#bucky barnes x reader mutual pining

[lovelybarnes]

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises. 

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

-

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you. 

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

-

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

-

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug. 

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

-

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains. 

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

-

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

-

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably. 

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. 

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously. 

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

-

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks. 

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?” 

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.” 

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons. 

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

-

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose. 

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend. 

-

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path. 

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

-

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down. 

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh. 

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back. 

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve. 

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

-

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

-

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

-

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit. 

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily. 

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can. 

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability. 

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.” 

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues.  “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

[wintermischief]

Bucky x Reader Friends To Lovers/Mutual Pining Trope Fic Recs (part one)

18+ ONLY. Writing may contain mature content. Mostly Bucky Barnes x F! and GN!Reader. Please show support to these amazing writers!!

❗️ PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU’D LIKE ME TO REMOVE YOUR FIC OR IF I MADE A MISTAKE❗️

The Apprentice @chrisevansredbelt

Grilled Cheese And Other Love Languages @bucky-bucket-barnes

B.B Boy @bucky-bucket-barnes

A Half Naked Nurse And Wrong Ideas | Part 2 @urimaginespimp

Do I Even Have A Chance? @noceurous

I Need You To Have Me | As Long As You Have Me @noceurous

One Simple Touch @likeahorribledream

Hearsay @jadedvibes

Listen To Me, Not Just My Words @lilacletter

Water Bottle @cloudybarnes

You @lovelybarnes

Baby @lovelybarnes

Truth @lovelybarnes

Juxtaposition @lovelybarnes

Honey, Dumpling @sparklefics

Silent Girl + The Winter Soldier @kinanabinks

Ponytails @bbyboybucket

Aching @bbyboybucket

Admit It @ghostofskywalker

Dear January @writing-for-marvel

Hush, Baby @noctumbra

Tap @/houseravenclaws

Worth The Wait @littleredwolf

What Took You So Long? @bowersbubbles

Perfect For Me @buckyswintersoldiermask

It’s Always Been You @sunshinebuckybarnes

Always Been Yours @sunshinebuckybarnes

Sugar @sunshinebuckybarnes

Guys Night @/teamcap4bucky

Wrong Number @/teamcap4bucky

Aisle 4 @buckyhoney

How Bucky Falls In Love With You (headcanon) @chennqingg

Massage @namorsinta

Just Maybe @namorsinta

Make A Move @beefybuckrrito

Who Are You? @bxcketbarnes

Five Sweaters To Make Me Want You @sebbytrash

A Shore Thing @buckymorelikefuckme

Cry Baby @buckymorelikefuckme

My Everyday @pellucid-constellations

Starry Starry Night @jobean12-blog

Cosmic Love | Part 2 @jobean12-blog

Been Here All Along @jobean12-blog

Here (In Your Arms) @sleepypanda27

Like I Want You | Part 2 @tmpestuous

Some Other Guy @espinosaurusrexex

Nightmares @ro-is-struggling

Getting Close @rogerswifesblog

Open Your Heart @vibraniumarm06-bucket

To Be Seen @tarithenurse

Make It Reality @buckybarnesandmarvel

Three Hundred @adrinktostopyourthirst

She’s Not Mad @subwaysurf45

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 3: Honey Trap

From: You Catch More Bees With Honey Series

Pairing: Mob! Bucky x Farmer! Reader

Summary: A Farmer’s Market and Pouring out your heart over a beer leads to Bucky learning more about his favorite mysterious farmer

Content/warnings: mentions of previous heartbreak and descriptions, a surprising amount of crying/near-crying, soft mobster Bucky, Heartless Jake, Creepy Cole, mentions of blood/period (not graphic and should be normalized because this happens to me all the time and I know I’m not alone in that), excessive drinking and lowkey alcoholism, cowboy hat rule, mutual pining and reluctance towards that, y/n used like three times

Word Count: 5,295

A/N: I didn’t mean for this chapter to be this long, but also, I definitely meant for it to be this long. Sorry for making dear, wonderful, Jake Jensen out to be a bad guy, and NOT sorry for making Cole Turner a creep. Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks are SUPER appreciated. Thank you for reading, I love you *gives forehead kiss*

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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Bucky knew lots of languages. Country was not one of them. You would think it would be, with how many arms purchasers were from the south, but he kept his dealings with those folk as short and formal as possible. It was better for his sanity and everyone else that way.

He’d been running into a lot of country folk today, helping you run this farmer’s market out of one of your barns. Half of his conversations with people were full of twangy words and phrases he didn’t understand, so he just lightly laughed, hoping that was the right response. The other half were children, asking him what the bump was on the side of his head, the result of the bee incident earlier this week. Before, it was slightly swollen and red, but it was nearly back to normal. Darn kids have keen eyes, though, and no shame. He’d just about had enough. These people were too polite, besides their annoying children. Lucky for him, though, he’d sold off the last of the turnip greens, and his cash box was full, so he made his way over to you at the stand holding the freshly jarred honey you’d successfully, and he’d not-so-successfully harvested earlier in the week. It was just in time to catch the tail end of a conversation he saw you were having with a slightly older woman.

“You’re like our very own honeybee”

“Oh please, Mrs. Jensen, you know the bees do all the work. I just put it in a jar”

“You’re too modest, dear. My Jakey says no one makes sweeter honey than you. I always tell him to come back and help if he loves it that much, but it seems he’s too late now. Looks like you’ve got yourself a new farm hand who’s easy on the eyes”

Bucky glanced up at her through his eyelashes with his signature smirk, raising to a stand from setting the empty turnip green crate at your feet. “Well you know what they say, honeybees don’t work alone. And their hard work makes the world go round.”

For some reason unbeknownst to him, Bucky slung his hand over your shoulder. Was it jealousy he was feeling? Possessiveness? Why, he didn’t own you and he promised himself he wouldn’t fall, physically or metaphorically (although it was far too late physically, and he didn’t want to think about how close he truly was metaphorically). Plus, it’s not like he was having the best time right now. This whole week was a nightmare, and the only reason he was in a decent mood was from seeing your smile as you interacted with the town’s folk today. You were a person of the people, in juxtaposition to how Bucky was often only looking out for himself. So why did the mention of Jakey make this feel necessary and why did it feel so right? Either way, he was proud of you and your hard work and the way it made people beam as bright as Mrs. Jensen. But he’d never say that. Where he’s from, hard work is expected and definitely not praised, although not nearly as manual. But seeing all the effort for that couple jars of honey made him question if the work he was even doing was that hard. Maybe he’d been away from the city too long and was losing perspective. Yeah. That had to be it.

“Well, either way, bless y’all’s heart for putting in the work. I’ll tell Jake you say hello.”

You and Bucky both waved goodbye.

“Well how about it Honeybee, Jakey appreciates all your hard work” he smirked, but watched the smile slide off your face.

“Try telling me that with our awful breakup years ago” you shrugged off with a small chuckle, but Bucky could see the light drain out of your eyes a little. He had obviously struck a nerve, but didn’t want to push farther, at least not now when there were still a few customers aimlessly shopping around for the last bits of produce left. Maybe he’d catch you once the two of you were alone.

You turned away from him to hide your grimace. Thinking back to that whole situation with Jake, on top of serving others all morning had completely drained you and it was quickly catching up.

“Um, why don’t you finish cleaning up the rest of the empty crates after you ask those last few people how you can help them with anything” you waved off Bucky back towards the other end of the barn, head down, starting to look through the cash box he had handed you. You waited until you could hear his receding footsteps on the hay floor to sniffle and take a deep breath. Bucky had keen ears, though, and hesitated hearing your sigh, before he continued on, giving you your chance to regroup. He had never seen you like this before, you were normally chipper and full of energy, often a little too much for his liking, but luckily it was Friday, and after he closed these deals, you both were home free.

Bucky quickly helped the last few stragglers take their rather large haul back to their car. An older man and woman who owned the bar in town had come to get some fresh vegetables for their salads, and Bucky convinced them to take the lot with his charm. That, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t have to carry them all the way back to storage. That was a long way, and you made him walk it. He rolled his eyes when you had told him about the task, too, handing him the handle to a little red wagon with a beaming smile on your face, insisting “that’s how Pappy did it before his first tractor” and “what did you think, I like wasting diesel for food that’s supposed to have a low carbon footprint? That’s why I’ve got you, Bucket.” So Bucky grumbled under his breath at first light, angry, yet amused that the nickname stuck, but still too tired to react any differently when he started the first of his dozen trips to move the produce from storage into the farmer’s market barn. And there was no way he was gonna do that again, so he convinced the couple to take the lot, even offering to carry it out to the car for them, because that was better than the quarter mile walk both ways through the tall grass of your fallow fields to return them.

“Thank you so much for your help, Jamie. You’ve taken such good care of us, you should come by the bar later if you can get some free time from Miss Y/L/N over there. She’s quite the hard worker, maybe bring her along. Drinks on us.” The older lady looked at Bucky with a soft smile.

Jamie, no one had called him that since his mom. Country folk and their want for instant closeness. He hardly knew this lady and already she was trying to be endearing, but her forced charm was nothing compared yours even when you weren’t trying. She looked over Bucky’s shoulder at you carrying a stack of heavy wooden crates out of the barn, hardly struggling, but very determined before sliding them back into the truck. Bucky’s eyes followed hers, a small grin of admiration creeping onto his face at your independence and mastery at everything you do, no matter how simple.

“Yeah, hardest worker out there. I’ll see if I can convince her to take a break.” He turned back and walked the lady to her door, opening it for her to get in.

“Drive safely. Hope to see you later Mr. and Mrs. Carter.” He shut the door and made his way back over to your truck. You had already gotten in and started it with the windows down. Bucky slid into the bench seat to be met by you with your forehead resting on the wheel in between your hands. You took a sharp inhale and shot up, putting on a fake smile, albeit less forced than earlier.

“Ready to go meet Curtis? We’ve just gotta touch base with him and then we’re good to be done for the day.”

“Um, yeah. Sounds good.”

Bucky wasn’t sure how to continue with you in that mood. Should be keep talking? Did you prefer the silence to think? The radio was low on the dash, but not silent, so he decided to speak up.

“Did you see who I was helping? They said they own the bar in town. Maybe we can go for a drink tonight? Celebrate a long week done?”

You sighed. Again. “Um, yeah. I actually think that sounds really good. We both need the decompression. TGIF, ya know?” You forced out a small laugh which Bucky returned and he turned forward as you continued the drive back toward your house.

When the two of you entered the farmhouse, your were greeted by Curtis, your weekend farmhand, sitting at the dining room table. He had already helped himself to a glass of sweet tea you kept in the fridge, mainly for him, which was made from your Aunt’s recipe he loved so much.

“Oh, good, you’re back from chores already.” Curtis had been kind enough to come in today to work on some tasks since you and Bucky had your hands full with the market. He usually only worked Saturday and Sunday since this was his second job, but he’d sometimes come in to help extra, like today.

“Bucket, this is Curty b—oh sorry, Curtis. He’s the one that makes sure things run smoothly when I’m not. He’s a whiz at fixing the machinery, perks of him also being the best mechanic in town.”

Bucky warily stepped forward, eyes narrowed, barely noticeable, and shook Curtis’s hand. Who is this guy who let himself into your house? “Bucky is fine, really.”

Curtis let out a chuckle, “nice to meet you, Bucket. It’s ok, I talked to Y/N about making cheese curds once, and she’s called me ‘Curty boi’ ever since.”

Bucky laughed and shook his head, looking over his shoulder. You just shrugged with a small smile on your face, already more relaxed and relieved to be inside your home with someone you didn’t feel like you had to put up a front for, that was reassuring. Bucky went into the kitchen to get you both a glass of water as you sat next to Curtis at the table, joined by Bucky sitting across after he handed you your glass. The three of you briefly talked about the chores Curtis had done that day, how the farmer’s market went, and what all needed done that weekend.

Curtis seemed nice, not threatening. The visceral tinge of jealousy left Bucky’s body as the conversation went on. If Curtis was going to make a move, he would’ve done it by now, surely. But the two of you were clearly just close friends. Why did Bucky keep feeling like this?

As you wrapped up, Curtis slapped his knees with both his hands and went to stand. “Well, I better get going, sun’s starting to get pretty low.”

Curtis and Bucky had been getting along pretty well, so you spoke up. “Well actually, Bucky and I were gonna go to the bar in town tonight. Care to join?”

“Yeah, I’d love to. There are just a few things I’ve gotta check on in the shop first, but I can drop by after. Does that work?”

“For sure. We’ll see you then” You and Bucky shared a small smile before you closed the door behind Curtis and turned back to the mob boss standing in your foyer.

“Ok, Cowboy. Good job today. Go take a shower, we’re going out.” Bucky beamed, which you returned, and he felt a warmth bloom in his chest at your praise.

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Honeybee” you smiled and rolled your eyes as he ran up the steps, following behind to get ready, yourself. He was really glad your mood was starting to turn around.

As Bucky went to his room to gather his clothing, his mind started to drift towards why he cared how you felt. He was just here for business, right? So why did it bother him if you were sad? If anything, he should want you vulnerable to help him come out on top of your business, but something deep inside of him felt more satisfaction when you were winning. He shook the thoughts from his head. Maybe a cold shower could help him sort this out.

Bucky came down the stairs and sat on the couch just as he heard your hair dryer start up. He had gotten ready quickly, throwing on one of his henleys, his nicer jeans, and a pair of boots Sam had sent him this week when he had heard about the whole ‘borrowing clothes situation.’

He shot Steve a text, telling him that the two of you were going out to the bar with Curtis, to which he replied Have fun, Bucket😉.

Ugh, why did he have to tell Steve about that, it was never gonna go away now. Bucky had gotten a call from Steve each evening giving updates on the business, with Bucky doing the same on his end, keeping it short, only noting the highlights and trying to keep his emotions in check and out of the updates. His best friend knew better, though, even if Bucky wasn’t fully aware of the extent of his feelings yet.

Bucky got up and walked around, looking through the photos and knick knacks in your living room, before stopping by the mirror behind your front door and checking his appearance. This look wasn’t what he was used to. He was extremely dressed down compared to the designer suit he’d likely be sporting in one of his clubs if he were back in the city. He hadn’t even bothered to gel his hair because it seemed you didn’t care when he did, plus, he wanted to save that valuable product for a real occasion, no use in wasting it to go slum with a bunch of hillbillies. He looked to the coatrack next to the mirror to see a hat that matched his boots perfectly and plopped it on his head, swaying side to side to see how it looked.

Just then, you started to make your way down the stairs but stopped in your tracks seeing Bucky in that hat. His head snapped up to look at you.

“What? Does this hat make me look dumb?”

You smiled and shook your head.

“No, not at all” Bucky could see tears well up in your eyes, accompanied by sparkles of fondness and, sadness?

“That was my uncle’s hat. He taught me everything I know”

“Oh, I’m so sorry” Bucky went to take the hat off but you stopped him.

“No- it’s okay. It looks good on you. Go ahead and wear it out tonight.”

Bucky looked back at you with a somber nod as you continued back down the stairs, taking a deep breath to settle the emotions that had nearly breached the surface.

Even in this state, you looked gorgeous. Hair flouncing in the breeze that was created as you drifted down the steps, wearing makeup he hadn’t seen since the first time you two had met and a sundress that blew him away. You were gorgeous in all states because you were you. Bucky looked down, kicking his feet, to pull his magnetic glance from you. He’s really gotta switch up the power dynamic here, and if there was one place Bucky could feel at home after a week of embarrassing himself, it was a bar. He grabbed the keys and you followed with an eye roll, getting into the passenger seat of your own truck. He didn’t even know where he was going, but he looked at you with a sly grin. Like for the first time, he had the upper hand, and that would only come from being anywhere but on your farm.

Bucky was a good driver, despite his statements about some guy named ‘Gio’ and grumbles about Sam, who you had met once before. Besides that, the drive was filled with laughs reminiscing all the mishaps he went through that week, well, mostly you laughing, and Bucky doing his best to hold a smirk from showing too obviously, his eyes narrowed at you in contrast.

The two of you pulled into town as you pointed Bucky towards a decent-sized building which housed the bar, still nothing compared to what he was used to. The two of you hopped down from the truck and walked through the front door, which jingled, signaling your entrance.

Bucky was greeted by the smell of old wood and stale beer, the dim atmosphere lit with old neon beer signs and fluorescent lights which hung over the pool tables. You looked back at Bucky as you crossed the threshold where he held the door for you.

“Hey, all I’m saying is, I bet you wouldn’t last a week in my world the way I did in yours.”

You rolled your eyes as you sauntered up to the bar, taking a seat at the corner, Bucky next to you, and a few more empty seats to the other side of him that would hopefully stay that way until Curtis came. As the two of you had walked up to the bar, you had seen a bunch of girls groups whose heads turned, seeing the stranger that was Bucky make his way across the floor. Why couldn’t he be ugly? And why did you let him wear that hat? Bucky didn’t even notice. His eyes were only on you, besides his trained peripheral vision catching the eyes of men whose heads turned towards, doing the same.

“Oh please, Bucket, you hardly made it through this week. I’ve never seen anyone cut their finger on wheat before. How did you even do that? You were literally up on the tractor… wheat should not have been anywhere near your hands, yet you came to me with several paper cut-looking marks. And what do you even do all day? Your hands have calluses but a totally different kind. You can hardly toss a hay bale a story high into the barn loft. I’m sure it wouldn’t be that hard for me to just sit at a desk, bark orders, and sign paperwork all day.”

