"...alright. Just The Usual Ones? Night Time Too...and Tampons. Don't Ever Apologise. Alright. We'll

LET THIS SPREAD LIKE WILDFIRE

old nanami painting i still love 🪓

【呪術廻戦】ドットアニメーション「廻送電車」【作業用BGM】

I miss my silly lil Gojo :(

Steve, coming out of the closet: I don’t like… women.

Tony, mouth agape:

Thor: yoU ARE A MISOGYNIST?!

the sluttiest waist in the jjk universe

He wants to be your Valentine 🖤

Imagine: Bucky wants to be your valentine 💝

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Written on my phone.

Warnings: Fluff

Bucky met you a few weeks ago at an all night diner, the kind with cheap greasy food prepared by a grizzled chef, who's been around longer than you been alive, putting out meals that tastes better than any so called five star restaurant could ever make.

It had been raining that first night, the pattering on the glass window by your booth was mesmerizing, soothing.

You didn't notice him then but he noticed you.

You were tapping a French fry on your lips, eyes focused on the sheets of raining falling so hard they bounced on the ground.

He noticed your 'not quite a smile'-twist of your lips you gave to the man across from you. How you withdrew your hand when he touched you. He noticed how you slouched in the seat, deflating when he spoke to you. How the life seemed to drain from your eyes when you looked away from the window.

He came back the next night. You were back in the same booth wearing ceil blue scrubs, the man across from you in jeans and a hoodie. Your eyes landed on Bucky, catching him mid stare. Bucky felt embarrassed until you smiled at him. You stared back as if you were trying to place him, unable to break away until jackass across from you snapped his fingers in your face.

He listened to argument that followed, silently agreeing with everything you said. While he hates that you're upset and is more than willing to shove jackass through the window, you're holding your own, snapping off fiery retorts.

He likes that.

He likes you.

Two more nights pass, and he finds himself back at the diner, giving a not so nonchalant shrug when the waitress, Martha, according to her cracked name tag, gives him a knowing look and a " the food ain't that good, son."

He sits one booth closer. You're alone tonight, an open book beside your plate. More fries, more lip tapping. You must be at a good part in your book because you've been biting into that fry for five minutes now.

It's cute. He likes that too.

When Martha sets his food down a little too hard you look up at the clatter. He's staring again, he should work on that. He was the world's best assassin for 70 some years yet he keeps getting caught by you.

He kinda likes that. Cant say why.

The idea of you getting one up on him is intriguing.

You give him a shy smile, ducking your head before he can respond. He turns back to his food. You pick up your book.

Martha groans.

A few weeks pass, you stop by every night, sometimes in scrubs, other times in jeans or legging. He doesn't care. You're pretty in everything.

Every so often, he sits one booth closer. Each time, you look over the top of your book and stare. Waiting for something, the same thing he's waiting for. You both know yet it ends the same each time. He reads the menu for the hundredth time and you find a new fry to tap against your lips.

One night he was approaching the diner, he saw you in your spot with the same worn book in your hand. He didn't notice Martha forcing two truck drivers three times her size out of the booth next to yours.

She grabbed his hand before the door shut closed, the little bell still dinging when she pushed him down on to the smooth leather seats. She shoved herself next to him, grabbing the super soldier by the ear, hissing. "I dont have time for this, you go and talk to her tonight, you understand me son."

She's gone before he can respond. Your abrupt giggle is music to his sore ears-one of them very sore. It was a short and low noise but he heard it. He peers over the booth, chin sliding over cracked vinyl. There you are. Your face buried in the book, your cheeks puffed out as you try not laugh, your shoulders shaking. It's cute.

He really likes that. He wishes he could hear more of your laughter.

But he slumps back down. Ignoring the death glares from Martha. The chef, Frank, throwing up his stained apron before stomping back into the kitchen.

He's almost home when it hits him. Jerkface hasn't been back for a while now. Oh, he likes that. He loves that. Maybe. No. But then again, you might like him. No. Maybe. Things were easier in the 40's.

But they didn't make em like you in the 40's

The next night, the diner is the same except for the large tacky pink heart glued to the front door. Happy Valentines Day scrawled on the front in black sharpie.

Valentines Day.

His heart drops, you wouldn't be here tonight, you probably have a date. He turns to leave, searching his pocket for his keys.

"Oh no, you don't son."

Bucky can punch through a car without a second thought. Kick a man 60 feet in the air but he can't stop a chubby 5'1" old woman with arthritic hands from yanking him inside an even older diner.

She shoves him into your booth, startling both of you. Slapping her wrinkled hands on the table, pointing at him. "You talk to her today gahdamn it and that asshole she was dating made her cry." She leans her small chubby face into his, more threatening than anyone he's fought before. "You make her cry, ill kill you". She could, she really could.

Martha points that finger at you and you nearly flinch. "And you, get over that asshole, you were too good for him, good riddance, stop hiding behind this book, you and I both know you're not reading it and talk to him." She ends her rant with another slap on the table, taking your book from your hands.

With matching wide eyes, you both stare as she walks away, shouting, "and don't bother me, I'm not bringing you food until I feel like it."

Bucky turns back to you with a shaky breathy. He's rehearsed meeting you many times in his head, even planning it with Sam. This was not in any of his scenarios. He's trying not to panic. This is scarier than any battle. He drums his fingers on the table. You tap your toes on the edge on the booth, shaking your leg.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He thinks about what old him would say to you. Then again old him is gone and new him, well, he wants you to like new him.

