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athenasdaydreams · 2 months ago

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Bucky requesttt (if you have time!)

I'm a huge sucker for coffee shop stories 😭 what about a coffee shop AU where he slowly falls for a waitress there (and vice versa ofc!)?

Thank you for your consideration!!

pairing: bucky barnes x reader (coffee shop au)

summary: coastal cafes (and the people inside them) attract a certain super soldier

chapter warnings: food (it's a coffee shop au)

A/N: man i just submitted my analysis and discussion of findings... born to write fics all day forced to be an academic weapon... anyway, hope you enjoy!! i made this very beachy coastal vibes bcs i felt like it fit the vibe... hope youre not mad :)

The first time Bucky Barnes walks into Coastal Grounds, it’s just past sunrise. The sea mist curls along the glass, and the bell above the door gives a quiet chime. He’s damp from the walk, hoodie clinging to his back, hair curling slightly from the fog. There’s something wistful in the way he stands there—like he’s stepped into a memory.

You glance up from the espresso machine, hair pinned up in a soft twist, sleeves of your oatmeal sweater tugged past your palms.

“Morning,” you say, your voice still warm from sleep. “You’re new.”

He nods, a little cautious but not unfriendly. “Just moved in. Needed coffee.”

You gesture toward the corner table with the best view of the sea. “That one’s my favorite. You can watch the waves roll in.”

He hesitates for a moment before making his way over. You follow soon after, placing a mug of black coffee and a cinnamon scone in front of him.

“I didn’t order.”

You smile, soft and sure. “I know. First one’s on the house.”

He lifts a brow. “Why?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you could use something warm.”

He huffs a small laugh, and when he takes a sip, his shoulders ease just slightly.

Bucky hadn’t planned on staying long. This town was meant to be a quiet layover. Steve had once mentioned it—something about the sea air being good for the soul.

He came because he needed the silence. Not conversation. Not comfort. Just space to breathe.

His little cottage on the hill creaks when the wind picks up, but the kettle works and the view is enough to stop him from bolting. Most nights, the quiet creeps in too deep. But then he finds himself at your café.

First once. Then again. Then every morning.

You start greeting him before he says a word, already sliding his coffee across the counter.

“Rough night?” you’ll ask gently. He never answers directly. But you never ask again.

Until one morning, he surprises you.

“You always start baking this early?” he asks, nodding at the flour dusting your cheek.

You blink, caught off guard. “Scones don’t bake themselves.” You pause. “I hum when I work. You can probably hear it.”

“I can.”

You brace yourself, but then—

“It’s nice.”

Your smile catches him off guard. “You’re full of surprises, Barnes.”

He doesn’t correct you.

You learn his rhythms.

He always sits facing the door. Keeps his gloves on. Tips with bills folded too tightly. Flinches when the wind makes the bell clang.

So you adjust. Quietly. You oil the bell hinge. Lower the music when he usually comes in. Keep a scone aside just in case he’s late.

One Thursday, he doesn’t show.

You fold napkins until your fingers ache. Burn the second tray of muffins. When the door finally opens near noon, he’s soaked to the bone.

“Hey,” you say, drying your hands. “You okay?”

“Didn’t want to miss the cinnamon scones.”

You pass him one, still warm. “I saved it for you.”

He frowns. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He eats in silence, slower than usual. The storm doesn’t let up. And when the last customer leaves, he’s still at his table, watching the rain blur the glass.

You sit across from him, not too close. “You don’t have to talk. I just… Are you okay?”

He exhales, like the breath’s been stuck in his chest for days. “I lost a lot. Before this.”

You don’t rush him.

“I didn’t come here to find anything,” he says. “Just needed quiet. Safe.”

You reach over and place your hand atop his, glove and all. “You’ve got that now.”

His eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I do.”

Spring arrives in cautious stretches. You open earlier. He starts coming earlier too. One day he brings a toolbox and fixes the shelf that’s been threatening to collapse since January.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, halfway through pouring a latte.

“Better than staring at the kettle.”

The next day, he replaces the kitchen bulb.

“You’ve been squinting every time you walk back here,” he says simply.