Bucky’s mouth gaped open as he feigned offense and put his hand on his chest.

You flashed a fleeting smile at him in satisfaction as you waved down the

bartender ordering two shots of whiskey and two beers.

“Now just because that’s all you’ve seen me do for work, doesn’t mean that’s all there is to it.”

“Oh really? Please, Bucket, then be my guest…indulge me.”

“Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you, so take that as one of the common requisites.”

He smirked at you, obviously more comfortable in this bar environment before your phone dinged and it was a message from Curtis.

Hey Y/N. So sorry, something came up at the shop. Rain check?

Yeah, no problem. Hope all is good, see you tomorrow?

Yep! Ty

“Well, looks like Curty boi isn’t joining us, so it’s just you and me, Bucko”

At that moment, the bartender set down the drinks in front of you and you and Bucky took a shot together, ordering an appetizer sampler platter to go with your drinks.

As the two of you nursed your beers, you joked more about Bucky’s farm mishaps and talked about all the men you had turned down from Bucky’s organization to get him out here.

“I’ve gotta be honest, I don’t know how you turned down both Sam and Steve. I’m hardly immune to their charms some days”

You laughed and threw your head back. “It’s not easy. They’ve both got these puppy dog eyes they make when I say ‘no’ to them, but they seemed pretty satisfied with the fact I wanted to see you in person.”

“And why exactly was that? You never quite said”

“Well, at first, it started as a way to delay the deal, but then I realized, if I’m going to be making some major changes to somewhere I consider a sanctuary, I wanna make sure it’s with the right partner” you nudged him with your elbow playfully and Bucky gave you a small grin. “But honestly, if I’m going to do something these days, I wanna do it at the source. I hate hearing important news from third parties, I mean, you’ve seen how I do business. It’s all me at the end of the day. Sure, Curtis helps out, but otherwise, it’s better to deal with things on my own and a few trusted people” you finished that statement breathless from your heated ramble. This didn’t go unnoticed by Bucky at all. Where did that come from? At first, to him, you were just another bug to be squashed in order to get more control over his industry, but did he care now? Did he truly care about what was upsetting you? What caused that hurt you were obviously tampering down? Does this have to do with Jakey?

Bucky hadn’t realized he said that last part out loud until you responded.

“No! Well, maybe? Like, sort of?”

“Can I ask? Can I ask what happened there? Only if you want to share”

“Um… yeah, sure, I guess. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough this week so I think you’ve earned this a little bit.”

You took a deep breath and began. “Jake and I grew up together. We met in kindergarten in school and were instantly close. We were the only two gifted kids in class, so the teacher sent us to the side for extra lessons while the rest of the class learned with her. From that point on, we were inseparable. Two smart little twerps who took on the world together, but our lives were so different. In middle school, I started to take on more responsibility on the farm and he started getting into computers, but we’d still see each other. In high school we started officially dating, and I was so happy to be with someone who I felt like intellectually got me. I think it was the same way for him, too. He’d crack such nerdy jokes, and no one got them but me”

You smiled nostalgically at the memory. “When our senior year came along and my uncle wasn’t doing that well, I applied to more local schools, but he didn’t. We had always talked about going off to college and living together, but he wanted that life to be far away from here, and I had obligations. I got into the local college on a full ride for agriculture and civil engineering, and he decided he’d rather go to MIT for computer science. I asked if he’d be willing to stay since he got into college around here, too, but he said he wanted to be around people who were ‘more like-minded to him.’ As if we hadn’t been the only ones who had understood each other for over a decade.”

Bucky gave you a sullen look as your head fell and you looked down at your hands. He signaled to the bartender for a water and two more rounds of shots.

“I just, I just didn’t understand how he could act like that after so long. So I asked him when he was leaving so I could see him off. We were still friends, after all, but he left without a word. When I saw him again over Christmas break that winter, I felt like he had turned into some overweening, highfalutin, jerkwad. I didn’t really know him anymore, and I had enough to focus on already, so I just kinda stopped talking to him. As you could see today, his mom still comes around, but it’s not really the same. I don’t think she ever really truly saw the way he changed, she’s too caught up in having a son who lives in Silicon Valley now, but apparently he still asks for stuff from the farmers markets.” You shrugged and thanked the bartender for the shots, pounding all four before you excused yourself to the restroom, leaving Bucky to sit there shocked.

He had known where you went to college and how smart you are, but things like what happened with Jake don’t show up on paper. However he clocked you before, you were even stronger than that, because despite how you were hurt, you still wore your heart in your sleeve and showed compassion to everyone around.

You washed your face and looked in the mirror. Sure, that experience with Jake sucked, but it’s been years and you were over it now. Didn’t mean it was fun to relive it all. You decided to go into one of the stalls, the alcohol already kicking in and making you have to pee. You sat down and that’s when you saw it: blood. So that’s the reason for the waterworks all day today. That’s why you felt so tired and couldn’t help tearing up at the slightest things. Luckily the girl in the stall next to you had some products. You cleaned up and washed your hands, forcing a smile in the mirror until it became real, honestly relieved at having a reason for your out-of-character behavior. You headed back out to Bucky in a much more chipper mood and he looked up at you with a quirked brow. He figured you’d taken the time you needed. He was appreciative of you being so open with him, and wasn’t going to question the switch-up since he was just so happy to see you being yourself again after a long day.

“Up for a game of pool, cowboy?”

“Oh, you’re signing up to lose, Honeybee”

“Ok, ok, best four out of seven” Bucky whined as you giggled, whiskey shots catching up to you as you held another beer bottle in your hand. Bucky was hardly affected, he essentially rocked this much alcohol in his system by noon on a daily basis. Just then, his phone rang, and he motioned to show you it was Steve. You gave him a thumbs up and started to rack the balls to set up for the next game.

You watched Bucky walk out the door as you felt a presence looming behind you. You turned around and stood up, eyes tracing up a body dressed in brown hues until you reached a set of blue eyes shaded by a cowboy hat brim.

“Oh, howdy, can I help you?”

“I sure hope so. Can I get you a drink? Two whiskey sours” the stranger yelled over to the bar.

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

“My name’s Cole, Cole Turner. What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?”

He was handsome, there was no denying that, but something seemed off. You plastered your best fake smile on your face. You didn’t need a confrontation tonight, not in your favorite dress. You didn’t want to taint the memory of it because of some rando. Wait. Was he a rando? Where have you heard the name ‘Turner’ before? Before you could continue your train of thought, a waiter came over with your drinks. They were very sweet compared to what you’d had all night, just like his demeanor, which seemed like a thin veil over the surface. You tried to channel your drink’s energy into your words to sweetly reply until you could properly remember who he was through your alcohol-fogged mind.

“Oh, I’m not here alone. I’m here with a friend”

“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but I don’t see anyone around. You up for a game?”

Before you could even open your mouth to respond, he grabbed a pool cue and made a move to break. After that, he was keeping a little too close to you constantly. You did your best to stay kind, but must’ve been sending the wrong signals as he asked you “You wanna get out of here? I’ve got a hotel room down the road.”

In an attempt to change the subject you asked “Oh, so you’re not from around here? What are you doing in town?” Looking towards the door hoping Bucky would be done with his update any minute now.

“Ah, I used to live around here. My family owns a string of dairy farms. I’m here to try and convince these small-town farmers to give up the land.”

Your eyes went wide. Luckily you were facing away from him. He was that Cole Turner. The one whose family ran a packaged beverage empire and prided themselves on squashing the little guy. You were lucky he didn’t seem to recognize you yet, as the last remaining competitor in town. The one he had probably come in to squash. Just then, lost in thought, you felt a hand snake around your waist and you flinched.

“Relax, Honeybee, it’s just me” Bucky whispered in your ear. Your shoulders visibly relaxed as you turned around and threw your arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. You pulled away, but not enough for Bucky’s hand to leave your waist, and looked between the two men, grabbing Bucky’s hat and placing it on your head immediately.

“Uh, James, this is Cole. He’s visiting town.”

Bucky reached out his hand Cole shook it. Cole took a large step back after, respecting the hat on your head, and, was he intimidated by Bucky’s stature? Sensing your discomfort, Bucky spoke up. “Nice to meet you. Shame we’re heading out now.”

You grabbed Bucky’s hand, not looking back, and headed straight to the door as quickly as your numb, wobbly legs would take you. Once you were met by the cool, crisp night air, you sighed in relief and rested your forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Thank you for helping me get out of there”

He shuddered at your proximity and the comfort you felt in this type of contact. It felt natural and he never wanted it to stop. With a soft smile and a glance at the top of the hat, he said, “No problem, Honeybee. Let’s get home.”

He helped you get up into the cab of the truck, sliding you across the bench seat before he got in and started it up.

“So what was the deal with the hat? And that guy?”

You yawned and stretched, settling in against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Uh, when a girl takes a guy’s hat and puts it on her head, it means she’s going home with him. And don’t worry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just wanted that guy to get off my back. We can talk more about that later.”

You wiggled to get more comfortable, your hand still in Bucky’s as he used the other to steer the truck down the old country roads. Your eyes fluttered shut as you fell asleep on him. His eyes flickered between you and the road in the headlights ahead. He luckily had a good sense of direction and was able to remember how to get home from your instructions earlier.

When he pulled into your gravel driveway, your were sound asleep, softly snoring, drool having dripped onto his Henley, but he didn’t mind at all. He lifted you out of the truck and carried you up the steps, taking off your boots before tucking you into bed for the night.

Next >

Bonus A/N: so where I’m from, “Turner’s” really is a beverage empire and they make really good products. I just figured I can’t make a farm AU without putting Cole in it, no matter how inaccurate to character.

Series taglist:

@scuzmunkie

@openup-yourmind

[musicalbl00m]

Imagine #2: Confessing your love to them.

wordcount: 590

Love confession to your friend while he gets ready for a date

not beta-read

“You sure I look alright, sweetheart?” he asks, running his fingers through his hair again. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date.” He mumbles.

Instead of replying, you are contemplating your whole existence. You’ve been in love with him for as long as you’ve known him, and for a while you thought the feeling was mutual. But alas, you didn’t have the balls to confess, and he hasn’t done so either. So, here you are, giving the boy you loved with your whole heart advice for his date with another girl.

Being so lost in thought, you didn’t notice his confusion at your silence. He knew you’ve been having a little rough time lately, but you haven’t been yourself for a few days. For a second he contemplates if its because of his date, but he quickly dismisses that thought.

“You know, if you’re not feeling well you don’t have to stay here. Its late and I know that you usually like to go to bed early. I don’t want to keep you up. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself.” He says earnestly.

You sigh softly, before looking up at him. He spots the pained look in your eyes and walks over to where you are sitting on his bed. Carefully, he cups your cheeks and looks at you with a gentle gaze.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, sweetheart? You’ve been awfully quiet.” He asks softly, his thumb caressing your skin.

“I just…” you say hesitantly, looking into his mesmerizing eyes. “Are you sure you want to go on that date? She just… doesn’t seem like your type.”

“I don’t know, I just thought it was time for me to get out there you know. Is the date really what’s bothering you? Do you know her from something? Did she hurt you?” He asks, worried at the thought of someone hurting you.

“No not at all! She seems lovely.” You say hurriedly. “I guess I just always hoped… that I had a chance or something. I know its silly but…” You don’t finish your sentence immediately, trying to see his reaction, only to see him patiently waiting for you to finish. “I always hoped that at the end of the day it would be me you came home to, you know. That I’d be the one you kissed. And for a while I had hope that you felt the same, but I just got too insecure I guess.” You confess, closing your eyes as if to shield yourself from the possible rejection.

He lets out a soft chuckle, before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You know, you have nothing to be insecure about sweetheart.” He says softly. “You are so incredibly kind, and creative. You are smart and helpful. You are beautiful and so incredibly fashionable.” He tells you with a cheeky grin as he tugs on the hello kitty sweatpants you are wearing. “You are everything a guy could want and much more. And I’ll be yours in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I just need you to say the words.” He confesses to you, looking into your eyes with a soft gaze.

“I am so incredibly in love with you. I have been forever and ever. Please let me be yours.” You tell him, almost begging.

“Took you long enough.” He teases, before connecting your lips in a soft kiss.

“I am so utterly in love with you too, sweetheart.” He mumbles, before continuing to press soft kisses to your lips.

[punkyarabella]

His Shirt

Summary: Bucky comes to your rescue in the middle of the night.

Warnings: none

490 words

Masterlist

You

are you awake?

Bucky

yes

You

I need help don't make fun of me

Bucky

I won't what's wrong?

You

I'm in the gym showers, my shirt fell on the floor and it's all wet now can you bring me another one?

Bucky

on my way

A small smile on his lips, Bucky gets out of bed and puts some sweatpants on. He picks a shirt from his dresser and leaves the room.

"Kiddo?" he asks when he enters the showers room.

"I'm in here," your small hand appear above one of the cabins door, and he can see your naked feet on the ground.

He steps closer and gives you the shirt over the door.

"Thank you so much, Bucky," you chuckle. "I'm so clumsy."

Bucky smiles, the sound of your laughter floating in his head, and waits, leaned against the sink in front of your door, while you put on his shirt. When you eventually step out, he can't help his eyes from roaming over your small figure, his shirt covering almost completely the shorts you are wearing underneath, leaving your legs bare.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," you bite your lip, playing with the hem of his red shirt.

"It's okay, I couldn't sleep anyway," Bucky shrugs. But even if you did wake him up, he wouldn't hold it against you. He is simply glad that you trust him enough to call him for help. "What are you doing in the gym at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep either."

He nods without a word, but breathes out a chuckle when you raise your wet shirt between two fingers. You twist it with a sigh to drain out the water, before taking the rest of your stuff and leaving the room. Bucky follows you to the elevator and presses the button for the floor you both share, along with Natasha, Steve and Sam.

During the short descent, the silence is thick. Bucky has to physically stop himself from staring at your legs again, while you struggle to not wet the carpeted floor with your shirt. Once you reach your bedroom, Bucky waits for you to open the door.

"Give me a second to change and I'll give you your shirt back," you hurry, but he dismisses it with his hand raised.

"Keep it," he smiles softly as he lets his eyes roam your body once again. "I have plenty of shirts, and it looks better on you, anyway."

"Thank you," you give him a bashful smile, and your cheeks turn pink.

His heart stutters for a second, because of how adorable you look in his shirt, because of how sweet you smell. He'd give everything to see you again in his shirt, and nothing else, every single night.

"Anytime," he breathes out once the oxygen manages to reach his brain. "Good night, kiddo."

"Good night, Bucky," you smile again and close the door behind you.

[ghostlyfleur]

♡ modern!bucky x tennis instructor

modern!bucky bumps into the most beautiful — and stoic — girl he’s ever seen on the way out of his gym, and after pleading and whining with one of his buddies working the reception desk he is told where to find her.

and so is the reason he signed up for private tennis classes.

she’s hard to crack, set on only interacting with him in a professional manner and ignores all of his attempts at flirting; guarded and lacking trust, the young woman who believes no romantic relationship is worth it, works hard to ignore the butterflies in her stomach whenever her saturday morning appointment comes in… flirty, full of sweet pet names and a charming smile as he does his best to tear her walls down. she can only resist for so long when he is this relentless and caring and funny. “what exactly do you want?” is her exasperated response one day after the daily texts he sends to make her smile and that she usually ignores, “you.” is his answer, “for a really fucking long time.” and so her walls colapse.

[mediocre-daydreams]

Hey 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Can I request

“Do you trust me?” “No”

“You flinched”

“because i’m in love with you, isn’t that obvious?”

i've been wanting to write a taylor fic for a while and rep is my all-time favorite album; thus, this mess. i'm not sure how i feel about it tbh i wrote it in two parts and both times i was multitasking so,,, i think the ridiculousness of it all will make up for it

𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

bucky barnes x avenger! reader

inspired by delicate (not taylor's version, unfortunately)

notes: reader dumb asf, friends to lovers/mutual pining but x10 idiocy factor, literally just crack with a side of *stupid* angst, swearing, brief suggestive language, bucky's actually the worst communicator EVER, natasha and wanda mean well but don't give the best advice (but we love 'em always)

w/c: 4.1k

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

this ain't for the best my reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me

“this is useless,” bucky complained, flopping himself onto the couch, next to you—which was a bad idea, because the man was 6’3 and nearly 250 pounds. you felt yourself bounce as the cushions sunk under his weight.

“holy- watch where you’re sitting, barnes!” you scrambled back into your previous position, trying to regain your dignity as if you hadn’t just been catapulted simply because of a super soldier sitting down.

“this whole amends thing is bullshit,” he groaned, waving his hands in the air out of frustration. “i mean, i go up to people all sunshine and smiles and i’m like, ‘hi, i’m bucky, i’m here to make amends,’ and then they’re all like, ‘fuck you, asshole!’” he threw his face into his hands and groaned.

you stifled a laugh. “you look like an overgrown toddler right now.” it was true—his bottom lip was jutting out, he was slumped in his seat, and every once in a while he’d sigh or mutter something negative audibly like he was throwing a mini temper tantrum.

