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Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader
Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesnât affect you.
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls
Authorâs Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.
The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.
A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.
You walk through it all in a slow dream.
Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.
You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.
Wandaâs arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but youâre not hearing a word.
Because youâre in your head again.
And in your head, thereâs a boy.
Thereâs always a boy.
Heâs got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.
Heâs in your head because he canât be anywhere outside of it.
Itâs safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when heâs not paying attention. If he loved you back.
You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.
You imagine his voice soft only for you.
You imagine his heart not borrowed.
Heâs been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.
And lately, youâve been pulling back.
Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe thatâs dramatic. Maybe youâre just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.
But god, you wish you didnât feel so much.
âHey, whereâs Barnes?â Sam asks casually, looking around.
You do too. Because you just canât help yourself. But you shouldnât have.
And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.
Heâs across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. Heâs leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls heâll forget tomorrow. The one he doesnât give to you.
The girl behind the counter is giggling.
Of course, she is.
Sheâs pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you canât see. Because sheâs not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.
Bucky is saying something. Itâs probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.
You blink too long. Swallow too hard.
Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.
The group keeps chatting around you but you canât hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.
Of course, he couldnât even make it one night.
This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.
But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.
And you should have known better by now.
You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you donât see that part. You donât see anything but the girl smiling at him like sheâd give him her whole world for free.
âYou okay?â
Itâs Wandaâs voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you havenât been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.
âYeah,â you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?
Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.
He makes a beeline for you.
The group keeps moving.
Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though theyâre not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending heâs not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.
You donât get far.
âHere,â Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.
But you are drifting.
Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like youâre moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.
You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.
You swallow. âIâm good.â
You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat thatâs always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.
âYou didnât eat all day.â
His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.
He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. Heâs not performing. Not posturing.
You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.
Still warm. Still untouched.
âIâm not hungry, Buck. You can have it.â You donât really look at him.
He doesnât answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.
The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesnât.
He holds the plate out again. Firmer.
âYou always eat this first,â he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesnât even seem to try with you. âEvery year.â
Your throat tightens. You donât take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You donât respond.
So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.
It makes you halt.
âTake it, doll,â he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.
Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. Thereâs something behind them. Something like a question. Like heâs reaching out with more than his hands and hoping youâll meet him halfway.
Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.
Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesnât taste as good as it is supposed to.
Itâs too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You donât know.
You nod, just a little. âThanks.â
Bucky doesnât smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.
He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.
You follow.
For a few minutes, youâre just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothingâs changed. You donât even bother looking where the others are going.
You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. Heâs deep in his thoughts. He does that when heâs trying not to say something too fast.
âSomethingâs up with you lately. Youâve been actinâ a little different,â he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. âAnd I donât know whatâs going on, but-â he sighs deeply. âI miss you, doll. Feels like youâve been pulling back.â
You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if itâs the most disgusting thing youâve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.
You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. Heâs not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.
âI donât know,â you get out somehow. âI guess I just needed space.â
He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you donât think he does.
âIf somethingâs going on, you can-â His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. âYou can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?â
You let the silence stretch.
You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.
You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.
You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.
You think about powdered sugar.
âItâs nothing.â
You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.
You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.
He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page youâve scribbled over.
Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.
âIâm not good at this,â he mutters, voice rough.
âAt what?â
He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. âKnowing when Iâve screwed up. With you.â
Your throat closes around nothing. You donât want it to. But it does.
âYou didnât screw up,â you reply weakly.
âThen what did I do?â
And there is that question you canât answer without giving yourself away.
âItâs not that simple, Buck,â is all you give him.
âIt doesnât have to be simple, doll,â Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. âBut youâre clearly keepinâ something. And I've got the feeling itâs got something to do with me.â
Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.
âYouâve been weird,â he goes on, staring right at you. âFor weeks. Weâre makinâ plans, you cancel. Iâm callinâ you, you donât pick up. Donât even call me back anymore. And you wonât tell me anything.â His jaw flexes. âSomethingâs not right. Iâm even kinda surprised you joined us here.â
He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.
You slow down. He does too.
âJust tell me if I did something,â he begs. âIf I crossed a line. If I hurt you.â
The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.
âYou didnât, okay?â you declare. âNot really.â
âBut kind of?â he asks, eyebrows pulling in.
