time, you undid his jeans and pushed them down, then tugged lightly at his shirt. "Off," you murmured.
He fumbled a bit, clearly distracted, pulling it over his head as your fingers traced lightly over his cock through the remaining fabric, just enough to make him shiver.
Soon enough, he was bare beneath you, save for his briefs. When you freed his dick, it sprung up swiftly, red and leaking, clearly in desperate need of some attention. You leaned down, licking the precum from his tip slowly.
Bucky gasped. You did it again, just kitten-licking his cock as if it was a lollypop, until he was squirming on your bed, silently begging you to give him more.
"That feel good, James?"
"Yeah—" he breathed, chest rising and falling quickly. "Feels good..."
You continued stroking his cock slowly, massaging his balls with your other hand.
"Been a long time since a girl took care of you like this, huh?"
His eyes squeezed shut, head tipping back as he tried to respond. "Uh—Uh huh."
You didn’t speed up. If anything, you took your time even more, letting him feel every second of it. Teasing, just like he had done to you.
He didn't tell you to get on with it, though. Didn't ask for more. Just stayed there, taking it, completely at your mercy.
The thought made you smile.
"You're such a good boy, Buck...."
He gasped, eyes flying open as they locked onto yours. Surprise flashed across his expression. Your hand sped up on his cock, then, other hand tugging at his balls.
"Wh- what?" His voice cracked. He sounded downright sinful.
"Yeah," you murmured. "Don't you wanna be good?"
He nodded quickly, breath uneven, eyes falling shut again as his head dropped back against the headboard.
"Yeah... wanna be good for you."
You grinned at his answer. You could tell he was close as he began thrusting his hips up, fucking his cock into your fist.
And just before he could tip over, you pulled your hand away. His eyes snapped open, a flash of betrayal crossing his face, until he he saw you spread yourself out next to him on the bed.
"Don't you wanna be good and fuck me, James?" Your smile was sultry, dipping a finger into your wetness from when you'd came earlier.
That seemed to undo him completely. Bucky felt himself nodding, dazed.
"Well get over here, then."
He moved on top of you without hesitation, gripping the base of his cock with one hand as he rubbed his tip through your folds. Just that could be enough to make him come. He tapped the head of his cock on your pussy lips a few times, staring at his own actions in wonder.
"I can't promise I'll last long..." he admitted under his breath, a hint of nerves slipping through. But you didn't give him time to overthink it, gripping his hips and pushing him inside you in one smooth motion. Bucky gasped, eyes growing wide at the feeling of your cunt around him.
"Oh, God— Oh, my God," he moaned, not even moving yet.
You let out soft, blissful exhale yourself at the feeling of being full, but it wasn't enough.
"C'mon, Barnes," you murmured. "You can do better than that."
He nodded, starting slow, like he was figuring it out, but it didn’t stay that way for long. The restraint slipped, replaced by something more instinctive, more urgent. Soon enough, he was pummeling inside you, barely even moving his cock out. He was quickly rutting into your pussy like a dog in heat as he buried his face near your neck, whining, breath uneven.
Your hand found his hair, fingers tangling as you tugged, grounding yourself just as much as him.
His rhythm faltered for a moment as everything seemed to hit him at once—the closeness, your hands in his hair, the way you responded to him like this was exactly where you wanted to be.
"Hey…" you murmured softly, your tone shifting just enough to ground him. "You're okay. Just feel it. Don't overthink."
That seemed to steady him.
Bucky let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping briefly against yours before he found his pace again—thrusting into you slower this time, more deliberate.
Your grip in his hair softened, turning into something gentler, your thumb brushing along his jaw as you watched him. There was something almost vulnerable in his expression now as he worked the both of you closer to your pinnacle.
"See?" you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Not so rusty."
He huffed out a breath that might've been a laugh, though it came out uneven. "Don't—don't distract me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
His thrusts became sloppier, and your cunt clenched around him as you felt your orgasm approaching.
Bucky's movements grew a little more confident, his hands finally settling properly on you instead of hovering like he wasn't sure he was allowed. His grip tightened just slightly, grounding himself, before he moved both hands next to your ears, caging you in.
He was so close to you, panting in your mouth. The tension in him built again, but this time it felt different—less rushed, more connected.
You let out a soft breath, your hand drifting lower to touch your clit as you chased that building tension, needing just a little more to tip over the edge. Bucky's fingers laced with yours, holding on as he leaned in, pressing quick, scattered kisses along your cheek and jaw.
His thrusts grew frantic again, losing control of his rhythm, balls slapping against you as he chased his high.
"Are you gonna come, Bucky?" You said, meaning to tease, but your voice came out breathless, betraying you.
"Yeah," Bucky managed, just as strained. "Yeah, I'm— I'm gonna come, please, come with me."
"Yeah?" A small, shaky laugh left you, your eyes slipping shut as everything tightened, sweat dripping down your neck. "You want me to cum on your fat cock?"
Bucky gasped, a broken sound, thrusting into you hard as he shot white strings of cum in your pussy. You moaned out, intensifying the stimulation on your clit as you followed right after, cunt convulsing around his spent cock, the feeling washing over you in waves.
Bucky kept thrusting in you slowly until your orgasm died down. Eventually, he collapsed on the bed next to you, panting hard.
"Not bad..." he panted, a faint, breathless laugh escaping him, "for the first time in seventy years, huh?"
You turned your head toward him, a tired but satisfied smile forming as you curled closer. "No," you murmured. "Not bad at all."
And just like that, the exhaustion caught up to you both, the two of you drifting off, tangled together in the quiet aftermath.
When you woke up, Bucky was gone, and you'd been cleaned up.
You blinked a few times, still groggy, before pushing yourself out of bed and getting dressed. The apartment was quiet as you stepped out of the bedroom, until you reached the kitchen.
Bucky stood at the stove, shirtless, focused on whatever he was cooking.
"Well, hello there," you smirked, leaning against the doorway.
"Good evening to you, too," he replied casually.
You frowned, glancing at the clock.
5:30 p.m.
"Did I seriously sleep all afternoon?" you gasped.
He shrugged. "Guess you needed it."
You walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. "What're you making?"
He turned slightly to face you, putting on an exaggeratedly serious expression. "Now, I'll have you know I'm not exactly a great cook, but I was feeling generous, so I decided to make you dinner."
You peeked past him at the pan; pasta with chicken and what looked like a simple tomato sauce.
Your expression softened. "Aw. You sweet old man."
He scoffed. "Call me old one more time and you'll regret it."
"Oh yeah?" you smirked. "What're you gonna do—pull a muscle trying to prove me wrong?"
Before you could react, he turned and lifted you clean off the ground, holding you up with ease.
You squealed, kicking your legs as you laughed. "Bucky!"
"Wanna say that again?" he asked, clearly amused.
"Okay, okay!" you laughed. "I take it back, you're clearly in your prime!"
He chuckled, setting you down gently before turning back to the stove like nothing had happened.
You settled into a chair, watching him move around the kitchen, looking so comfortable, easy, like he belonged there.
You didn't know what to call this—if there even was a 'this'—but you knew one thing for certain.
Somewhere along the way, you'd fallen for him. Deeply.
And as he stood there, making you dinner like it was the most natural thing in the world, you didn't need him to verbalize it to know he loved you, too.