“who looks like an overgrown toddler?” natasha rounded the corner and smirked when she saw bucky and his pity party. “oh yeah, i see it.”

bucky rolled his eyes. “this is ridiculous. do you know how sore my cheeks are? i’m trying my fucking best here, and all i got today was glares, a cup of coffee thrown at me, and the middle finger from two grandmas.”

“your own people, turning against you.” you patted bucky’s shoulder reassuringly. “there, there. we’re still here for you.”

“gee, thanks,” he grumbled.

natasha covered her mouth to hide the knowing smile on her face. she was the best spy in the world, but the only thing that could make her break was watching you and bucky interact. neither of you was aware that you were very obviously teetering the line between teammate and soulmate. there was no in between, just a precarious tightrope walk.

“alright, you bums. tony’s hosting another one of his galas-”

“actually, it’s an extravaganza,” tony corrected, sauntering in with his yellow sunglasses perched at the tip of his nose as he checked off items on his holographic pad. “and attendance is mandatory. i will be marking lates and absences.”

tony didn’t even look up from his device when he said, “and yes, barnes, that includes you. consider this a part of your whole… making amends thing.” tony finally looked up from his screen to make intense eye contact with the three of you. “fabulous! i’m glad we’re all on the same page. 7:45 sharp; dress nice.”

with a snap of his fingers and a call for JARVIS, tony was gone as quickly as he had butted in.

natasha grimaced. “right. what i was going to suggest was that bucky takes a plus one. you know. breaking news: winter soldier has a heart! winter soldier, the secret romantic! bucky barnes, giving tony stark a run for his money as the womanizer of the decade?”

bucky looked uncomfortable. “sure…” he dragged out. “yeah, i’ll think about it. thanks a lot, natasha.”

we can’t make any promises now can we, babe? but you can make me a drink

your eyes flickered between the two of them and the thick tension laced in their glares. was this Sexual Tension™? you jumped up from your spot and excused yourself hurriedly, speedwalking to your room at an awkward mid-speed gait.

natasha had basically asked bucky out right in front of your face. great. what were you supposed to do, tell her to fuck off and let you make a fool of yourself in front of bucky? tony’s parties were never your scene anyway; natasha had much more grace and composure. bucky and natasha made sense. they had similar backgrounds, were equally sharp-minded, and admittedly, the both of them were very, very beautiful.

you buried your face into a pillow and screamed. technically, the rooms were soundproof, but it was more dramatic that way. at some point during your toddler-esque fit (bucky was rubbing off on you), you were struck with a brilliant idea. what you needed was a movie-style makeover montage.

you and wanda had always worked together perfectly. it was like you could read each others’ minds. well, wanda literally could, but you could do it…hypothetically? she was more than thrilled to help you get dolled up.

“i have snacks!” wanda squealed, running into your room with bags of gummies and packets of chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds floating behind her. (you had a unique taste in candy, so what?) she wiggled in place as she examined your setup with nothing but pure delight in her eyes.

wanda came up behind you while you were fiddling with your laptop and her enthusiastic but sudden exclamation made you jump. “ohmigosh, are we going to watch the bootleg version of legally blonde the musical? you know me so well,” she swooned, “that’s my favorite broadway production!” 

wanda flitted between the various products you’d laid out in your bathroom. you’d prepared it all—an army of nail polish bottles, mountains of glittering jewelry, and heaps and heaps of makeup products that you’d probably never finish in a lifetime.

“bucky is gonna freak when he sees you!” wanda said decisively as she brushed your hair. you examined yourself in the mirror with a frown.

“wan, i’m pretty sure he and natasha are going as a couple.” you fidgeted with a stray piece of hair and wanda grabbed your hand before you could do any more damage to her styling.

“don’t fidget. you only do that when you’re really upset.” wanda sighed, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “i’m sorry, babe. i really thought- well, i’ll just say this is a surprising development for me too. i can’t really promise you anything without totally invading bucky’s bodily autonomy and forcefully and very immorally looking through his private and most intimate thoughts, but i really did- do think you have something there.”

you smiled sadly, unconvinced. “thanks. it doesn’t matter anymore, though. what’s done is done and i’m not going to cry over spilled juice.” you pursed your lips. “even if i really like orange juice…” you huffed.

wanda didn’t correct you. you were already pretty upset.

“hey, chin up a bit! you still get to go to the party with the hottest date ever, me,” she gestured to her body. “and, i mix a mean drink. none of that bartender nonsense. i’ll whip up something way better for us. what d’you say? wanna get totally trashed and embarrass ourselves in front of stuffy businessmen?”

you cracked a smile and looked up at wanda mischievously. “hell yeah. and let’s crack out the kazoos.”

is it cool that i said all that? is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘cause i know that it’s delicate

you were hopping around on one foot, still trying to put on a shoe, as you left your room and crashed into the most delicious-smelling wall you’d ever crashed into.

“bucky?” you squeaked, feeling your face heat up.

“hi, doll.” he smiled down at you fondly and helped you steady yourself before he got on one knee to help you with your shoe. you knew bucky ran warm, but you swore there was a heat in his cheeks too.

“you look b- you are beautiful,” he muttered, just loud enough so you were the only one who could hear it. you gulped, feeling like bucky had suddenly adopted wanda’s abilities to mind read from the way his blue eyes searched your face as if he was admiring art.

“you look okay, i guess.” you poked him in the chest. “c’mon, i’m sure nat’s waiting for us.” you ignored the pang in your chest as you said natasha’s name, but it was totally because you were just hungry.

“i’m hungry,” wanda whined, able to sense your distress and quickly changing the subject. “do you think tony got a fondue machine?” her strides had widened as she lauded on and on about the potential food options, picking up her pace at each mention of a different dish.

soon, there was good distance between bucky and you and a very distracted wanda. your eyes were fixed on wanda’s back, but you weren’t oblivious to the way bucky’s gaze was glued to the side of your face.

“doll, can i talk to you real quick?” he placed a gentle hand on your arm and you froze, whipping around to finally look at him with wide, doe-like eyes. you snatched your arm out of his grasp only moments after, walking down the hallway faster than before.

bucky’s face fell. he’d opted not to cover his metal arm that night, but he was beginning to regret that decision. he couldn’t tell how much of your avoidance was due to his arm or from some other unknown reason, and he wasn’t sure which was worse.

“no, wait-” bucky jogged to catch up to you, but you only threw an anxious glance over your shoulder. when you locked eyes, you stiffened. bucky was perplexed. he couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong.

“sweetheart, why are you running from me?” he cooed, giving you distance but wary that you’d run from him again.

“it’s nothing, buck. i’m just… menstruating,” you lied.

“no you’re not.” bucky looked at you pointedly. “i know because we always do movies and chocolate on the 20th, and it’s the 5th. so… ‘fess up.”

“i-” you smiled weakly. “seriously, it’s fine. c’mon, you heard tony. i’m not getting marked late and ruining my perfect attendance record.”

--

bucky watched as you dashed off, throwing open the doors to the center of the party, leaving him alone and dejected in the hallway. well, not for long. natasha, in a slinky silver dress, snuck behind him silently and coughed. bucky shrieked yelped.

“you’re actually so pathetic.” natasha crossed her arms. “i literally asked her out for you and you’ve somehow managed to make her run away from you?”

bucky shriveled under her piercing disappointment. “what are you even talking about?” he grumbled, kicking an imaginary stone.

“you were supposed to ask her to be your plus one, idiot.” at this point, natasha seemed more upset than bucky, who had already resigned to the fact that he’d be forever alone.

“but you said that was a suggestion,” bucky retorted.

“you should know by now that anything i say, whether it be phrased as a suggestion or not, is mandatory. do better, barnes.” natasha puched bucky in his [flesh] arm before quirking her head thoughtfully.

“i think there’s still a way to salvage this. all you have to do is ignore her, so that she’ll wonder where you are, and then-”

“natasha, that is entirely a contradiction,” bucky interjected.

“buchanan, don’t you trust me?” natasha snapped.

“absolutely not. and don’t call me that.” bucky tried to stand taller and puff out his chest to assert dominance (to hide the fact that he was absolutely clueless on modern courting strategies), but natasha was unimpressed.

“i’m going to pretend i didn’t hear that, because i’d quite like for you to show up to the party in one piece. and don’t think it’s because i’m soft on you. i just think you’d make a good couple and i’m bored,

“so, like i was saying. you disappear, all mysterious and broody. that should be easy enough for you. then, she’ll think, ‘where are you?’ so she’s either going to text you or call you, and that’s when you invite her over. make sure you’re somewhere in the back… preferably dark and a bit secluded.”

bucky was incredulous. “you do realize i’m trying to get her to like me, not tyring to kill her, right?” his trust in natasha, which was already nonexistent, was somehow continuing to deteriorate.

“gramps, i’ve gotten more action in the past year than you’ve had in your entire life.” natasha flipped her hair. “anyways, she already likes you, dingus. i don’t know why…”

natasha stole a look towards the glass doors, which revealed tony’s extravaganza in full swing. she patted bucky’s arm patronizingly. “you’re not trying to get her to like you, alright? you have to show her that you feel the same, because full offense, you’ve been absolutely shit at expressing your feelings. have you always been like this? or did 40s girls just have low standards?”

natasha sauntered off, leaving bucky alone and confused in a hallway once again. he steeled himself, pushing back his shoulders, before stepping through the doors and into the party scene with determination.

he immediately deflated when he caught sight of you, hand resting delicately on top of some shmoozing billionaire (or so he figured), laughing gracefully at something the man had said which probably wasn’t even that funny anyways.

natasha’s step one suddenly became much easier. he had no inclination to chat up some new money assholes who’d probably end up badmouthing him to the press the next day, even if it meant being by your side. he stealthily (or as stealthily as one could for a hulking serum-enhanced man) maneuvered through the excessive crowd to the open bar that he was planning on living off of to survive the night.

third floor on the west side, me and you handsome, you’re a mansion with a view do the girls back home touch you like i do?

“a whiskey, neat,” bucky said, absolutely emotionless, as he slid into a booth. the bartender, who was horrible at hiding their expressions, seemed to cower in bucky’s presence. bucky took advantage of that. 

“and make it fast,” he glowered. it was only when the bartender gave bucky a little salute, addressing him by his military title, that bucky smiled for the first time that night. maybe this party wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“buck!” you screamed into his ear. you were kneeling on the seat from the booth behind him, leaning over the divider so you could make sure you were close enough to shatter his eardrums. he let out a high pitched squeal very masculine sound of being startled. 

“aw, did i scare you?” you hopped the booth divider and slid in next to him. the booths were unusually small and bucky was unusually large, so you were essentially halfway on his lap. bucky didn’t know how you could be so nonchalant about it. he felt like he was going to throw up. or that other parts of his body were going to go up.

“n-no,” he insisted; his chin was pressed against his neck.

“that’s such a lie, bucky. you flinched.” bucky tried to protest, but you wouldn’t have any of it. “no, you definitely did! admit it, i surprised you.”

reluctantly, bucky conceded. “okay, maybe i was caught off guard. but i was busy looking for my girl, so whose fault is it really?” he was proud of his answer until he remember what natasha had advised him. 

“make sure you disappear, all mysterious and broody.” well, great. it’d been less than 10 minutes. “she’ll think, ‘where are you?’ and that’s when you invite her over.” you’d found him before he could even make a move. the step which he anticipated would be the easiest had already been blown.

“your gi- oh, that reminds me, where’s nat?” your golden demeanor seemed to dampen for just a moment before you perked up again, looking up at bucky with those infinitely deep eyes. he gulped. wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the mesmerizing “steel blue” eyes? you were completely unfazed. this was not going his way, not at all.

“she’s in the bathroom… menstruating, “ he lied, regurgitating your excuse from earlier. you narrowed your eyes at him disbelievingly.

“oo…kay. well, that sucks. she’s gonna miss out on the caviar gun.” you nodded your head towards a man in a bright, coral-colored suit, who was indeed holding a bedazzled sniper rifle (whether it was real or a prop, bucky was too far away to tell) and shooting caviar like bullets into an eagerly waiting crowd. bucky wanted to say that he was surprised, but he wasn’t. this was a stark event, after all.

bucky’s attention was broken as you gasped animatedly. “you used to be a sniper in the 40s, right? we should ask the man if you can try it out!” bucky blushed as he felt your soft hand take his large, calloused one in his. 

(he’d once asked you how you kept your hands so well maintained. you’d recommended him some obscure brand of floral lotion. he was wearing it today.)

bucky tried thinking back to what natasha had advised him. “make sure you’re somewhere in the back, preferably dark and bit secluded.” he glanced over at the steadily growing crowd at the caviar-fest. that was literally the opposite of what he’d been told to do. c’mon bucky, you already fucked up step one. you have to pull through with step two.

“actually, i think natasha, uh, wanted me to get her a drink,” bucky blurted. your lips twitched enticingly for a brief moment as if getting a drink was personally offensive to you or something, but you nodded anyways.

“you’re, um, a good date,” you stammered, looking anywhere but at him. bucky blushed. was he winning you over? “natasha’s lucky to have you.”

bucky wanted to die. this was worse than when he fell off the train.

“oh doll, i keep meaning to tell you that-”

“here’s your whiskey, sergeant bucky barnes- shit, james- seargent buchanan barnes. sir.” the bartender pushed the glass towards bucky hastily, their face pale and sweaty. you eyed bucky with suspicion.

“what did you do now, huh? always getting into trouble without me,” you joked, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. he sighed, tapping his fingers against his drink, leaving nervous fingerprints in the condensation. it was rare to see you so… guarded. you were the person who’d taught him how to feel freely and embrace vulnerability. now, you were the one putting up a front.

“i’ll admit, you are a good influence on me.” bucky waved the bartender over once more, who scurried up to the two of you instantaneously.

long nights with your hands up in my hair echoes of your footsteps on the stairs stay here, honey, i don’t want to share ‘cause i like you

“w-what can i do for you today?” the bartender forced the words through their teeth, mouth locked in a fake smile.

“what do you want, sweetheart?” bucky’s tone took a complete 180 as he looked down at you fondly, though you weren’t paying attention. you were more concerned about the bartender who looked like they were on the verge of a heart attack, swaying back and forth.

“i’ll have a… um, i’ll have whatever he’s having,” you smiled sweetly at the flustered bartender, who’d regained color in their cheeks at your comfortable tone. 

bucky wrapped an arm around your shoulder, sending you into a dizzying haze of his cologne. “why are you still here? you heard m’girl,” bucky glowered. 

you shot him a disapproving glare. “first of all, you’re supposed to be here working on bettering your reputation. second of all, you really should stop calling me ‘your girl’ if you’re out here with nat, i don’t think she’d be comfortable with-”

“can you just shut up for a second?” bucky removed his hand from your shoulder and slapped his forehead. then he realized how rude he looked.

bucky had been worried about you earlier because you’d clearly been hiding your emotions. but it seems like he’d only exacerbated the issue, because now there you were, biting your bottom lip in an unsuccessful attempt to stop it from wobbling. you were unblinking and bucky knew the glassiness in your eyes wasn’t because they’d been open for too long; rather, that you were tearing up and didn’t want to release them.

he really was good at fucking things up, wasn’t he?

“oh, doll, i didn’t mean- shit, i’m so sorry, are you crying? i didn’t mean to make you cry, i must’ve sounded like such an asshole just then,” he prattled, holding his hands up in surrender as he tried to undo all the damage of the night.

“no, no, it’s fine!” you laughed fakely. (thank god you were an avenger. you’d be a horrible actor.) “i didn’t mean to cling on to you the entire evening, i imagine nat’s wondering where you’ve been. how inconsiderate of me! i hope everything’s still okay between us?” your voice was almost an octave higher than normal.

“listen, i-”

“and i’m totally going to get out of your hair now—your hair looks really good by the way, really soft—and you can go have a super fantastic time with nat! um, let her know i have tampons if she needs any. okay, bye!” 

the bartender had perfect timing. well, perfect for bucky, and unfortunate for you.

“here you are, ma’am! i wish the beautiful couple a beautiful night.”

that only made you more upset. bucky was very bad with crying people.

“you know what? let’s go. we need to talk.” bucky stood and grabbed your forearm, marching towards the dark, secluded place in the back that he should’ve gone to from the start. 

you trailed behind him without protest, quickening your footsteps to keep up with his steady, determined pace. “hey, watch it! these are louboutins!”

bucky all but shoved you into a seat. he stood over you for a few loud heartbeats before he sank into a chair of his own, massaging his temples with exhaustion. “alright. you are not allowed to leave that chair until you hear me out,” he growled. the soft tone he only reserved for you was gone.

“you really piss me off sometimes.” that was a rough start for bucky. it was pretty apparent that he wasn’t the most feely-feel of a guy. “yeah, you do. and y’know why? because you’re so- you’re so you.”

you looked at bucky like he’d gone insane. that was a fair assessment. bucky felt like he’d gone insane too, with the way he’d stopped having any control of what came out of his mouth.

“you do this- this thing, where you’re so optimistic about everything except for when it comes to yourself. you see the best in people—even me, for fuck’s sake—but you can’t see it in yourself. the whole fucking night, i’ve been trying to tell you that i’m not with natasha—don’t give me that look—but you keep running away from me because- because why? ‘cause you don’t believe that in any universe, i’d want to be with you? because you’re wrong!” bucky was flushed and his voice had gotten much louder since the start of his impassioned declaration.