You shake your head with a vehement sigh. âYou donât get it.â
âThen make me get it,â he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.
âIâm not mad at you.â Your voice is getting slighter higher. âIâm just-â
He is watching you so openly and you hate that you canât lie to him properly.
âIâm not keeping score, okay?â you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. âI donât sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.â
You clamp your mouth shut.
Too much. Too much too fast.
A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like itâs a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.
But Bucky already stopped walking.
You take two steps before you realize. Turn.
Heâs standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.
Heâs looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.
Terrific.
He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.
But you cannot stop now.
âItâs just- itâs always like this,â you continue. âEvery time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and youâre just gone. Like the rest of us donât matter.â
He looks stunned. He looks everything.
Thereâs a long stretch of silence.
âI wasnât- I wasnât trying to ditch you, sweetheart,â he says almost under his breath. âI went to get you some-â
âDoesnât matter,â you cut in. âBecause you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when itâs supposed to be just us.â
You tear off another bite and donât eat it.
âI didnât flirt with her,â he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. âI swear to you, I wasnât. I just wanted to get the cake right.â A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. âYou looked- I donât know. You just didnât look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.â
You donât look at him.
Because youâd crumble if you did.
You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle heâs being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesnât know how to hold anymore.
âWhy didnât you just tell me?â he asks, same voice. âIf something I was doing was bothering you - why didnât you say something?â
âBecause it wasnât your fault,â you answer, and now your voice is breaking. âItâs mine. Itâs-â You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. âI know who you are, Bucky. Okay? Iâve always known. You donât owe me anything.â
He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. âWhat the hell does that mean?â
You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.
âIt means Iâm not stupid,â you basically whisper. âI know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if itâs just for five minutes. And itâs fine. Itâs fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.â
You feel the moment your words sink into him. You canât take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Canât clean them up or smooth them over.
His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.
âIs that what you think I do?â he asks incredulously. His voice isnât accusing. Isnât angry. But itâs pained. Tired. As if heâs been trying to piece something together for weeks and itâs only now starting to form into shape.
His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. Itâs too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.
âYou think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?â
Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.
He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.
You pick at the corner of the plate.
âThatâs not who I am with you,â he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. âThatâs never been who I am with you.â
Your heart stops. Just a little.
He looks at you. So deeply. As though youâre not just some girl in a crowd. As though youâre not a thing heâll forget after five minutes. As though heâs trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.
He steps closer.
âYou donât have to say anything,â he continues after a little pause. âBut doll, please donât stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when Iâve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when Iâve been-â
He stops. Swallows the rest.
Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think youâre falling apart.
âI didnât mean it like that,â you say, barely breathing. âI just- I didnât know how else to say it without saying too much.â
His eyes soften.
He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.
âYou can say too much around me, doll,â he insists. Soft again. Certain. âYou always could.â
The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other peopleâs joy, but yours feels more important.
You donât bother to think about where your friends are.
He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.
âJust so you know,â he murmurs, almost like heâs not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he wonât regret it. âYouâve never been five minutes. Not even close.â
You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. Itâs not gone but somehow it turns gentler.
You donât say anything. Canât.
But you think he hears it anyway.
The hope.
Your heart.
The maybe.
And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when youâre a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when youâre not saying everything.
But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

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Can everyone who has watched Thunderbolts* Put a spoiler warning and a âKeep readingâ tab for those who havenât watched it yet? Iâve seen a lot of Thunderbolts* post here, some without spoiler alert and some of us get spoiled even if we donât want to.
#thunderbolts#thunderbolts*#bucky barnes#john walker#yelena belova#alexei shostakov#ava starr#bob reynolds#marvel#mcu
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will never get over the fact that we can love people despite there being countries between us. we can miss people weâve never seen in person. we can connect and bond over hundreds of things without ever needing to be in each others physical presence. we can have half the globe between us and love never falters.
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do you have to call me in whispers i can't comprehend?
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â Virginia Woolf, from a Letter to Violet Dickinson written c. January 1909
[TEXT ID: "I appreciate your concern. None of this is your fault. It's me. It's me and my head. / In winter, I collapse." END ID]
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2021-11-21
Canon EOS R6 + RF50mm f1.2L
Instagram  |  hwantastic79vivid
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whatever was left, that was ours for a while.
sunrise - louise glĂźck
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