Prompt: writer!Reader and hand massages 

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As a writer, you take inspiration from anyone and anything. Even if it's just so you don't write a story like the one you heard.

Also, you tend to spend a great part of your day writing. On your computer, on your phone's notes, on papers, post-its and even your hand. Not a problem, really. Until it is.

Your hands hurt from all the writing you did on your notebook – the paper one – this morning. It was one of those moments when an idea struck and you just had to write or you'll lose the words. Which led to more than ten pages hand-written. Which led to you transferring those words to a word document. Which led to more than fifteen pages on said word document. Which led to your hands cramping. Which led to you calling it a day and sitting on the couch to catch up on some TV show.

"Hey, doll," Bucky greets you when he emerges from the kitchen, dish towel thrown over his shoulder and a spatula in hands. "I thought you were writing?"

You may have not so politely nudged Bucky out of your office room that afternoon in order to write. You apologized profusely a few minutes later – once you finished the paragraph – and went straight back to your computer.

"I decided to give it a break," you answer, flexing your hands.

Bucky smiles, knowingly. "Hands cramped?"

You don't pout.

Okay, maybe a little.

"Yes."

"Did you finish writing what you wanted? You can dictate and I'd put my hands through your computer's torture, if you want."

You kiss his cheek.

"Thanks, honey, but there's no need. I finished it."

"Can I read it?" he asks, eyes sparkling.

"After I proof-read it tomorrow," you concede, rolling your wrists. Ugh, so many words.

Bucky vanishes to the kitchen and you hear the stove's door opening and closing. He returns without any utensils from it. He plops down on the couch next to you and pulls your right hand into his warm palms. The heat makes it better right away. Bucky keeps your hand presses up in the middle of his ones, a sandwich, before he starts pressing his thumb on the center of your palm.

Bucky massages your hand, relaxing your muscles and kneading the flesh.

You exhale profoundly as your head rolls back and you close your eyes.

"Good?"

"Amazing."

Your stomach growls not much later, a response to your day spent neglecting your body's needs in order to write, and Bucky chuckles. He pats your stomach lightly.

"Don't worry, you'll get food too. As soon as the stove beeps."

"And now it got better."