“and you pretended to be happy for me, even though you clearly weren’t happy—yeah, that’s right. i could tell. you’re a shitty liar—because you’re just the kindest, most selfless, the most deserving person i’ve ever known. and i’m one hundred-fucking-six years old. you deserve the world, doll, but it’s like you’d rather give yourself up for the world. nothing could replace you.”

bucky slipped out of his seat to come sit on his knees before you. he took your hands in his, resting your intertwined fingers on your thighs. “nothing could make me feel the same way i feel about you,” he whispered. 

neither of you said anything. in the dimness of the corner the two of you were tucked into, he could vaguely make out the fluttering of your lashes, clumped together from the tears that’d soaked into your makeup. he could see your parted lips, swollen from having been bitten and chewed at this entire time. he could even feel your breath on his face, and at that moment, it was as if the air of your soft exhales that tickled his cheeks was the only air left in the world—like you were his only source of oxygen, and that he couldn’t survive without you.

sometimes i wonder, when you sleep are you ever dreaming of me? sometimes when i look into your eyes i pretend you’re mine, all the damn time

“that was a lot of swearing,” you hiccuped, eyes wide and brows furrowed. you shook your head in perplexion as your eyes flickered between his, like some possessive marking of a predator who knows they had their prey entirely under their control. “i don’t- i don’t get it.”

bucky wanted to choke you out. (not in a literal, violent manner! or in a sexual one, for that matter! at least, not in this context.) you were so stupid. how did you still now understand?

“isn’t it obvious?” he chuckled humorlessly. “i’m in love with you, idiot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

marvel masterlist | main masterlist

taglist: (comment to be added!)

@bambamwolf87 @yourallihave @im-a-slut-for-fluff

[hazywrites]

Bucky I’m In Love With My Best Friend

Chapter 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You are hopelessly in love with your best friend, James Buchanan Barnes, and it's clear he feels something for you, too. So between stolen kisses and hookups, drunken calls and flirty banter, why can't you talk about it? What even is "it"?

Warnings: Light angst, an argument, all is resolved

Words: 5,090

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48220744/chapters/121858312

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes: Hi, my loves! This chapter is a little longer than the last one, and a little angstier, though I always try to wrap things up on a happy note. Please let me know what you all think! I love you and thank you for reading!

“Did you tell Bucky?” Were the first words to spill out of Nat’s mouth as she came rushing into your room. Wanda shot you a sympathetic look from where she was sat, cross-legged, at the end of your bed.

“No,” you replied with a resolved pout. “He didn’t text me all day. He doesn’t get to know. He can find out when he sees me next and wonder why he was left out of the loop.”

“Nice to know we’re being mature about this.” Wanda’s words were drowned out as Nat spoke over her.

“Let’s sign your cast.” You nodded towards your desk where a pencil case brimming with art supplies sat unzipped. An assortment of colored Sharpies overflowed from it. Nat went for classic black, tossing Wanda a red one. After they finished, Nat sat next to you, leaning in conspiratorially. “If you really want to make him jealous, get another guy to sign it first.”

“Another guy?” You blinked. “I don’t know any other guys. I mean, I do, but my guy friends are nerds; Bucky won’t be jealous of them.”

“Get Loki to do it,” Nat squealed delightedly. You couldn’t help but raise your eyebrows at her turpitude. Bucky was close with Thor but he absolutely despised his younger brother. But you couldn’t go that far. Bucky never talked to people you hated; you wanted to reciprocate that respect. He was your friend, first, after all. You were about to protest the idea when Wanda spoke up.

“And Erik downstairs. Bucky definitely noticed the way he eyes you up. He’s always calling the guy a cornball and looking for reasons to dislike him,” she added.

“Wanda!” You scolded, not at all surprised to hear Nat talking like this but very shocked indeed to hear it coming from your most rational friend. She simply grinned bashfully in response.

“He hasn’t texted you all day,” Wanda reminded you. “Nothing wrong with reminding him how steep the competition is out here.

“I wouldn’t want him to remind me how steep the competition is,” you argued. Nat waved her hand dismissively.

“But if he does it, he’s a douchebag because he knows you two would’ve been in a relationship already if it were up to you. He’s the one who ‘needs time’, so you can show him that if he doesn’t step up, another guy will!”

“Somehow, I don’t think Bucky is that insecure. He’d just say something like ‘if that’s what you want, then that’s that’ and never talk to me again.”

“Oh, I forgot you two love playing the emotionally mature game.” Nat wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “But if we go out tonight and you just happen to run into Erik and Loki before Bucky texts you, he’ll have no one to blame but himself.” You groaned in response.

“I just ate shit on the way home from class and spent the last three hours in an emergency room. I do not feel like going out tonight.”

“And is the alternative sitting in bed, eating peanut butter cups and complaining about how much your arm hurts and how Bucky hasn’t texted you back?” Wanda asked pointedly. You shot her a death glare.

“Maybe the peanut butter cups will keep him at bay. He is allergic,” you mused.

“Yeah, no, I’m sorry; I do not want to deal with pouty Y/N right now. Get dressed and put on your best sad, wounded puppy look,” Nat said. She eyed you for a second. “Yeah, just like that.” You groaned loudly in response, only growing louder as she stood up and made her way to your closet, flipping through your dresses.

You’d settled on a strapless emerald green mini dress and black boots, which Wanda helped you into as Nat did your hair and makeup. Since you couldn’t exactly put anything on over your sling, your jacket hung over your shoulders. You wanted to complain more, but the girls were right. You’d be in pain either way. Might as well distract yourself from it, both physically and emotionally.

You were heading downstairs when Nat slowed you all to a stop in the hallway.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Y/N?” She asked, louder than necessary. You hid your face behind your hand as you realized what she was doing. “Oh, Y/N, you poor thing. Wanda, will you help Y/N with her jacket?” Her speaking volume raised each time she said your name, making your face flush in humiliation, especially as the door to the apartment you’d stopped in front of slowly swung open, revealing a curious-looking Erik.

“Y/N? I thought I heard your name,” he said.

“A wonder how that came to be,” you mumbled under your breath. His eyes fell on your cast.

“What happened to you? Are you okay?” Concern laced his voice.

“I’m just clumsy,” you conceded with a tight smile. “I tripped reading on my way out of the library. Should’ve watched where I was going.”

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, his fingers ghosting your arm as he stared down at you intensely. “I thought someone hurt you; I’d have to teach them a lesson.” He gave you a crooked smile as he said it, gazing into your eyes. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spotted Nat’s triumphant grin, as Wanda had the decency to pretend to be reading a job posting stapled to the community corkboard. Jesus, Bucky was right, you couldn’t help but think. This guy really is a cornball. “Oh, hey, they signed your cast. Why don’t I add my name to it?”

“Luckily,” Nat interjected, “I happen to have brought some Sharpies. What color would you like?”

“How about gold?” Erik asked, flashing his bright, picture perfect smile. You watched Nat grow a little flustered as she handed him the marker. Of course he would pick gold, you thought to yourself. “Where are you guys headed?” Erik asked as he finished signing your cast, finally taking in your outfits. Nat’s eyes sparkled.

“We’re just—“

“Late, we are running late,” you interrupted, ushering her away with your good hand. “Nice seeing you Erik, see you around!” You called as Wanda held the door open for you all to step outside, leaving a confused Erik still standing in his doorway.

“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” Nat said into the evening air as the door shut behind you.

“Take away,” you sighed as you began walking to the bar where Wanda swore she’d seen Loki on Snap Map. “You know this is borderline stalking,” you reminded her.

“It is public information,” she clarified. “And we got to speak to my bachelor, so we’re doing Nat’s next!”

“It’s like the world’s shittiest game show,” you lamented. “All the douchebags and no cash prize.”

“The prize,” Wanda reminded you, “will be Bucky seeing how many men will happily take his place and be your shoulder to cry on if he ever pulls a disappearing act like he did today.” You couldn’t help but smirk at her overprotectiveness. You knew Bucky most likely got caught up in a game of pick-up basketball or was busy with schoolwork, but you couldn’t help the chip on your shoulder that you’d broken your arm and he wasn’t around to help you. So much for best friends, you thought bitterly.

You spotted Loki almost immediately after entering the bar. He was leaning against a pool table, laughing at something his friends were saying when he caught your eye. You turned to notice that Nat and Wanda had already made themselves scarce, heading to the bar to get you drinks.

“Y/N,” Loki greeted as he strutted towards you, his eyes flitting down briefly to take in the sling. “Don’t you look worse for wear.”

“Gee, thanks, Loki,” you rolled your eyes. He laughed.

“You look beautiful as ever, darling, I was merely referring to the little nylon accessory you’re currently sporting.” You sighed.

“I may be beauty but I am not grace. I tripped coming out of the library.” Unlike Erik’s concerned reaction, Loki merely tilted his head back in a roaring laugh, a sound that irritated you to your core like proverbial nails on a chalkboard.

“Perhaps not grace, but the phrase ‘beauty and brains’ does come to mind,” he conceded. He gestured towards the pool table. “I’d offer for you to join me but it seems you are out of commission for the time being.”

“I’ll watch,” you said, resignedly, leaning on a nearby pool table. You watched him play for a minute before Nat and Wanda returned, Malibu bay breeze in hand. You smiled gratefully as you sipped the drink down. Loki greeted them both in turn as he made his shot before finally looking up from his game and leaning on the table next to you. For a moment neither of you said anything.

“So,” he finally spoke. “No Buckley today?”

“Bucky,” you corrected him, his answering shrug confirming your suspicion that he already knew your best friend’s name. “And no. We haven’t spoken today.” Loki hummed in response, his expression calculating as he took in the defeated slump of your shoulders.

“Despite your recent injury,” he noted.

“I mean, I didn’t exactly text him about it,” you admitted.

“You’re still upset. Why is that, if you haven’t even given him a chance to show up for you?”

“Because,” you sighed. “I shouldn’t have to. He doesn’t ask me to show up for him, I just do it. A little reciprocity would be nice.” He hummed in response.

“You know, Y/N, not everyone shows their affection the same way you do. Just because Bucky doesn’t speak your love language, doesn’t mean he isn’t speaking his own.”

“He doesn’t speak any love language,” you scoffed. Loki’s index finger and thumb touched your chin, just for a moment, as he tilted your face up to look into his eyes. His fingers were off you just as quickly as he chose his next words.

“Listen, love. You know I think I could make you much happier than that joker ever could.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he shot you a silencing look before continuing. “And I know that there is no room in your heart for anyone besides him. But ask yourself. When is the last time he spoke to someone for this long? His reputation precedes him, you know. But with you, it’s different. You’re not a fling. Maybe he’s taking his time with you because he thinks you’re worth taking things slowly with. And maybe each time he distances himself, he’s trying to stop this from burning out too soon because he’s decided he wants you around for a long time.” You stared at him in stunned silence for a moment as he stood up and stretched, cue stick in hand. “I mean, what do I know? The guy’s an idiot. If you were my girl, I’d show you off to the entire city. And take you on a date that isn’t sneaking into AMC to see The Batman for free for the tenth time.” He shot you a smirk. “Though I suspect you enjoy that. So how about you hand me a Sharpie and I can sign that cast of yours to make him jealous, and you can head over to his apartment?”

“How did you know?” You laughed.

“Your two best friends and Erik Killmonger? Please, darling. Discreet is not your strong suit. Seeing as gold has been taken, why don’t you hand me the green one to match that pretty little dress of yours?”

The walk back to Bucky’s apartment was contemplative for you. You ran into Peter and MJ coming out of a restaurant with Tony and Pepper along the way, so you were grateful for a few more signatures from your friends to hide your stupid, embarrassing scheme. Wanda and Nat finally left you at the door to the brownstone Bucky and his roommates shared. With your good hand, you knocked shakily. It was Steve who answered.

“Y/N? What happened to you?” He asked as he took in your arm.

“Being clumsy, as usual,” you replied, peeking past him. “Is Bucky home?”

“Yeah, he’s in his room, come on in,” he said, stepping aside to let you in first before closing the door behind you. You greeted Thor and Sam playing 2K on the living room floor, brushing off their concern. Before you could make it to Bucky’s room, he came out. His hair was wet from a shower and he was wearing plaid pajama pants and the Christmas t-shirt he always wore to bed. His already plump pink lips were settled in a confused pout.

“Y/N?” He asked, his eyes dancing over your frame before making their way back to your face.

“Hey, Buck.”

“You tried to breathe and walk at the same time again?” He asked teasingly. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, though.

“Oh, this? I fell off a cellphone tower. I thought perhaps I wasn’t getting any bars since you haven’t texted me all day.” You shot back. It was semi-playful but laced with something else.

“Phone works both ways,” he reminded you in his smart-ass tone. Oh, he was upset. But why? You wondered. He hadn’t even seen the signatures yet. “I’ve been waiting for a text from you,” he confessed, opening the door to his bedroom and leaning back against it as you walked in. He joined you in sitting at the edge of his bed and brushed your jacket off your shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me as soon as it happened?” He asked as he touched your arm gently, inspecting the injury. His eyebrows shot up as he read the signatures and you felt your face flush. “Looks like you’ve been in good hands, at least.” It was hard to miss the iciness in his tone.

“Not like you care,” you grumbled. A look flashed across his face that you couldn’t mistake for anything but anger.

“I don’t care?” He asked disbelievingly.

“I didn’t mean that, I…” you trailed off unsurely.

“So what did you mean, Y/N? Besides putting words in my mouth?”

“I don’t know, I… You didn’t text me all day.”

“Yeah, because I was busy with shit. And you didn’t text me either. But you had time to have half of New York sign your cast,” he scoffed. Shit. This was a bad idea, jealousy was such a negative emotion. Why did you let Nat and Wanda talk you into this?

“Half of New York would’ve signed my cast whether you showed up for me or not, Bucky,” you cried. “I have friends, you know. I don’t just sit around waiting for you all day.” Such a lie. Yes, you did.

“I never said you did,” Bucky raised his voice to match yours. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just,” you sighed. “I just want you to show up for me.”

“All this because I didn’t text you for one day? The phone works both ways, Y/N.”

“No, not just today. I mean. Like, you ice me out. We spend the night together and you get all cold and distant after. We’re friends and then we’re more than friends but it’s always on your terms. Anytime we get too close, you push me away again.” You felt tears welling up in your eyes as you spoke despite how much you willed yourself not to cry.

“I need time, Y/N, I told you this,” he replied. His tone was even but his eyebrows were knotted together in frustration.

“Yeah, I know, but what about what I need? Reassurance. Affection. I’m not a sex doll, you know.”

“I never said you are.”

“I know you didn’t. But I feel like one. You hate when I say we’re just friends but the only time you’re intimate with me outside of that is sex.”

“So you don’t want to have sex anymore,” he concluded, the corners of his pouty lips twitching into a frown.

“No, Bucky, I want to have sex but I want more than that, don’t you get it?”

“And I’m telling you I need time. Y/N, please. I would’ve showed up for you today if you asked. I would’ve taken you to the E.R. I would’ve signed your cast first. If you texted me.”

“I…” you started, cutting yourself off with a sigh after a moment. “I know. I don’t know what I was trying to prove,” you admitted quietly.

“C’mere. Let me get you out of that dress. Which shirt do you want to wear?” He asked.

“That one,” you nodded towards the one he was wearing.

“Of course. Couldn’t make it easy for me,” he shook his head with a slight smile and pulled the shirt over his head in one swift motion. You couldn’t help but blush at the sight of his naked torso and look away even though it was nothing you hadn’t seen before. His motions were gentle and slow, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration as he helped you dress. Soon you were laid up in nothing but his Christmas tee and your panties, and Bucky remained shirtless in his pajama pants at your side.

“Where is it?” He finally asked.

“Where is what?” You replied in question, confusion lacing your tone. He quirked an eyebrow at you.

“My Sharpie,” he answered. You felt your face flush as he shot you a triumphant smirk.

“It’s in my jacket pocket,” you admitted. He fished it out, signing the available spot on your hand in bright orange. His favorite color. The signature was unnecessarily big, and he finished with a heart. You shot him a smile and he rolled his eyes at you.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it before I turn it into a butt,” he warned. You giggled and nodded your agreement, your mind racing with things to say but none of them seeming like enough.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you breathed into the dark room after a while.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” his sleepy voice mumbled in reply. His soft snores filled the room only moments after.

[jen-with-a-pen]

Honeysuckle ❀ IV

SERIES ❀ PREVIOUS ❀ NEXT

summary: You and Bucky are getting ready for another one of Stark's Signature Events when Bucky finds out his outfit has been sabotaged. Accident or not, pink just might be his color after all.

pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

warnings: cursing, embarrassed Bucky, the color pink, sam didn't mean it he was just fucking around, outfit descriptions for reader but little to no mention of body description, fluff and closeness and light touching and slight ✨feelings✨

word count: 1.68k

original a/n: yes this was inspired by the pink met gala look. no i will not be taking further questions. also, just like the other parts of Honeysuckle, this is standalone in this lovely little universe i've managed to create. love u all as always ♥ edit a/n: going back through this one was a delight :3 i like seeing how my writing has grown exponentially since first writing these idiots ♥

a/n 04/2024: hi! i have gone through and rewritten and reformatted a few parts in the fic in order to make it flow better and to ensure it has all-inclusive language in it (this was one of my first fics in the fandom and was not as educated as i am now.) if there are any mistakes, please feel free to DM me and kindly let me know :)

divider by @firefly-graphics | gif by @itz-me-aggie | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist

Read this fic HERE on ao3! - coming soon to ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

“Bucky, we’re gonna be late!” You called from your perch on the couch. You finally secured the bracelet you’d been struggling with for five minutes when a loud groan answered from behind the cracked bathroom door, followed by a painful, “Goddamnit!” 