You catch yourself smiling. Fold it away like a secret.

A week later, you find a note beneath the register. Scribbled on a napkin:

Your smile’s better than the sunrise.

Just signed: B.

You tuck it into your apron pocket. You don’t stop smiling all day.

The first time he offers you his jacket, it’s instinct. You’ve forgotten yours, and the wind’s sharp. He just shrugs out of his and holds it out.

“Take it,” he says, gentle but firm.

“You’re too good,” you mutter as you slip it on.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

The café glows behind you. The ocean murmurs in the distance.

“I didn’t think I’d stay,” he says.

“What changed?”

His eyes linger on yours. “You did.”

You don’t have the words, so you nudge him with your shoulder. “Good thing you like cinnamon scones, then.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Yeah. Good thing.”

Now he brings you wildflowers. Little ones from the cliffs. You keep them in a mug near the register, right next to his napkin note.

When you burn a batch, he just grins. “Guess that means more for me.”

Locals start teasing you both gently. You brush it off. Bucky doesn’t. He wraps an arm around your waist in broad daylight like he’s always done it.

He’s quiet, steady. Reliable in the way few people are.

Sometimes, when the café is empty, you sit across from each other in silence. Not awkward. Just… full. The hum of the sea. The soft clink of mugs.

You hum when you knead dough.

Now he hums with you.

Love, you think, might just sound like that.

Summer softens the edges of the town. The fog rolls in later, burns off quicker. The streets fill with tourists who don’t understand the rhythm of the place, who tap their fingers impatiently on the counter and complain about the sea air curling their hair.

Bucky never complains.

He just shows up earlier. Sometimes even before you flip the sign.

You find him one morning sitting on the front steps with two paper cups of coffee—his usual, and something close to yours.

“Thought I’d try bringing it to you for once,” he says, cheeks pink from the early chill. “Hope I got it right.”

You take a sip. It’s perfect. Too perfect.

“You remembered the cinnamon?”

His grin is soft. “I remember everything.”

He starts helping you open.

Carries the chairs from their stacks. Refills the sugar jars without being asked. Sweeps the back patio. Doesn’t say much while he does it, but hums sometimes—those soft 40s ballads he plays on his scratched old record player at home.

You start keeping non-fat milk in the fridge at the café for him. Full cream feels like too much. He starts bringing you honey from the Saturday market.

People begin to notice. Not in the teasing way anymore. But in that warm, knowing way that small towns specialise in.

You don’t say anything out loud. Neither does he.

But one morning, you catch him fixing the curtain rod in the storeroom, sleeves pushed up, forehead smudged with dust—and it hits you so hard your knees nearly give.

This is a man who knows how to stay.

One night, there’s a blackout.

The storm knocks out the power line, and you’re stuck at the café, candles flickering, emergency battery lights casting golden halos against the walls.

Bucky’s already there. He’d shown up early to help you close.

You sit across from each other at a booth, hands warmed by mugs of tea boiled on the gas stove.

“This reminds me of a blackout in Brooklyn once,” he says. “I was a kid. Ma pulled out every candle in the house. Steve and I made shadow puppets.”

He pauses, eyes searching the flame. “We didn’t have much. But it always felt like enough.”

You don’t speak—just nudge your socked foot against his beneath the table.

Eventually, he shifts closer. His hand finds yours, fingers worn but gentle. Your hands slot together easily, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Do you miss it?” you whisper.

“Brooklyn?” he asks, then shakes his head. “No. The people, maybe. But not the noise. Not the way things rush past you.”

He looks at you.

“This place… it slows things down.”

You smile. “You’re allowed to stay, you know. Even if you didn’t plan to.”

“I know.”

Another beat of silence.

“I think I want to,” he says softly.

The first time he kisses you, it’s unplanned.

You’ve fallen asleep on the couch in the staffroom, apron still dusted with flour, hair slipping from its clip.

He’d stopped by with dinner. Knocked. No answer.

So he let himself in, placed the takeout on the counter, and found you curled up, arms tucked under your cheek.

He crouches beside you, brushing a curl from your temple.

