#NOT JUST TEAMMATES BUT THEY WERE PHOTOGRAPHED IN A POST MATCH CUDDLE

[fazcinatingblog]

daisy has a fremantle jumper oh my god

[samingtonwilson]

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget. 

Oftentimes, he’ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.” 

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint. 

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory. 

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed. 

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things. 

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)? 

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment. 

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam. 

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?” 

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.” 

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter. 

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head. 

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now. 

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.” 

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.” 

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles. 

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.” 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?” 

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.” 

“So that’s a no?” 

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.” 

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.” 

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing. 

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing? 

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.” 

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.” 

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

“Chopard heiress.” 

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?” 

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.” 

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris. 

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity. 

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous. 

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her. 

Perfect. 

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.” 

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.” 

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.” 

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands. 

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows. 

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown. 

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?” 

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.” 

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.” 

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.” 

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.” 

“I know.” 

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.” 

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.” 

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.” 

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.” 

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code. 

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.” 

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?” 

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.” 

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?” 

“Your heiress.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?” 

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for. 

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you. 

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.” 

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.” 

“I won’t need to.” 

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?” 

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?” 

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.” 

“I know that.” 

“You gonna bid on him?” 

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.” 

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl. 

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.” 

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.” 

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?” 

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.” 

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins. 

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—” 

“Thirty-one hundred!” 

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can— 

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!” 

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge. 

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.” 

“Six thousand!” 

“Sixty-five hundred!” 

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!” 

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.” 

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.” 

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile. 

— 

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race. 

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room. 

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you. 

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity. 

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too. 

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?” 

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.” 

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—” 

“Married?” you repeat to yourself. 

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.” 

“Bucky, you don’t understand—” 

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!” 

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.” 

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing. 

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.” 

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?” 

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.” 

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.” 

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.” 

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?” 

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first. 

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?” 

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment. 

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.” 

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.” 

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.” 

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”