You jumped as Bucky’s voice shook his apartment. Cautiously, you rose from the couch and moved to the door, muttered cursing and muffled thuds coming from behind it, freezing when Bucky called your name before you could grab the door handle.

“Uh, yeah, Buck?” You swallowed, nervous, thinking of ways to navigate his tone. You’d never heard him talk like this before. Ever.

Bucky cursed again. “Gah–fuck me– could you go ‘n get Sam?” The icy undertones of his request sent a chill down your spine.

“Wh– Buck, we gotta get going, why would you want–”

“Now, Honey.” 

His demand came stronger than you expected, sending you reeling back from the door. You blinked. He sighed immediately after he checked himself, frustrated, uttering another curse under his breath before trying again.

“Now, Honey, please?” His voice softened, granted there was still an edge to it. You paused, even more confused as to why he wanted Sam, of all people, right this fucking second. The gala was starting in twenty minutes and you were already running behind.

“I– Yes.”

A quiet ‘thank you’ followed you out into the hallway as you made a bee-line for Sam’s quarters. Heel clicks echoed off the tile floor, bouncing off the walls as you quickened your pace, stopping abruptly at Sam’s quarters. You pounded on the door, calling out his name. No response.

“Sam Wilson, get out here, damnit!” You yelled, fists readied for another swing at the door. Just before making contact, the door flew open, revealing one Sam Wilson with a brow cocked and busy hands looping a wine-red tie around his popped collar.

“Damn, Honeysuckle, didn’t know you were capable of using such language,” he tisked. You rolled your eyes.

“Sam, Bucky needs you,” you spat out. Sam paused, brow dropping while a dismissive smirk plastered his face. He didn’t believe you. And, honestly, who would?

Sam scoffs a laugh. “Why? Does he need help oiling his gears?”

He stifled a chuckle but you weren’t in any mood to laugh. You instead lunged, yanking him out into the hallway with you, slamming the door shut. He instantly dropped the act.

“Will you just shut the fuck up and come with me?” You demanded through gritted teeth. For all you knew, Bucky could be suffering from another panic attack. Alone. The mere thought of that made your heart hammer harder. And if being late and Sam’s thick skull hadn’t already pissed you off, that sure as hell did.

“Okay, alright, I’m comin’.” Sam nodded, following you down the hallway, still fiddling with his tie. 

“He’s in there,” you said, pointing to the bathroom door as the two of you entered Bucky’s quarters. Sam led the way, gently knocking on the door.

“Bucky? It’s me, can I come in?”

Not a word was uttered as the door cracked open slowly and a metal-plated arm jutted out, yanking Sam into the bathroom before quickly slamming it closed. You flinched, the small living room settling into silence as you stood outside the bathroom, hands fidgeting with the glittery fabric of your dress. It felt like ages of nothing but incoherent, hushed conversation coming from the other side of the door. At your wit’s end, you were about to yell break the door down yourself when Sam started cackling at the top of his lungs. 

Now you were really confused.

“Honey!” He managed to call between howls. “Get in here!”

You hesitated. Gripping the handle, you cautiously pushed the door open to a scene that was the last thing you could have possibly imagined.

Sam stood by the sink, bent over in stitches while tears brimmed his eyes in futile attempts at trying– and failing– to stop laughing. His suit jacket wrinkled at the waist as he jutted an arm out from his stomach, bracing himself on the countertop. 

“Sam what the fuck–!” you began to scold him, turning your head to Bucky. 

Your jaw dropped.

The hulking ex-hitman stood against the opposite wall with his head bent to the floor, loose strands of hair falling from his slicked-back ponytail. His arms crossed over his chest, failing to cover the source of Sam’s outburst: his bright pink dress shirt. And it wasn’t like a typical white-shirt-got-in-with-the-reds-type pink. No, his shirt was as if a flamingo colored itself with a highlighter and then rolled in cotton candy. Bucky’s face was close to matching the hue perfectly as Sam continued to holler over the bathroom sink.

“Oh! Oh, Bucky,” you cooed, voice wavering as you bit back a smile. You stepped toward him, placing your hands on his sulking shoulders. He dared not to look up from his staring contest with the floor as his face became even more flushed at your touch.

“Hey, Buck,” you coaxed as you gently lifted his chin with a finger, “look at me will ya?”

He sighed, relenting, finally meeting your stare. Baby blues beamed right through you as he held your gaze with sad, puppy-dog eyes you couldn’t resist looking away from.

“How did this even happen?” You questioned him, and Sam, looking between them.

“I asked Sam for help doing my own laundry,” Bucky groaned, “and he told me to just throw everything in. Even the reds ‘n whites.” 

“Sam!” You whipped around, shooting daggers as your grip tightened on Bucky’s shoulders. 

“What? He asked, I helped!” he defended. “Didn’t think he’d actually take me seriously!”  Sam wiped away a tear as he caught his breath, smoothing out his suit. Utterly speechless at the minimal amount of brain cells Sam apparently possessed, and empathetic to Bucky’s situation and sweet, sweet naivety, you sighed as thoughts raced to think of ways to remedy the situation so you all could at least show up by the end of cocktail hour because you really fucking needed a drink.

You looked to Bucky, chewing your lip, searching his features for an answer. Then it hit you.

“Wait here,” you ordered, “both of you.” You pointed to Sam as you made way to the elevator in the hallway as fast as your heels could carry you. Once on your floor, you sprinted into your apartment, hurrying to your closet in search of the dress you remembered immediately dismissing when Wanda was helping you choose what to wear for that night. Something you’d never be caught wearing ever, especially at such a public event. With cameras. And strangers.

Do it for Bucky, do it for Bucky, do it for Bucky.

You stripped your old dress off, leaving it on the floor of your closet as you wiggled yourself into the 'eye sore of the century’– your words, in contrast to Wanda’s literal heart eyes when you’d tried it on– and prayed to anything holy that this would make Bucky feel better.

You raced out the door and back into the elevator, hoping F.R.I.D.A.Y. was the only one to see you. So far.

“Man, hey,” Sam nodded to Bucky, who still refused to look him in the eye. Sam rolled his eyes, heart filling with just a tad bit of guilt for messing with him. 

“Buck–”

“Don’t call me Buck.”

“Okay, you know what? I’m sorry. There, ya happy?”

Bucky grunted in response, shifting his weight as he continued to analyze the tiled flooring.

“Bucky, c’mon, I–” Sam stopped mid-sentence, interrupted as the bathroom door whipped open, revealing you standing in the threshold. Your arms crossed over your chest holding a black suit jacket. A bubblegum pink midi dress complete with a multitude of sequins hugged you as you waited for Bucky to notice. Sam sure as hell did.

“Bucky– Honey– Woah.” Sam straightened, adjusting his tie and buttoning his jacket.

Sam’s reaction snapped Bucky out of his trance. His eyes skimmed from the floor to your heels, eyes growing wider and wider as he made his way up to meet your sharp gaze. Without hesitation, you cocked a hip and threw the jacket at him. He caught it, confused, bewildered, utterly mesmerized. Still clueless, however, he looked down at it then back at you. If he didn’t know any better, he’d be drooling. 

“C’mon Buck, get dressed or we won’t make it in time for cocktail hour,” you huffed, tapping at an imaginary wristwatch. 

Bucky gulped. A deer in headlights. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the biggest grin breaking out on Sam’s face. Without another word, he placed a quick peck on your cheek and snuck past you, closing the door. Finally, Bucky seemed to snap back to reality and did as you asked. He swung the jacket over his broad shoulders, adjusting the cuffs and moving to the mirror. You stepped behind him, observing him over his shoulder as he adjusted his tie. 

“You didn’t have to do this, ya know,” he muttered, his small smirk quickly growing across his lips.

“Yes, I did,” you replied, grabbing his waist and spinning him towards you. Manicured fingers reached for his collar, adjusting it as you locked eyes with him. You offered a soft, genuine smile as you tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear. He returned with one of his own, a free hand finding its way to your waist while your own slid down to stay on his cheek. Your thumb softly stroked his cheek, smooth from when he shaved that morning. In that moment it was as if you were pulling each other closer and closer with each passing second, the air magnetizing as hands lingered for seconds longer than you both were used to. 

In this light, something inside of you screams at how handsome he is.

You ignore it, though, instead suddenly remembering you both had a gala to get to.“Now, let’s go,” you said, dragging him out of his apartment. “I need a damn drink.”

[lovelybarnes]

Truth- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: truth serum, ooc (its so hard keeping bucky and a truth serum in the same fic?) About: truth serum, request. (ph1+df31) Forgive for mistakes. why do i kind of hate this now

“Where’s this thing supposed to be again?”

Not missing a beat, you continue to survey the wide lab table in front of you, deft fingers careful when they tilt small vials at an angle so you can squint at the contents. “Things. Where are these things supposed to be.”

“Things, then,” Sam mutters, a fragile clinking noise following.

“Be careful,” you chirp, cocking your head at a thick tube with thick, dark liquid. You hold it up to the light, finally able to read the contents. “Whoa.”

“What?” 

“Did you know Hydra made hair nutrients, essentially? This is, like, the evil solution to baldness.”

“You’re kidding,” Sam crows, stepping closer to examine what you’re holding.

“High amounts of minoxidil, some weird fungus, and something that sounds like finasteride on steroids. Also, probably steroids.”

“Bet they could make a fortune on it.”

“If it works in a way approved by the FDA. Like I said, evil solution.” You grimace and set it back on the desk. “Did you find anything yet?”

“No. There’s slime and weird little liquids everywhere but no big-ass, weirdly-shaped tube marked deadly,” Sam grumbles, nose wrinkling as he catches sight of a limp plant. “Do you think that’s a normal dead plant? Or something freaky and poisonous?”

“Probably the latter,” you hum. “And I really, really doubt Hydra would be so stupid as to have the most cliched image of a toxin representing their mysterious poison.” You pause at a large, bumpy glass. “This one is pretty weird,” you say contrastingly, carefully picking it up with two gloved fingers. “Von innen brennt,” you read.

“What does that mean?” Sam asks.

“Burn from within.” You inhale sharply, and tuck it into your chemical storage container. “I really don’t think we should be leaving this in here,” you reason.

“I don’t think we should be leaving anything in here,” Sam adds, pointing to another bottle. “Weltschmerz,” he recites. “What’s that?”

“It’s… it’s apathy. There’s no good translation but it literally means ‘world pain,’” you frown as you grab it, too, twisting it in your fingers. “Bruce and I are going to have a field day.” You tuck it inside the container and purse your lips. “In a morose way.”

Sam shoots you a quick look. “Right.”

You bring your index to your ear and connect to Bucky’s channel. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

“I fuckin’ hate Hydra.”

“Yeah, it’s not great over here, either. We still have that huge lab to check over; are you done with yours?”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

You confirm, scanning the room once more and sighing softly. “Be careful, okay?”

“I am.”

“Then continue,” you quip, narrowing your eyes at a fat bottle with a tiny opening, translucent candy red sticky inside of it. You poke it to teeter so you can see the label, seeing something unintelligible but missing the necessary ideogram. “We’re not even sure what this stuff is yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out the moment you see it,” Bucky comforts. Your face heats up, lips pulled to one side as you avoid Sam’s raised eyebrow.

“Right,” you mumble, straightening up. “Uh, we should probably head over there now.”

“Right,” Sam parrots, long and curved with a smile.

You shoot him a look over your shoulder as you walk out, disconnecting from Bucky before responding. “Shut up.”

“I’m not doing anything!” he argues, hands up in surrender. He follows you out chuckling.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you murmur, shooting him a final glare as you turn a corner into another dull hall. Grimly, you observe the doors you pass them, perking up when you hear familiar muted footsteps ahead.

Bucky catches your eye, lips turning up a little at the sight of you. You catch his pupils flicker down your figure once you’re closer, snagging on a darkened spot right above your right knee.

“I spilled some water,” you explain, fingers dipping unconsciously to brush against the purported area. “No harm done.”

He moves and the ruby tucked in the crevice of his thumbnail catches your eye. Like an instinct, you reach for his hand, a frown pulling on your lips as you observe the small gash on his thumb. 

“Hangnail,” he responds to your silent question, rubbing small circles into the side of your palm. “M’okay.” 

You’re pleased to affirm so, bumping his shoulder gently after you sneak a glance at Sam. “Okay. How’re you doing, hangnail aside?” 

His eyes constellate among your features and he manages some sort of comfort in his expression. “Bored.”

“Great.” Your voice is soft and pleased. He agrees.

You fall silent once again when the intended lab comes into view, Bucky’s large frame stepping half in front of you to prevent you from getting to it first. He pushes the door open before you can, left hand hovering above his weapon as he scans a room already cleared before letting you in, the same fingers that reached for a gun now grazing the small of your back.

Sam raises an eyebrow but remains silent, watching Bucky’s eyes follow you as you head toward the other side of the room to look through a multitude of vials. They don’t waver even after you spare him a reassuring glance crinkled with a tiny smile.

Quietly, he walks over to Bucky, who’s definitely aware of the movement but startles when he leans in close and taps his shoulder. “Strange man-made horror to find,” he reminds. “You can stare later.”

Bucky squares his jaw, metal fingers moving to graze uselessly along the glasses. “I’m aware, Sam.”

“Uh huh.”

It’s nearly silent then, tinged by brittle clinking and quick glances so heavy they seem loud.

Bucky is tired. Sam is tired. Most importantly, you’re tired—and it makes someone like Bucky a little careless.

He’s very sure he won’t be the one who finds the culprit matching Bruce’s description, which means he isn’t as careful as he should be when he ducks his head and inhales something so pungent it’s startling. He flinches back, making the steel shelf teeter. Both his hands shoot out to steady it, flesh fingers bending close to an undulating liquid that spills little bubbles onto his skin, burning sharply into the broken crevices of his nails.

What follows is worse. Clandestinely, a smudged window closes around his brain. It’s subtle and awful, like his mind processes become blurry and slow while outwardly remaining consistent. He keeps himself from stumbling but is sure his eyes round dismally, blinking owlishly as he struggles to catch up with himself.

It all happens in the quick span of a second before he opens his eyes and everything seems normal again, although something tugs thinly from the back of his mind. Super-soldier sanity, he guesses. He looks down at the cause and sees a match, vial open and a dizzyingly clear liquid stationary inside. A red symbol stamps the label, unnamed.

“I think I have something,” he says, cringing at how far away he sounds. Just when he feels the prickling of doubt, everything clicks into agonizingly perfect place. “This might be it.” Unthinkingly, he curves a finger around the neck of the bottle and holds it up.

“Whoa, there,” Sam warns.

You’re next to him fast, taking it away carefully.

“It was open when I found it,” Bucky supplies.

You nod at him distractedly, producing a lid from your pocket to close the beaker and observe it, thankfully protected fingers twisting it around in the light. 

“It matches the description,” he adds.

“Yes,” you mumble distractedly, half in response to him and half in thought. “This is it,” you lower it into your transfer box and grin up earnestly at him when you close it, “good job, Bucky.” It’s very sweet.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “S’what is it?”

“I’m not that smart,” you laugh.

Bucky disagrees.

“It’s probably not too dangerous. Not airborne, at least, since it was uncapped like that.” you contemplate a little more, looking back up at Bucky. Your pupils set in a way more calculating. “How close did you get to this? Did you inhale it?”

“No. I don’t think so. I smelled something, but it wasn’t that.” Bucky juts a finger behind him. “Maybe the rotted plant. Probably.” 

“Okay.” You say it rounded, edged with lightly veiled concern. “Tell me if you feel weird at all, okay?”

“Of course.”

Sam comes up from behind you, annoyed. “Okay. Are we done here? Can y’all flirt on the jet? I’m hungry.”

“You get so bitter when you’re jealous,” you bite, shooting Bucky a final, doubtful glance before tugging on his hand to leave.

“Am I so transparent,” Sam deadpans.

Bucky contemplates his strange state as he trudges back to the jet, taking quick notice of how dry his mouth has become, his tongue voluble. What he’s hazed with reminds him of oak bar tables and smoke, drunk confidence summery in his chest. He feels fine, he’s sixty-three percent sure. He thinks.

He’s in front of the jet before he can process the journey over, trying to shake away what feels like a creasing tug to his cling film mind. Your eyes are on him, and it looks like it’s not the first time, lashes kissing anxiously. Sam clambers inside, and you wait for Bucky right next to the doors.

“Are you okay?”

“Tired,” he tells you.

You’re about to respond when Sam shouts for you to hurry. Bucky scowls in his general direction, although it dissolves at your amusement.

“It’s okay, c’mon.” You guide him inside, seemingly unbothered as he follows you around like a puppy. “Do you want to take a nap on the way back?”