You stir. Eyes flutter open.

“Buck?”

“Shh. It’s okay. Brought you food.”

You blink sleepily at him, lips parting in a soft smile.

And something in his chest cracks wide open.

He leans in and kisses you—slow, reverent, like you’re something precious.

You kiss him back without hesitation.

Later, you’ll tease him about it. About kissing you when you were half-asleep.

He’ll just grin, lean against the counter, and say, “I didn’t think I’d get another chance to kiss you when you looked that peaceful.”

“You could’ve just waited.”

“I already waited seventy years, sweetheart.”

By autumn, he keeps a toothbrush at your place.

Leaves his flannel jacket on the hook by the door. Buys groceries like it’s second nature. Kisses you in the middle of sentences.

You bake with his arm slung low around your waist. He reads the paper aloud to you, voice warm with humor. He lets you fall asleep on his chest while the rain beats the windows.

You trace the lines on his hands. He runs his fingers through your hair like he’s memorizing it.

You never talk about the word love.

But it lives in the quiet.

In the way he reaches for your hand without looking. In the way you save the last slice of pie for him, even when you want it.

In the way the lights of the café always seem a little brighter when he’s in the room.

wc: 1.7k

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #mcu #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes coffee shop au #bucky coffee shop au #coffee shop au

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athenasdaydreams · 2 months ago

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hi! idk if this is how you do requests 😕 it is my very first time to do one!

so I would like to request a bucky x swiftie!reader, where reader is in their apartment doing some chores while watching The Eras Tour Movie. So Bucky and reader are in a relationship for so long already that they decided to live in together. Bucky been trying to find the perfect moment to propose to reader but couldn't feel that PERFECT moment as of now... not until she saw reader in their living room map in their hands, hair in a messy bun, in pajamas and singing at the top of her lungs and dancing to Taylor's songs! That's when Bucky decided it is the PERFECT moment to propose. So when the bridge of Love Story came Bucky kneeling on the side of reader during the "He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said, "Marry me, Juliet""

it's been a long time coming.......

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: just look at the request i think thats a good enough summary haha

chapter warnings: established relationship (i mean its a proposal fic)

A/N: wait this is so good i stopped drafting my literature review to draft this out... hope you like it babes!

Bucky didn't understand

Not at first.

He didn’t understand why you lit three different candles just to clean the apartment. Why your playlist jumped from “august” to “Enchanted” to “Style (Taylor’s Version)” like a fever dream. Why you grinned like a maniac when The Eras Tour Movie dropped, then cried halfway through All Too Well, then started vacuuming like your life depended on it when Ready For It? came on. But he did know something. He loved you. More than he loved the quiet calm of early mornings, more than the weight of the winter wind against his skin, more than the first sip of coffee on a slow Sunday — he loved you.

The soft hum of the vacuum mingled with Taylor’s voice spilling from the speakers, filling the apartment with something tender and alive. You pushed the vacuum back and forth over the rug, your hair thrown up in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands falling into your eyes. You were in your favorite oversized hoodie — the one Bucky always joked was big enough to fit both of you — and worn pajama pants that had seen better days.

On the TV, the Eras Tour Movie played, each song unfolding like chapters in a story only you truly understood. Your lips moved along with the lyrics, sometimes loud enough to carry across the room, sometimes soft and breathy.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with a fond smile he couldn’t quite hide. You were radiant like this—completely yourself, without any pretense. Your eyes sparkled every time the stage lit up on screen, your feet moving with the rhythm even as you cleaned.

“Wait,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through the music as he cocked his head, squinting at the screen. “So… she just pops out of those giant parachutes? What are they even doing with parachutes on stage?”

You paused the vacuum, looking over your shoulder at him with a grin. “Those aren’t parachutes, dummy. They’re fans. She’s surrounded by them, rising up with them. It’s the Lover era”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “So, the pink one. Got it.”

You rolled your eyes but laughed, setting the vacuum aside and grabbing a nearby mop. “Come on, Mr. Darcy needs a dance partner.”

Bucky smirked and stepped forward, plucking the mop from your hand. “Mr. Darcy?”