"I'm James but friends call me Bucky"

You smile, a burst of literal sunshine, he can feel his face warming from it or it could be his nerves easing a bit, he really can't tell. Maybe a little of both when you say, "Hi Bucky."

He likes that. His name on your tongue.

He talks and listens, you do the same. A slow hesitant dance, both stumbling and stepping on each other until a rhythm clicks in place. Then you really talk, a conversation building, time nonexistent, secrets spill and he learns more about you than he imagined he would.

Then you laugh, he’s not sure how he did it but damn it he wants try again and see if works.

It does.

He makes you laugh again. And then again. Over a plate burgers that an ecstatic, kinda smug Martha slide in between you two during a debate over why he should upgrade his phone. A flip phone is not new tech, Bucky. What do you mean you only need to call people, that's not what phones are for anymore.

Then the topic winds around to jerkface and you sigh. A watery forlorn shimmer in your eyes, for a second he wonders if you miss him. Then you explain what he did to you with your best friend.

Bucky moves around to your side, putting his arm around you. You lay your head on his shoulder, whispering "some mess I am huh?"

He kissed the top of your head, "nah I think you're fantastic, doll." The endearment slipping out.

You like it.

"You don't know me," you protest as if you're not pushing your face closer to take a deeper whiff of his cologne.

"Then tell me about you," he retorts, "because I already like you,"

By the time, Martha deems you worthy of deserts, a piece of cake and slice of pie, one milkshake with two straws and a rather vulgar wink, you know him and he knows you.

"Happy Valentine's Day." He smiles with a smudge of whip cream across his kissable lips.

He promises to call you tomorrow and before you get home, your phone buzzes. "Good night, doll"

Another buzz by the time you get in bed. "You're right about the phone it took me 20 minutes to send you that text message."

The second date was spent an Apple store. The third at the movies, the forth was a walk in the park, an actual walk in the park-he's bit old-fashioned after all, the fifth was ambushed by his friends much to his indignation and your delight. By the sixth date, you were head over heels for him.

Martha and Frank invited themselves to your wedding before you had the chance to ask them. Actually before he even proposed they planned out the entire thing on an old menu and some napkins.

Each year you spend Valentines Day in your booth. With him. Over a plate of greasy fries and laughter.

iwaizumi has never once forgotten a date.

oikawa's always told him it makes him sound weird and robotic—that no one remembers the exact day they broke their first bone or had their first kiss, iwa. that memories pass and days fade and you're not meant to remember the exact date of every little thing, but, if he's being completely honest, iwaizumi kind of likes it.

he's never forgotten a date, and so today, your birthday, is really no exception.

granted, he didn't expect himself to be standing at your front porch with a little piece of paper stuffed in his pocket today—but facetime just didn't seem like enough and he couldn't stomach the idea of you getting your birthday gift from the postman, so here he is.

"hajime?" you hover in the doorway, eyeing him, and for a moment, he thinks this might have been an incredibly stupid idea. "what are you doing here?"

"your birthday," he breathes. "i didn't wanna miss it."

and you laugh, "so you came all the way here?"

"so i came all the way here, yeah." he stands there for a moment, hoping to gauge some kind of reaction out of you, but he's caught between shock and horror, so that isn't really doing him any good.

"you really didn't have to"

"i know, i just," he hesitates, digging around in his pocket for a moment before he fishes out the paper. "i really wanted to hear your voice and i really wanted to give this to you in person and i really didn't want you to think i forgot, so here."

normally, he would curse himself for the word vomit, but right now he's a little busy thrusting an envelope into your hands for him to bring himself to care.

"oh-" you hold the letter between your fingers, twisting the little opening of the envelope in your hands. "what is it?"

and he eyes you.

"okay, yeah, yeah i have to open it to find out. you don't even have to say it," you say, and he chokes out a little laugh.

"at least you figured it out, i guess." he watches you sink your fingers beneath the little cover, unfolding the sheets in your hands and, he really considers telling you to wait until later to read it. he doesn't.

"babe?" you ask, and you look like you could cry. "did you write me a love letter for my birthday?"

he did. it's brief, incredibly so, and he's not sure he said anything that he was trying to say, but it's in his handwriting and it's in your hands, so he's not sure he could take it back now if he tried. truthfully, judging by the way your eyes spill across the words, holding the little letter in shaky hands, he's not so sure he'd want to either.

"something like that," he shrugs. "just—don't make fun of me if it sounds stupid."

"hajime," you start.

"or do, i guess, it doesn't really matter and it's your birthday so whatever makes you happy—"

"haji." he pauses.

"sorry, what?"

and you kiss him. it's a crash of lips and a crinkle of paper and the joining of the both of you on your little doorstep. it's the twisting of breaths and the ache of reunion and happy birthday whispered across your tongue.

you kiss him, and when you're finished, and your lips are sucking in every little twist of air they can muster, you kiss him again. you kiss him until his lungs ache—until his being is as much yours as it is his own, until the rain starts coming down too hard and you're both too soaked to think and you're pulling him inside by the wrist, so you can take him to your room and stare at his handwriting a little more.

you kiss him, and iwaizumi realizes at that moment that really, really likes remembering dates, especially if they're for you.

its been fun! 🥖