“Can I sleep on you?” he asks too rawly. You startle subtly with it, but recover quickly, a pale beam on your features.

“Yeah.” You smile at him, entirely saccharine. “Let me just get everything into the containment units.”

He sits in the seat next to your usual spot and stares after you as you walk away, appreciating the concentrated point of your expression as you fiddle with the storage settings.

“Maybe if you stop staring at her and actually talk to her, you might have a chance,” Sam cuts in, slumping next to him.

“I do talk to her,” Bucky argues. “I talk to her all the time. It’s just… she’s pretty.”

Sam struggles for a response for a second. “Oh-kay.”

“Do you really think I’d have a chance?” Bucky finds himself saying, unsure where his mouth has gotten permission to voice his thoughts. He clutches the suddenly few tendrils of control and tries his best to filter his thoughts. It’s too bad he can’t take things back.

Sam gapes. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bucky forces through his teeth, feeling like he wants to puke. Unexpectedly, words feel so much easier to spill out than silence.

Lovely warmth touches his knees. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you, your presence something deftly familiar.

Up close, you’re even more captivating when he finally meets your gaze. He holds back from reaching for you, digging his fingernails into his palm to restrain them from curling around your wrist. He wants you closer.

Your sweet features furrow, sparkly eyes catching on his heated forehead and dilated pupils. “Bucky, are you okay?”

“Can I touch you?” he asks, a little desperate from gating the inclination.

“What?”

“He’s acting weirder than usual,” Sam provides.

“Bucky, sweetheart,” unauthorized, he softens at the nickname, “did you inhale anything? Do you feel okay?”

“Some of it got on me. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. It got on your skin?” You pull on gloves. “Show me where?”

He raises his right hand for you to examine, inhaling sharply when you take notice of the small gash on his thumb again.

“Okay,” you breathe, slowly and then assured. You grab his hand. He blinks. “Come on.” You say, tugging him to the sink and spraying water up to his elbow. “It might’ve entered your bloodstream, we have to wash it out. Sam, call the team, get Bruce working on exactly what it is.” You push Bucky into an isolation unit. “Probably not contagious, probably not deadly,” you mutter to yourself. “We found it nearly half an hour ago. More severe signs would have started by now.”

“It was a level three at worst,” Bucky says, but stays willingly, watching you. “It’s probably one or two. I feel fine, just… uninhibited. Reminds me of getting drunk back then.”

You shake your head, confused, edging on frantic. “Drunk?”

“It hurts to not tell you things.”

“It hurts?” You’ve never felt more helpless, only able to repeat his symptoms in an attempt to inspire some helpful memory from your research.

“More than usual.”

“Bruce says isolation!” Sam calls. “I quote: ‘There’s probably no need, but better safe than sorry.’”

“She knows!” Bucky shouts, eyes on you.

“He sounds fine. Just as annoying,” Sam chatters away to Bruce, and Bucky tunes him out, concentrating on the concerned lines of your face.

“Sam’s worried,” he thinks out loud. “So are you.”

“I am. You’re sweating, Buck.” You examine his face, fingertips bumping into the panel.

“Don’t worry,” he tries to soothe, his own fingers thumping against the separation barrier when he attempts to touch you. “If anything, this is a little bit of a relief. I don’t need Thor.”

You snort lightly. “You’re insane.”

“A little. Not stable, definitely,” he admits.

You hum lowly, biting your bottom lip, pupils quickly inspecting his features. Before Bucky can comment on it, you voice your thoughts. “Okay. I’m gonna test out a theory. I’ll ask you some questions and you just have to answer. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes,” he answers, then, unnecessarily: “I don’t think it would be if it were anyone else.”

You graciously ignore it, only ducking your chin. “What’s your full name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes. But Steve’s right, that sounds a little snotty, doesn’t it? What do you think?”

You laugh. “I like your name. When were you born?”

“March tenth, nineteen-seventeen.” He frowns. “Damn. Just when I was reeling you in with the name thing.”

“Where do you live?” you ask, ignoring his comment.

He prattles off the address to his apartment. “Also you.”

“Me? I’m not…”

“You are,” he interrupts, glancing up at you anxiously. There’s so much he wants to tell you on the tip of his tongue, so much he doesn’t want to be forced to. Not right now. Not like this.

You catch his meaning and move on, eyes thinning accusatorily. “Are you the one who broke my mug?” 

“Yes, I knocked it off the table. But it was Sam’s fault, he pushed me into it.”

“I knew it,” you mutter bitterly, leaning back, limbs less tense. “I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with truth serum.”

“That’s not too bad. Considering the options,” Bucky says. “It makes sense. I feel… I want to tell you everything.”

“Effective.” 

“Thank you for not asking anything too invasive,” he says.

“I wouldn’t,” you respond.

“This shouldn’t be affecting me,” he continues. “The serum stops the effects. They must have made it stronger.”

You pause. “What?” Then, remembering his situation. “Nothing. Never mind. Do you have any pets?”

“A cat. You know Alpine, she loves you. But I know you like dogs.”

You tilt your head, wanting to ask further, but you stop yourself. “I do like dogs.”

“That’s why I’m getting you a dog for your birthday.”

You beam in surprise. “You are? Wait—”

“I keep looking but I can’t find the right one. I was thinking maybe it’d be better for you to come along, but I was supposed to think about that for a little longer.”

“Sam!” you call. “I feel like I shouldn’t be hearing this,” you confess to him, wringing your fingers in wait for the neutral party.

“No, you’re not supposed to know that.”

“I’m sorry. It’s weird it’s affecting you so much, it must be made for enhanced.”

“You figured it out?” Sam asks. 

“Truth serum, I’m pretty sure. Really strong truth serum, from the looks of it.”

“You have to leave,” Sam says immediately.

“What?” you ask, confused for what seems like the millionth time. “No. I want to stay with him.” Your face twists in concern again.

“I want her to stay with me, too,” Bucky adds.

“No, you don’t,” Sam commands. “Who knows… what you might say in front of—” he points at you, enunciating your name with an italic and a gesture. “You should leave,” he turns to you.

“You’re going to take advantage of me,” Bucky accuses.

“Have you been lying to me?” Sam questions. “I am only interested in confirming. Like: did you or did you not break Redwing two months ago—”

“Sam!” you interrupt.

“Come on. Do you know how much food has disappeared? Water bottles dented?”

“I told you that wasn’t me,” Bucky grumbles, leaning against the wall.

“That’s true. That’s what you told me, but what’s true and what you said can be—”

You glare at him. “Stop it.”

He hmphs. “Fine. I’ll settle. He owes me thirty bucks.”

“Whatever. Go make sure everything’s okay up front, I have to give Bucky some meds. Friday, did you activate isolation protocol?” She affirms as you open the door to Bucky’s unit. It’s cold when you step inside, but when you reach Bucky, he’s burning. “Bucky, how are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He looks up at you, pupils dark and blown. He can’t stop his hand when it lands on you, but you don’t seem to mind, leaning in close enough to his face for him to catch the little details of your face. He clears his throat. “Now I’m a little hot.”

You wipe hair from his sticky forehead, taking a small napkin from your pocket to wipe sweat from his brow. “I can see that. Friday, can you lower the temperature in here?”

“You’re gonna get cold.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you. You can’t ask me to do that.”

You stare down at him worriedly, thumb rubbing gently at his temple. There’s a hiss nearby, and three pills in a little cup stand on the table. You grab them and hand them to Bucky.

“Take these.” You point to the pale tablets, three in a single container. “They’re a precaution and the blue one,” you pinch it to show it to him, “should make this pass a little quicker.”

He takes the blue one first.

“Five minutes ago, we didn’t know what it was,” Bucky says. “You’re amazing.”

“Friday’s amazing. All I do is hand things to you.”

“You’re amazing.” 

You chuckle, observing his eyes. Purely clinical. “Okay. You are, too.”

Bucky bites his lip. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. You’re amusing me.”

You look genuinely offended. “Absolutely not.”

Bucky cracks a smile. “You have a tell.”

“Bucky Barnes.”

“It’s in your lips. You purse them a little. Like even you can’t believe yourself.”

You pinch his lips closed with your index and thumb. He stares up at you with wide, blazing eyes.

“I won’t complain,” he says, muffled.

“You should! Don’t be so nice to me, Barnes.”

“I like it better when you call me Bucky.”

“Really? Everyone on the team calls you Barnes.”

“I said you, not the team.”

You let go of him, eyes sorry. Your thumb bends, the bone tracing along his bottom lip. You’re so close. He wants to echo his realization so badly.

“You’re so close.”

“I’m sorry.” You move to take a step back.

“No,” he protests, reaching for you again.

“What?” You laugh.

“I’m in love with you.”

The very first thing he feels is great, overwhelming relief. Like something had been interfering with his breathing and his feeling and his being and it was removed.

And then came the panic, thickened with fear of the consequences of his honesty and very thinly edged with something nicer.

You haven’t moved since he admitted it, pretty features contorted in neutral shock. He wants to know you so well, he can tell if it’s good or bad.

“I didn’t mean to say that.” He gulps, wanting very badly to let go of you but unable to do so. “Does that blue pill make it a lot worse before it gets better?”

You stare at him.

“Say something, please. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t want to—I never wanted to tell you that.”

“Why?” you ask finally. Your brows are knitted, the edges of your features dipped in pain.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

You don’t say anything, but your lips part, the sorrowful border of your features softening. “I… I really want to kiss you right now.”

Bucky freezes. “What?”

Your face heats, pupils flickering away from him. You clear your throat. “But you’re in a vulnerable position right now and I don’t want to take advantage of that. I want you to tell me because you chose to.”

“You’re saying…”

“Yeah.”

Bucky really wants to kiss you too. “Why?”

“Because I think you deserve honesty.”

Bucky really, really wants to kiss you. He cracks an unfiltered smile, although it’s not entirely because of the serum. “Damn.”

“What?” you ask uneasily.

“I’m really fuckin’ lucky.’

[angstysebfan]

It Should Be Me (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader

Summary: You and Bucky were best friends, but you also harbored feelings for him. When Bucky starts dating someone else, you feel the best thing to do is separate yourself from him.

This will be longer than the last part... lol

Part 1

--

Later on in the night, you have done a good job of hiding from Bucky, knowing he was still looking for you. You stayed hidden in the corners of the room, trying to plan your grand escape from the party. Your goal was to wait until he went out to the balcony like he always did, or went to dance with the bitch he was with, or at the bar with his back to you. Anything to allow you a chance to escape.

Meanwhile on the other side of the room, Bucky was constantly looking about the room, looking for even the slightest hint as to where you are hiding. He knows you are hiding from him, and he needs to know why. You were so important to him, and he misses you like crazy. Also is it true you don’t like Sharon? Did that keep you away from him? Were you jealous?

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he thought about that possibility. He quickly dismissed that idea because no way a woman as amazing as you would want to be anything other than a friend to him. Though right now you aren’t even that right now, which breaks his heart.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to see Sharon looking at him with a smile, “Hey you. Wanna dance? It’s a slow one,” she said with hop in her eyes.

Bucky wanted to turn her down and say no so he can keep an eye out for you, but didn’t want to be a dick. He gave her a small smile, took her hand, and led her out to the dance floor. He pulled her close and allowed her to kiss him softly on his lips. They started to sway slowly to the music. 

You see this and allow your heart to break a little more before taking the opportunity to make your way out of the room. As soon as you are out of sight you make your way to the elevator and take it up to your room. As you rise with the elevator, your tears start to fall. You hate that you are feeling this way, and wish you could get over your crush love for Bucky. 

You thought separating yourself would help, but at the same time it hurt that he was also busy with her. I guess you can say you were having a temper tantrum that when he was available you made sure you were not, just in spite. But you really didn’t care. The only way to get over him is to get away from him. He doesn’t feel that way about you and that’s fine. But you are at the point that you cannot be friends until you are over this, or else you will lose the friendship completely by doing something stupid.

After getting dressed in sweats and hoodie, you went to the staircase that led to the roof. Your favorite spot. The spot you used to think and get clarity. As you opened the door you closed your eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air. When you opened your eyes your heart immediately dropped. Standing there, facing you, with his shirt partially unbuttoned, hair a mess from his fingers going through it, was Bucky. He looks at you with a mix of sadness and something else.

“Wha-what are you doing up here Bucky? Where’s Sharon?” you ask, your nerves going crazy.

He puts his hands in his pants pockets and looks down for a moment before glancing back up at you. “You’ve been hiding from me tonight. Why?” he asks.

You stand at the stairwell door, contemplating running away, but knowing you can’t outrun a super soldier. Bucky leans against the railing still looking at you.

“You’ve been avoiding me for awhile. Why? Why does my best friend, one of the most important people in my life, someone who I love more than anything, keeps avoiding me, and I need to know why before I go completely crazy,” he says standing straight, pulling his hands out of his pockets to run through his hair again. He looks at you with desperation in his eyes.

You just look at him in shock. Again to contemplate running away, but know you have to face the music, tell him the truth, and face the consequences, which most likely be the end of your friendship. The thought makes you deflate and tears flood your eyes. 

“Bucky,” you whisper as tears start to stream down your cheeks.

Bucky silently walks up to you and cups your cheek, making you jump as you didn’t realize he came up. He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you break down and just completely sob, falling into his chest. Bucky wraps his arms around you and just holds you while you cry. His heart breaks as he listens, but he is so confused. What is happening right now?

After a moment you pull away and walk around Bucky to the railing, giving yourself a moment to get your emotions under control. You wipe your eyes and take a few deep breaths. You finally turn around and look at the man before you, who looks concerned.

“There is something I need to tell you, and I want you to let me get everything out in the open before you respond. Can you do that?” you ask.

Bucky nods and sits on the lounge chair he is standing near. He looks at you and suddenly feels very nervous about what you are going to say.

You look down at your fingers, take a deep breath and stare right into his beautiful blue eyes, “Bucky, you have been my best friend from the moment we both arrived to the compound. I feel so luck to be able to be so close to such an amazing man, and know that he wants to be close to me too. But... along the way, I developed stronger feelings that friendship for you,” you say before pausing and gauging his reaction.

Bucky’s jaw drops slightly at your confession. You like him? 

You look away as you feel tears again start to build in your eyes, “I’ve fallen head over heels, heart beating so fast it feels like it will burst, can’t catch my breath around you, want to spend every second of every day with you, kind of love. The love they write songs about. The kind you have said you don’t deserve, but you have mine. You have all the love I have in my heart and soul. YOU have my heart. 

And I’m heartbroken because you don’t feel the same. You have been going from woman to woman, when it should be me! And then the cherry on top was Sharon. The one woman who hates my guts and has gone out of her way to keep you away from me. I got upset and decided the only way to get over you was to get away from you, so when you had some time, though it was very minimal, I made sure I was too busy for you,” you say with a scoff.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to lose you. I just needed time to get over you. But I can’t Bucky. I can’t get over you,” you say as you turn and start to softly cry again. “And I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, and you want to end our friendship. But I... I love you. I know you’re with Sharon, but--”

You’re cut off when you feel hands on your shoulders, turning you quickly and lips on top of yours. You freeze for a moment not understanding what is going on, but then melt into his kiss as you wrap your arms around him and he wraps his around yours. You feel him deepen the kiss and you open your mouth willingly to his tongue and just sigh at the suddenly feeling like the piece of you that has been missing, just slid into place.

After a few more moments you slowly pull away, but Bucky would not loosen his grip around you, holding you close and staring into your eyes for a moment. It was just silent as you both enjoyed the moment, neither willing to break the silence. Bucky leans in and gives you another kiss on your lips before cupping your cheek again.

“I’ve loved you since the moment I laid on you. You have always been more than a friend to me. And yes I don’t deserve your love, but I know you would never accept that answer, so if your sure you want to give it me, I will take it and protect it for the rest of my life. I love you, Y/N. I love you more than anything in this world,” he says.

Your heart continues to pound in your chest and you feel so happy to hear that he is in love with you too, but then a thought crashes through that happiness. Sharon.

“What about Sharon?” you ask, still wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

He kisses your forehead, “I broke up with her before I came up here,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, making Bucky laugh, “When I saw you escape the party I excused myself from her to follow and she told me that I had to choose between you and her. While I knew you weren’t happy with me, I also knew that no matter what, no one would ever beat you in that scenario. It’s you. It’s always you, and it’s always going to be you,” he says.

You smile in response to his words and pull him back down to your lips. After a few moments you both realize you are swaying to the sound of the music below, cutting through the wind. Every few moments you would both steal kisses and share little giggles.

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he said softly.

“It’s ok. You got me now,” you say before kissing his nose.

“It’s always going to be you,” he whispers in your ear before kissing you again. You both feeling complete for the first time, and you never want to lose that feeling.

--

Hope you all liked it! Sorry it took so long to get it out!

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[lightning-writes]

good heart (faulty machine of a man) - 15/30

fic summary: bucky meets someone at therapy

chapter summary: bucky spends thanksgiving alone…

word count: 972

tags: sad!bucky, post endgame, pre tfatws, slow burn, canon divergent, canon compliant, au

warnings: sad!bucky, character death mention, grief, holidays

a/n: part 1 of bucky's thanksgiving is very lonely :(

AO3 MASTERLIST X

November 24 (Part 1)

Rue: hey if you don’t have plans, you should stop by tmrw 10:43 pm

Rue: if you want, no pressure 10:43 pm

Rue: its just me and a few friends 10:45 pm

Rue: dinner’s at 5 10:43 pm

Despite Raynor’s strong suggestion earlier this week, Bucky spends a lot of Thanksgiving alone.