You nodded solemnly. “Yep. Because he’s my knight in shining armor, mopping away the mess.”

“Only you would name a mop,” Bucky muttered, but there was no hiding his smile.

You twirled around, singing along to Cruel Summer, voice a little shaky but full of life. The mop became a microphone; your feet moved to the beat, and for a moment, the world outside the apartment vanished.

Bucky settled on the couch, watching you with a warmth that made his chest tighten. He didn’t always get all the details about Taylor or her eras, but he got you. He got how much these songs meant, how much you felt every lyric like it was stitched into your soul.

As The Man started, you sang louder, dancing over to him and plopping down beside him with a breathless laugh.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, bumping your shoulder against his.

He just grinned. “I try.”

The movie rolled on, a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions flickering over the walls. You reached for the remote and rewound the last song, eyes gleaming.

“I love this one,” you said softly. “Ready?”

Bucky shrugged, watching you as you got up to grab a cup of coffee. You returned with the cup in both hands, sitting close enough that your legs touched.

He traced idle patterns on your ankle, feeling the smooth skin beneath his fingers.

There was something sacred about these quiet moments, the easy closeness, the way your presence filled the room with light.

Bucky swallowed, nerves fluttering in his gut. He’d been carrying something for months, a secret wrapped in hope and hesitation, and jeans. Yes, Bucky carried around the ring in his back pocket every day. Waiting for the right moment felt like waiting for a sunrise you knew would come, but you never knew exactly when the sky would turn pink.

The Love Story song was coming up soon, but you had no idea what was about to happen.

And he wanted it to be perfect.

The song shifted, the mood softening. You got up and wandered to the window, pulling the curtain back to watch the city lights blink alive in the dusk.

Bucky followed you, wrapping an arm around your waist, resting his chin on your head.

“You know,” you said, voice low and dreamy, “sometimes I think about how we ended up here. You and me, this apartment, all these silly little traditions.”

He smiled against your hair. “You mean naming the mop Mr. Darcy?”

You giggled. “That, too. But more than that. How it’s been almost three years now.”

“Three years,” Bucky echoed. “Feels like a lifetime and no time at all.”

You pulled away to look at him, eyes shining. “I love this — us. The mess and the music and the way you pretend to hate Taylor but secretly hum along to anti-hero.”

He laughed. “Hey, don’t tell anyone.”

You bumped his shoulder again, playfully. “I won’t.”

The TV chimed as Fearless started, and you immediately started singing along, voice light and full of joy.

Bucky watched you, marveling at how effortless you were, how much light you brought into this space.

He didn’t say it aloud, but inside, his heart was pounding.

Soon.

The music swelled, and you danced barefoot across the living room, arms wide as if trying to catch every note floating through the air. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your feet barely seemed to touch the ground. You spun, giggling, breathless and happy.

He reached for your hand, pulling you gently down onto the couch beside him. You settled in with your head against his shoulder, legs curled up beneath you.

“Do you ever think about what life was like before us?” you asked softly, voice muffled against his shirt.

Bucky thought for a moment, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

“Harder. Louder. More… dangerous,” he said quietly. “But nothing felt right until you.”

You sighed contentedly, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The warmth in your eyes made his heart ache.

“I never imagined someone like you,” you whispered. “Someone who could make me feel safe without even trying.”

He kissed your temple gently. “You’re my home.”

The TV flickered, shifting into the next era’s set list, and you sat up, eyes wide with anticipation.

“That’s You Belong With Me coming up,” you said. “This one always gets me.”

Bucky laughed, watching you bounce on the couch cushions.

“You’re a mess.”

“And you love it.”

He did. More than anything.

The room filled with golden light as the opening chords rang out. You sang along, voice trembling with nostalgia.

Bucky watched you glow, hair messy, cheeks flushed, the kind of beauty that made him forget the world outside these walls.

You curled your fingers around his hand, squeezing it tight.

“No matter what happens,” you murmured, “I’m so glad it’s with you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Soon.

He’d waited for this moment to feel exactly right — for the world to slow, for the love to be undeniable.