George had cut him a key, so he goes to Fogwell’s before it opens. As he leaves, George is coming in, with a coffee and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He looks bashful, admitting he needed a place to read in peace. When he invites Bucky to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family, Bucky thanks him but says he has plans. 

He takes a run from the Lower East side to home, usually an hour, but he does it in half the time. He tries to go to the support group again, but when he sees the communal eating setup, he leaves without being seen. He spends a few hours reading. He’s rereading The Hobbit, remembering how he and his sister shared a copy. He still creases the bottom of the page because Becca used to dog-ear the top.

(He texts Evie. It’s his luck that she works at a motel in Bushwick, and she has a break in thirty minutes. When he gets there, she says she only has twenty minutes; he says he doesn’t need that long.

He fucks her unceremoniously over the side of an unmade bed, her face pressed into the mattress. He tries not to have any thoughts other than the feeling of her, and his body connecting with hers. He knows he’s bruising her hip, fingers digging into her flesh when he comes, and she cries oh my god.

She asks him if he wants to hang out this weekend. He wonders if she knows who he really is, or even his name. He tells her he’ll text her.)

He finds himself at the address Rue sent him. Hands shoved into his leather jacket pockets, he sees her through the window as he walks up the front steps. The dining room is warm and lit and already donning Christmas decorations. She’s laughing with her friends, wearing a dark green dress, a wild halo of hair because it's pulled up. She raises her wine glass, full, saying something that makes the others laugh, then they all drink. She finishes her glass, leaning into the person next to her, still deep in laughter.

Anxiety prickles the edges of his consciousness, tunneling him in. Even though her invitation was kind, he now wonders if it’s out of pity. If she pities the old man with no family and no friends. He also knows he won’t fit in with these trendy young people she’s surrounded by, messing up things he’s heard about, like ‘pronouns’ and ‘preferred names’.

(He gets it, he just sucks at remembering.)

He takes a step down and wishes he could just see her, just her, but he knows that’s unfair.

He jogs down the steps before anyone notices, intending to walk home. He’s a few steps in when he gets an idea.

////

The sun is setting when Bucky takes a handle of Jack Daniels to the Green-Wood cemetery. Steve’s mausoleum is there.

Already a good portion into the bottle, Bucky feels like he’s the only person to truly know Steve. The Steve Rogers he knew and grew up with would have never wanted this gaudy construction to be his last resting place. He never wanted a big show of his life or, now, his death. He’d want a simple grave, a simple tombstone, next to his parents.

But, Bucky has realized already, this is America, land of upholding image over last wishes. Steve’s will asked to have his parents and Bucky’s family re-housed in his mausoleum – and that’s all Steve received.

(Bucky pays respects to Joseph and Sarah. He cries when he sees his mother’s name next to his father’s. Steve and Bucky’s lives had always mirrored each other, having military dads and sick mothers. Bucky had Becca, but she’d been sent to boarding school shortly after their parents had died. Bucky was all Steve had then. Steve was all Bucky had now.)

Bucky takes a long drink from the bottle as he stands in front of Steve’s grave. Son, Soldier, Avenger, American Hero. Bucky scoffs, undeterred by the burn of the alcohol.

“You’re such a punk,” he finally says. The crack in his voice echos. “Why did you get to leave, and I’m still here?”

He takes another long drink and splashes some on the concrete. He’s on his knees now, feeling defeated. If someone saw him, they’d think he was crying out to God.

“...haven’t I suffered enough?”

////

It’s after ten o’clock when Bucky gets back to his apartment. Between the cemetery to his apartment, the drunk feeling he felt had dried up. He nearly feels sick - not hungover, just a deep ache in his stomach, or maybe his chest. Maybe his heart. He feels grimy too.

He sends Rue an apology text before he takes another shower. He feels bad about not taking her up on her invitation. She didn’t have to invite him, even if it were for pity, but really, what was he going to do at a dinner party full of strangers from a different time? He feels like he made the right decision for himself, for once.

He pushes his wet hair out of his face to look down at his fogged phone screen. He’d heard the chime as he’d been washing his hair. He rubs the phone against his toweled hip and sees the notification that makes his heart jump.

Rue: come over anyway 10:34 pm

He frowns, checking the time again. Maybe she’s confused… or drunk. Maybe she was caught in something she didn’t want to be caught in. His throat tightens.

Bucky: Now? 10:51 pm

Three bouncing dots appear.

Rue: Yes 10:52 pm

[thevillainswhore]

New Tricks

Pairing: Virgin!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: After your brother has to cancel movie night, you’re ready to resign yourself to an uneventful evening back at your dorm, alone and dejected. But what you didn’t count on, is your brother’s best friend and roommate, bursting through the door and asking you to stay; to spend the night with him, instead

What unfolds, however, while you spend time with the star football player, both shocks and astounds you — one confession in particular. 

Bucky Barnes, the Prince Charming of campus, the man you have been crushing on for an eternity, is a virgin.

Warnings: first kisses, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, big brother!steve, college!bucky, shy bby bucky, mutual pining, swearing, pet names, huge ton of reassurances, lots of praise, big hints of subby bucky

Author’s Note: beta’d by my baby @rookthorne

Okay, so where to start with this… the idea for this fic sprung from a certain someone 👀 and I just had to write it. Thank you to my girl for being a huge support through this, I love you 💗

These two have my whole heart and who knows? Maybe more will come of them 😌 for all my playlist lovers, you’re welcome - new tricks playlist ❤️

New Tricks Masterlist

I hope you enjoy this as much as I’ve loved creating it 🥹

Standing outside of your brother’s apartment, your impatience starts to wane thin. For ten whole minutes, you have been waiting for Steve to open up. And knocking like a crazed woman is beginning to get old; so is waiting on the doorstep to his front door. 

“Oh, for–” You grumble, and you lift your arm up to bang against the door for the umpteenth time,  when your hand misses it entirely, owing to the fact it swings open to admit you with such enthusiasm, it creaks and threatens to bounce back off of the wall.  

Bucky — your brother’s roommate, best friend, and your crush — sheepishly smiles and scratches the back of his neck. 

The line of his shoulders slump when he lowers his arm, and you notice (and appreciate) just how broad and muscled he is. He must have just been working out, or you interrupted him — nonetheless, you’re thankful for the sight before you, and how it makes the crush you harboured for the brunette for years roar to life all over again. 

Excellent, you inwardly sigh.

“Buttercup,” Bucky says — the affectionate nickname born from his sappy personality always makes you swoon, and his hesitant smile morphs into a wide one. You’re left fighting  internally to keep your giddiness at the sight of him to a respectable level.  “Hey, you. Sorry I didn’t hear you; I was listening to music.” 

Your gaze continues up to his hair, finding it tied back with an elastic at the nape of his neck.  Oh, how you wished you could run your hands through–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, furrowing his brows. 

Embarrassment floods you and you realise far too late that he probably has asked you a question, or several, while you were daydreaming. “Sorry, Buck,” you squeak, praying that the heat crawling up your neck was not as obvious as it felt. “What was that?”

His soft, puppy-eyed expression brightens when you meet his gaze. “It’s fine, doll. Everything okay?” 

No matter how badly you want to stand and unashamedly stare at your brother’s best friend and roommate, your true intention behind your visit comes to mind. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, lifting the bag of snacks you brought up higher. Bucky’s eyes glance down at the bag, and then back up to your face. “Stevie planned our movie night and he isn’t answering his phone — I told him I was on my way and I asked him if he wanted anything else.” 

The confusion that creases Bucky's brows and downturns his lips in a small frown makes you narrow your eyes. 

“Surely he didn’t forget,” you accuse, still staring into Bucky’s face. “I make the trip down from campus every two weeks. It’s been two weeks.” A sudden, encompassing guilt fills Bucky’s eyes, and he starts to worry his bottom lip with his teeth — a sight far too hard to ignore. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Um– I just–” Bucky stutters, and you watch as his fingers twitch and fidget — a nervous tic. If he didn’t look cute while stumbling over his words, you would feel sorry for being so blunt. “I just thought that– Uh, I thought it was cancelled. The movie night, I mean.” 

You step forward slightly, and Bucky opens the door wider. A wordless invitation. 

Bucky rushes to clear a space on the entryway coat rack for you, when he suddenly says, “You know, because of his date, an’ all.” His words falter at the look you shoot him. You stop taking off your coat, and you drop the bag of snacks to the floor, ignoring the crinkle and rustle of plastic. 

“What do you mean date, Barnes?” The use of his last name causes a flush of deep red to pattern his cheeks, but you don’t let up. There’s music playing from down the hall of the apartment – right where Steve’s bedroom is. “What’s going on?” 

Bucky skittishly fidgets and glances around the apartment, before meeting your heated gaze. “I– Look, I didn’t know–” 

You silently mouth a curse, beyond frustrated with your older brother, and with yourself for taking just a second to indulge and admire just how sweet Bucky is when he is unsure. “Fine,” you huff, and you turn to walk straight towards the source and to investigate it yourself.

Bucky’s frantic footsteps behind you don’t deter your haste. “Wait, stop — Buttercup, wait!”

Forgoing a courtesy knock — having had enough of banging on his front door — you barge straight into the room with as little as a greeting call or warning. 

“What the shit–“ 

The door to Steve’s bedroom slams against the wall, and you come face to face with the blond in the middle of a dance off with himself in the mirror. “Sis! Hey,” he gasps, holding his hand over his heart in fright. “What’re you doing–?” 

In lieu of an answer, you cross your arms and stare at him, unimpressed and exasperated with his antics. “Don’t you hey sis me.” The fear in Steve’s eyes as you stomp towards him almost vindicates your indignation of being uninformed. “What do you mean you’re going on a date? It’s movie night!” 

Steve has the decency to look ashamed. “Flower, I swear, I’m sorry,” he rambles, and he takes your hand, directing you to sit down on his bed. “I would’ve called to let you know but everything was so last minute.” 

The grip he has on your hand is firm, assuring you of his true intentions, even when he turns the Roger’s charm up to an eleven to worm his way back onto your good side. “I swear sis, I wouldn’t bail on you without a good reason.”

“Okay,” you say, staring into his face — still not wholeheartedly convinced of his graces. A line of questioning is in order, you decide. “So, who is this good enough reason?”

“Natasha Romanoff.” The dreamy, love-struck sigh that leaves Steve’s lips after her name is uttered has you reluctantly trying to hide your giggle; the righteous anger and frustration slowly leaves your body in his admittance.  

The fact that he has been obsessed with the college’s most popular redhead since forever, was a balm to the annoyance. You truly did feel happy for him underneath it all. 

And, in the end, it’s how you decide to let him off the hook — though not without teasing him, first. “No way, the Natasha Romanoff? How the hell have you managed that one?” 

Steve pushes your shoulder, and the force of his shove knocks you sideways onto the covers of his bed. “Fine,” you grouse, sighing heavily and resigning yourself to a night on your own. “I’ll let you off this time.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Flower,” Steve promises. And you believe him. He has always kept his word; ever since the two of you were kids. 

“Good,” you say, smiling softly. “I expect an apology at my door in the next few days, though.”

Laughing, Steve nods, and then he stands from his bed. 

“I’ll leave you to it then, I hope you have fun, bro.” 

It is an impossible task for you to hide your dejected hurt from Steve, though. Clever and perceptive as he is, he detects the subtle sombre undertones underlying your reassurances, narrowing in on them like a dog to a bone. 

You get to your feet with a quiet sigh, and as you move, you miss the thoughtful expression on his face; the perk of his ears at the almost indistinguishable shuffling of feet just outside of his bedroom. “How about you have a movie night with Bucky, instead?” 

You stop in your tracks, frozen in shock at the sudden and downright surprising suggestion. “Stevie,” you admonish, “Bucky does not want to waste a Friday night with me–“

“I don’t mind!” Bucky shouts eagerly from the doorway, and you spin around to face him. The nervous fidget of his curls his fingers and hands around one another, over and over. 

Had he been listening that whole time? 

Guilt begins to flood you. Imposing on any plans Bucky  may have made was a burden you did not want to bear,  and you couldn’t fathom who would want to spend the night with their best friend’s little sister. “Thank you, Bucky, that’s really sweet of you,” you placate, smiling at him. “But I know you’ve probably got better things to do on a Friday night than be with me.”

Bucky seems to swell in the doorway, his chest puffing up and he sets his jaw, a determined glint in his eyes. “Actually, Buttercup,” he retorts, crossing his arms in a decisive move. “A movie night with you sounds perfect.�� 

The confidence in his tone takes you by surprise, and you flounder for a second while you stare into his steel blue eyes. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”

His words, and charming smile, ultimately win you over.  

With your attention wholly focused on Bucky as he begins to talk about what movies to watch, you miss the knowing, victorious smirk that curls Steve’s lips.  

“Okay,” Steve calls from the doorway, looking back at the two of you, and you can’t help but be frustrated by his stalling. “Be good and behave while I’m gone. Oh, and, no staying up past your bedtimes — Bucky, her bedtime is ten o’clock sharp.”

The scowl on your face only serves to make him laugh, and you huff your exasperation before your hands grip his biceps; the only way to get him out the door is brute force. “Get out, Stevie,” you grunt, pushing with all your might, but it is to no avail. Steve is as immovable as a statue made of marble. “Don’t you have to go see Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and you hear the rustling sound of fabric. “Don’t you?”

Instinct tells you to duck, and you do so, just in the nick of time to avoid the pillow Bucky launches across the room from his place next to the couch. The pillow hits Steve square in the face with a comical thump. 

You burst into laughter at the stunned look of disbelief on Steve’s face, and you look over at Bucky, who is leaning against the sofa; a smug grin pulls his lips up and scrunches his nose.  “Get the hell outta here already, punk.”

With Steve distracted by Bucky’s betrayal, you take the chance to shove him out of the front door and watch delightedly as he stumbles in the hallway. “Hey–!” The door slams shut behind him, cutting him off. 

Giggles shake your shoulders as you put your back to the door, leaning against it with all of your strength as Steve turns the handle — evidently not finished in the war of quips. 

Bucky’s laughter from his place by the sofa makes your stomach flutter, and he walks closer, just as Steve stops attempting to break down the door. 

With the end of Steve’s attempts to forcefully open the door, you turn and face the wood and peer out of the peephole. A blond mop of hair is just within view. “Bye Stevie!” you call through the door, “Have fun, wear protection!”

Steve’s reply is muffled by the wood, and he flips you off before walking away.  

Shaking your head, you turn back to face the living room, and you see Bucky fussing around the sofa and coffee table. The strong aroma of a sweet, spicy scent fills your senses and you inhale deeply, letting the tantalising smell fill your lungs, before you ask, “Bucky, what are you doing?”

He sends you a furtive glance before looking back down at the snacks laid out on the coffee table, neatly placed next to two already filled glasses of drink. A bag of popcorn threatens to spill from his arms. “I’m, uh– I’m setting up? For the movie–?”

You could not help but notice how fast the bravado and confidence he displayed in the presence of Steve vanishes when he was with you, and you alone.  

“Oh, sweetie,” you coo, walking closer. “I thought we could watch the movie in your room, instead of out here. It’ll be more comfortable, at least, and we can spread out. Is that okay?” 

The popcorn bag that threatened to spill from his arms bursts instead, scattering the popped kernels all over the floor, making him yelp. “Ah! Uh– Okay, we… We can if you want?”

You nod once. “Absolutely. I’d rather be in your bed any day, then out here,” you tease, amused by the way Bucky’s eyes bulge and his cheeks flush. Then you look down at the popcorn all over the floor, and add, “But first, let’s clean this up.” 

Bucky starts to clean up the mess, and he tells you to grab the movies you agreed upon from the collection in the bookshelf. 

The selection to choose from is packed, as it always is. “Why don’t I grab a couple?” 

“Sure,” Bucky answers, sweeping the popcorn into a dustpan. “I mean, why not? May as well go all out.”

You grin and grab a couple of cases. “Do you need some help–”

“No, I’ve got it, Bubs,” Bucky interrupts. You look over your shoulder at him to see the blankets bundled high in his arms, and before you could protest and insist you help carry them, he shuffles off in the direction of his bedroom. 

Then, you glance down at the coffee table to see that the snacks and drinks are missing. “Did you grab the snacks?”

“Yeah!” Bucky calls back, muffled by the walls between the two of you. 

A fond sigh falls from your lips and you follow after him, DVD cases in hand.  

The tension in the air of his bedroom is charged with something you could not quite describe, and the butterflies in your stomach roar to life for it. You square your shoulders, and smile through it. “It’s no different, it’s no different,” you mutter under your breath; a mantra for confidence. 

Though, it is short lived. 

Bucky throws the blankets onto his bed with a grunt, and both the TV and DVD player switch on, ready to accept one of the disks you held in your hand. 

A shuddery breath falls from your lips, and you make your way to the player to place the first disc in. It whirrs to life as you turn to look at Bucky, who is placing the snacks on a tray table, his tongue between his teeth as he works. 

“Okay,” he hums, turning to face you, a shy smile on his face. “You ready, Bubs?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks past you to the light switch, his index finger poised to flip it off. 