And now, with Taylor’s soft voice wrapping around you both, he knew it was time.

The crowd on screen screamed.

And the room around you stilled.

You didn’t move from the couch, eyes fixed on the glowing TV, but your fingers dug just a little deeper into his. You were already brimming with tears before the first notes hit.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Bucky. BUCKY.”

He leaned closer. “Yeah, baby?”

“It’s Love Story.” You were already laughing through the emotion. “I’m gonna lose it. You remember what happens during this one, right?”

His mouth quirked into something soft. “Mmm. Let’s see. Something about a castle, a balcony, and a very dramatic dress?”

You smacked his arm without looking away from the screen. “No. This is the one where all the girls got proposed to at the concert. During the bridge. Remember the TikToks? The ones I made you watch?”

“Oh, I remember,” he murmured.

Of course he did.

He remembered all of it. The way your eyes had gone soft and hopeful watching those videos. The way your hand had drifted unconsciously to your chest every time Taylor sang “He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring…”

He remembered the way you'd sighed, almost to yourself, “God, imagine being loved like that.”

And in that moment — in that one stupid TikTok — he'd made up his mind.

Because he did love you like that.

You shifted on the couch, rising to your knees on the cushion, leaning forward like a kid seeing magic for the first time. On screen, Taylor stood in her glittering ball gown, lights glowing like fireflies around her. The melody slowed, sweet and aching.

🎶 We were both young when I first saw you… 🎶

You pressed a hand to your heart.

“I swear,” you whispered to no one. “This one gets me every time.”

Bucky rose slowly from the couch.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy swaying to the rhythm, mouthing every word, a tear slipping down your cheek.

🎶 I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress… 🎶

He stepped forward.

🎶 He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said— 🎶

You turned to look at him.

And stopped breathing.

Because there he was.

In front of the couch. On one knee.

Holding a ring that sparkled like a thousand stars trapped in silver.

For a heartbeat, you didn’t move.

Then: “Are you—oh my God, are you kidding me right now?!”

He smiled, soft and trembling.

“Nope,” Bucky said. “Not kidding. I’ve been carrying this around since March. Thought about doing it at the diner where we had our first date. Or on the fire escape with the skyline. But then today…”

He looked around the room — the half-mopped floor, the forgotten coffee on the table, the flicker of golden light from the screen dancing on your face.

“You were dancing in that ridiculous hoodie, yelling about mops and glitter and girlhood like your heart was on fire. You were happy. So alive. And I just knew.”

Your hands flew to your mouth. You were already crying — real crying now, hiccuping with disbelief, one foot still on the couch like you hadn’t quite landed in this moment yet.

“I know I didn’t plan some grand event,” he went on, voice thick. “And there’s no fancy dinner or hidden photographer, or… whatever people do these days. But you once told me the dream was a living room and love that doesn’t fade.”

He held the ring up higher.

“So,” he whispered, eyes locked to yours, “marry me?”

You dropped off the couch to your knees in front of him so fast you nearly knocked him over.

“Yes. Yes.”

He let out a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a breath of relief — and cradled your face in one hand, slipping the ring on with the other. It fit like it had always belonged.

On screen, the crowd roared.

Taylor’s voice soared.

And you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him in like your life depended on it.

“I can’t believe you did this,” you whispered into his shoulder. “During Love Story.”

He laughed softly, pressing his lips to your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Cliché,” he murmured. “But good cliché.”

The two of you stayed like that — tangled together on the rug, blinking through tears, breathing each other in — while Taylor sang the final chorus in the background.

You were still crying when you looked down at the ring.

Still in pajamas. Still barefoot. Still wearing remnants of your morning cleaning routine like armor.

Bucky thought you'd never been more beautiful.

“You really proposed in front of a mop,” you said suddenly.

“You were holding it like a mic,” he said. “I saw my window.”

You laughed again. Then looked at him, eyes shining, and kissed him long and slow, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thousand mornings and forever after.

Outside, the city blinked quietly. Inside, your world had just changed.

And neither of you ever needed a big stage or fireworks to feel it.

You had each other.

And a love story that was yours.

Forever.

wc: 2k

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