You look down at your body, the warm outerwear you had thrown on to get to Steve’s apartment suddenly becomes scorching hot against your skin, and an idea comes to mind — flustering him has given you a rush of confidence before… 

“Almost,” you say, a hidden smirk on your lips. The layers of warmth are soft in your hands while you take them off, and you’re left in a thin tank top and soft, cotton shorts. “Now I am.”

A faint choking noise comes from the doorway behind you when you place the warmer clothes on Bucky’s desk chair. Inwardly, a coy smirk lifts the corner of your lips; outwardly, you look over to him, concerned and ever curious. 

His face, normally soft and kind whenever he looked at you, is taut with embarrassment; blotchy and red. His eyes are frantically looking anywhere, and everywhere around the room but at you. 

“Buck?” you say, getting his attention. His eyes meet yours. “You okay?”

The fidgeting is your first clue that he is struggling with something, and it is a battle to keep the teasing smile off your lips when his hands run constantly through his long hair and or come to a stop in the pockets of his grey sweats. 

Patiently, you watch while he repeats the same actions several times, each pass of his hands only serving to make him even more flushed. “Yeah. Yep,” Bucky coughs. “Mhm. Just great, thanks.” He looks up to the ceiling and gulps loudly. “You’re really wearing those? Uh– Just those, I mean?” 

You thin your lips to try and hurriedly fight off a smile as you grab your warm, fluffy socks from your bag. “Of course, silly,” you tease, shaking your head once. “I always wear my comfy clothes on movie night.”

The room turns deathly silent when you bend at the hip to pull the socks up your feet. 

Peering up from your task, you see Bucky staring at your legs, evidently thinking he hadn’t been caught and his eyes begin to trail upwards, towards your chest. The slackjawed expression amuses you, though you feel the beginning sparks of your own shyness come to life.

“Buck?” A nervous laugh bubbles in your chest, and you play with the hem of your tank top at the heat in his gaze. “Bucky?” you try again, “Are you ready?”

“Uh– Yeah, yes,” he rushes, quickly flicking the light off so his face is cast into shadow. You could have sworn he looked like a kid getting caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar — wide eyes and a deepening blush that spread down his neck.  

Bucky had always been a little shy in your presence, this you knew. Whenever you come over to visit Steve, or you bump into Bucky on campus, you always notice a remarkable difference in his normal, unwavering charm that he had in familiar company. 

This lack of swagger gives you the impression that you unfasten the young, boyish version of him; the one ruled by nerves, and hindered by a severe lack of confidence. 

Sure, you enjoy spending time with him here and there when you hang out at your brother’s apartment, but never before have you been this close to him, and alone. 

“Why don’t we–?” You gesture towards Bucky’s bed, and before he could either protest or agree, you jog to the edge and jump onto the plush mattress with a squeal of laughter. The blankets cover you easily as you roll yourself in them. “This is perfect,” you sigh, happy and content. 

“And where am I meant to sit?” Bucky laughs, appearing in your eye line with a bright, amused expression. “You blanket hog.”

“Fine,” you drawl, and you disentangle yourself from the cocoon of blankets. 

“Why, thank you, madame,” Bucky says, extending his hand in a mock salute, and he sits down in the now available spot, before sidling up the mattress, to rest his back on the headboard.

The broadness of his shoulders don’t leave much room between the two of you, and you decide to snuggle up to his side in a bid to get comfortable. You feel him tense with the proximity, but he doesn’t push you away or say anything.

“Are you ready now?” you ask, reaching for the remote. “For the movie?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he rasps, nodding quickly.

Despite his initial nerves, Bucky settles comfortably in your presence — half of the movie goes by undisturbed with only the occasional shuffling to get comfortable after getting a snack, or a drink.  

That all changes the moment Bucky becomes restless,his leg twitching against yours constantly, and he repositions himself every couple of minutes. From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth opening and closing; the courage building within him to speak up. You bite your tongue against the urge — let him speak first, you chided yourself. 

“So,” Bucky eventually says, his voice quiet. “How are your classes going, Buttercup?” 

You take your eyes off the screen and face Bucky, but he’s already looking at you, his eyes bright from the glow of the TV. 

“They’re going good,” you reply, just as quietly. “Yeah, they’re busy — hectic, even, but good.” 

The fabric of the comforter ruffles as you turn your body towards him — your shorts ride up with the movement, and your bare thighs brush against his sweats. Bucky tenses while you settle in and only relaxes when you stop shifting in place. “This time of year is always busy, the coursework and exams,” you continue, shrugging your shoulders. “But I’m managing okay, thanks.” 

Bucky nods his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, all those art projects you’ve gotta finish, it must be tiring.” 

Shock slackens your features and you reel back — you could not recall telling him what you studied. “How do you know what major I’m taking?”

“I– um,” Bucky stutters, suddenly overwhelmingly shy. “I hear you talking to Steve about it. Y’know, when– When you come over, on movie nights, and other nights.” 

You can sense Bucky is not done explaining; he licks his lips and stares at his lap, where he fidgets, again. Quietly, as if embarrassed, he continues, “I see you lugging your big canvases across campus sometimes, too. From class, and– And from the window, when I’m actually studying.”

Warmth creeps up your neck again and you blink rapidly. You hadn’t noticed that he took so much notice of you before now, and you couldn’t help but feel endeared over it. 

Desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, you blurt, “How’s, uh– How’s training going for football season this year?”  

Bucky freezes for a second, then trips over his words, “Oh, it’s good– Yeah, it’s great. Coach says I’m progressing well, so I’m doing alright, I guess.”

“So modest, Buck,” you tease. It was common knowledge on campus that Bucky is the star player of the college football team, while also being scouted to join the professional leagues. You place your hand on his arm and squeeze his bicep reassuringly, lending him a bit of your confidence. “Don’t you sell yourself short, I’ve seen you play — you’re amazing!” 

He inhales sharply and grimaces, an expression that contorts his handsome face. “You really think so?” 

“Bucky,” you say slowly. The tense line of his body is obvious as you shuffle closer, but you are determined to prove your point; assure him of his talent and abilities, for all of a shy puppy that he is.  

“Listen to me, honey,” you continue, and Bucky refuses to meet your gaze, instead focusing on his hands. “Everyone can see it, all of us — all of the women in the crowds, all of the kids that watch you from the sidelines. We’re all screaming for you.”

His skin is warm under your palm, but you don’t remove your hand. Instead, you grip his arm and shake it a little. “You’re amazing.”

Bucky stays silent — contemplative of your words, and you take the opportunity to think over the reason why Bucky chooses to stay in on a Friday night. 

There is no questioning the fact that Bucky Barnes could pull anyone he wanted, whether it was to party, or to fuck, but to your recollection — and from what Steve had slipped in the past — no one has ever witnessed Bucky bringing anyone home, drunk or otherwise. No partner he could call his own, either, and he didn’t brag about the obvious charm he held over the many women on or off campus. 

Cautiously, you venture towards the subject of your curiosity. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be going out on dates on a Friday night, like Stevie? Surely you’ve got tons of girls lined up for you.”  

Bucky’s silence turns deafening, unnatural. His body becomes stiff and he looks to be barely breathing. 

“Buck?” You sit up and look into his face. It’s pulled taut with what you could only guess as shame, but that made no sense, and with a mounting, swelling horror, you realise you may have pushed him too far; teased beyond the point of what is acceptable between friends. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I’m so sorry–”

“No! No– I… fuck.” Bucky throws his head back against the headboard and covers his face. “Oh, God,” he groans, muffled by his hands. “Shit.”

“Bucky–” You hesitate, unsure of what to do or what to say. You’ve never seen Bucky behave like this, so anxious and uneasy. “I– I’ll go, it’s alright, I’m sorry,” you say quickly, and you start to shuffle off of the bed when you hear his muffled voice say something behind his hands. “What was that, I didn’t–?”

A heavy sigh lifts his shoulders, and they slump back down as he exhales. “Ihaventevenhadmyfirstkissyet.”

“Sweetheart,” you say quietly, and you shift back towards him. The curtain of hair he’s so fond of covers and conceals his eyes from view, but you refrain from tucking it behind his ear. “I did not understand a word of what you just said.” 

Bucky clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, looking up at you with a great effort. “I– uh.” His hands land on his thighs with a finality not unlike the final siren at his football games, and he utters a reluctant, “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” 

His bedroom is quiet enough you would hear a pin drop. The TV had long powered off, since the movie finished while you talked, and the tension was palpable; a living, breathing encumberment that could not be cut with a knife. The flickering light from the still burning candle on his bedside drawers makes shadows dance across Bucky’s face. 

Okay, you think privately, so what? 

Bucky hasn’t kissed anyone before. It was justifiable — too busy with life, training and keeping up his GPA. You didn’t have to make a big deal out of this. “That’s okay–” Then the reality of the situation hits you, and your mind screeches to a halt. 

If Bucky hasn’t had his first kiss… “Does– Wait, does that mean–?”

“Yes.” Bucky squeezes his eyes tight and refuses to look at you — it is obviously a painful confession, yet he still forces himself to spit it out, putting voice to the doubt in your mind. “I’m a virgin.”

Now that catches you off guard. 

Bucky… is a virgin? 

Bucky, the star football player; built like a Greek god with the charisma to match. 

Sweat beads on his forehead and he looks like he is about to bolt from the room in his fear, and you realise all of your thoughts had shown in your expression. 

“Oh,” you manage, blinking slowly. The hand that was gripping his arm had moved without you realising, and you hastily place it back on his bicep. “Oh, Bucky.”

No other words come to mind. 

When you came to visit Steve for movie night, a calm, easy tradition in your routine, you never expected to end up in this kind of situation; on the other side of a confession that has left you speechless with shock, all while a strange confliction brews deep within your guts. 

You had been there once, and what you wouldn’t have given to have the opportunity to experience it with someone you trusted wholeheartedly — like you did Bucky, your mind supplies not-so-helpfully. 

The realisation hits you harder than you expect, and you gasp quietly, still gripping his arm to reassure him. 

Bucky moves his hands to cover his face again, and his chest rises and falls with a sharp hitch. The nervous pants for air that part his lips bring you back down to earth and away from that revelation. You know he’s embarrassed; ducking his head to his chest and glancing up as though you had scolded him. The entirety of his toned body is rigid with fear, each muscle clenching and poised to run, to save what dignity he feels he has left after such a confession. 

It’s difficult not to stare at the veins that line and bulge from his forearms down to his deft hands,  and you almost feel guilty for it; he’s in distress, fretting over the reveal of his lack of sexual prowess, but you cannot help the lingering gaze over his body. He just looks so pretty. 

From the get go, ever since you had met the star football player, you have always fantasised about him. The silent crush on Bucky had developed into such a deep attraction you almost couldn’t bear it any longer. 

Having convinced yourself of the non-existent reciprocation kept your tongue at bay, in the past.  And while Bucky’s virginity is a surprise, it did not hinder or lessen your feelings for him, quite the opposite; the heady weight of it settling over your mind like a blanket. 

What was stopping you now? What would be the harm in testing the waters?

To hell with it, you decide. The springs of the mattress creak as you move to shuck the blanket off of your body, then your legs. 

Bucky audibly gulps behind his hands when you move closer, and he positively freezes, like a deer in headlights, as you lift your leg up and over his thighs to straddle him. The soft brush of his sweatpants over your legs sends a shiver up your spine, and you sit down, settling your body comfortably on his thighs, just above his knees. 

“What– What are you doing–?” Bucky whispers, and his words are muffled behind his palms. You grin, unseen by your quarry, and you shuffle up his thighs to his hips, your clothed cunt just below the seam at his crotch.  

The sound of Bucky choking on his own spit is comical. 

You pull his hands away from his face, the urge to kiss each palm overwhelming; feather-soft brushes of your lips against the soft skin sends the pulse in his throat racing. “Buttercup, please– This is embarrassing enough–”

“Bucky,” you whisper, cutting him off. “Look at me.”

Blue eyes meet yours, and you pour all of the unspoken words between you both in your soft gaze, willing him to feel the yearning. “Kiss me.” 

“But–” He hesitates, a fish out of water again. His mouth hangs slack from the shock of such a bold request, and you place your pointer finger over his lips, shushing him before he can carry on protesting. 

You pout, placing a hint of pleading in your tone, “Please?”

He looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads. “I– What, I mean,” he flounders, arms hovering at his sides, hesitant to touch you — terrified of taking it a step too far. “I don’t know–“

“Aw, Buck,” you coo, smiling softly. Carefully, you shuffle further up his lap until your knees brush against the headboard of his bed. Gently, you place your palms on Bucky’s toned chest, just above his beating heart hammering away — not wanting to frighten him. “I’ll show you, okay?”

“Yeah.” The tremble in his voice makes your heart ache, but you smile encouragingly.

“Here we go,” you soothe. He smiles weakly back, eyes still wide with shock. “I’ve got you.”

You slowly and steadily move closer to Bucky’s face. A shudder racks through his whole body when he feels your breath against his neck, and you peck his stubbled cheek before sitting back upright to face him.

“Okay,” Bucky shakily says, fisting the blankets in his hands. “Okay. That was okay.”

“See? It’s not so bad,” you tease, and you tilt your head to the side, sticking out your cheek. “Your turn.” From the corner of your eyes, you watch his eyes sweep across your face, still hesitant and nervous, but a slither of curiosity now shining through. 

Broad, strong shoulders lift in tandem with his deep, grounding breath, and he steadily leans in before he second guesses himself. He resolutely does not touch your body, but he manages to find the confidence to gently press his lips against your skin, kissing your cheek. 

This time, he sits back and looks up at you for direction and reassurance. 

You consider it, ignoring the fluttering of your heart. His touch was sweet, but polite; a kiss on the cheek that you would give a friend after such a long time apart. And, in the end, you want Bucky to gain more confidence and actually enjoy kissing — he shouldn’t have to be ashamed to want it. “Good, that was good,” you say, keeping your tone mellow so as to not spook him.

He is making good progress, and gentle encouragement is the way to ensure it continues, you reason with yourself. “Now, I want you to do the exact same thing, but start gradually moving towards my lips.”

“Oh– Okay, okay,” he breathes, and his eyes widen slightly before they dart down towards his lap. 

That needs to be rectified immediately, before he shuts down, you hastily think, and you react swifty, your hands roaming from his chest and up to the sides of his neck, adding a little pressure to bring him back down to earth. 

There was an innate need for him to know that he could trust you; that you would treat him with the respect he deserves. 

Gently, you lift his head up, forcing him to look at you, and the downturn of his lips makes your heart ache. All you want to do is soothe the fear and rid the worry from his pretty eyes that pierce you, even through the strands of hair that have fallen in his face. 

“You’re okay, Buck,” you soothe, rubbing your thumbs over his warm, rosy cheeks. The movement and assurance seem to do the trick. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A minute passes, and you watch as the confliction flitters across his face; an inward battle to assemble his courage to bridge the gap between you both.

There is another minute of silence, when he slowly advances, leaving his palms flat on the covers of his bed as he kisses you on the cheek. 

“That’s it,” you praise, sitting still in his lap, but smiling softly in encouragement.

Bucky hesitantly returns the smile, and he doesn’t move away, rather, he decides to stay close. “You did good,” you say, still smiling, and he takes you by surprise when he moves forwards again to place another tiny kiss even closer to your lips. “Oh–”

The soft brush of his lips makes you freeze, and he takes his time, building his confidence with each peck he makes. 

Finally, he reaches the corner of your lips, and he stalls; confidence wavering and faltering with the daunting task. You go to part your lips to speak on instinct, to encourage him, when he suddenly moves even closer to your face, making you hastily shut your mouth and brace for what was to come; willing for your heart to slow down the tattoo it beats against your throat.  

“Okay,” Bucky whispers more to himself, and he clears his throat before licking his lips. “Okay, okay. Just–” His lips connect with the curve of you own, the brief and fleeting connection enough to tell you that his lips are plump; ripe to swell and redden with a passionate make out session. 

Hastily, Bucky withdraws, but not all the way back — he lingers and only allows the tiniest space between your faces.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you coo, keeping your voice low. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Th– Thanks,” he stutters, and the rosy blush he sported turns a splotchy crimson. Interesting, you think.  

You turn your head to look at him, and the proximity of his face makes both of your lips brush against each other. The intoxicating softness consumes you, and you cannot deny the reality that Bucky is there, he is right there. A torture that intensifies in the billowing silence, while a burning, reckless spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins.

“Do you want more?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence and shattering the tension. 

A harsh breath falls from Bucky’s lips, and he presses forward to kiss you properly for the first time. 

Whatever you had been expecting for a first kiss from the inexperienced, sweet, charming man beneath you, flew out the window. Your lips slot perfectly over his, a chaste kiss that held enough need and want to be something far more; it could not hold a candle to the sex you had with past flings.  

The kiss, unexpected as it was, lasts only for a couple seconds longer before Bucky pulls back from it, panting lightly — puffs of air fanning over your slightly parted lips. He lingers, bumping his nose into yours to keep close. 

But eventually, Bucky pulls all the way back to rest against the headboard. 

The silence is not deafening — not like it was before, and you open your eyes, blinking slowly. 

Bucky is already staring at you. His eyes are glazed over with hunger, and he's out of breath, the rise and fall of his chest faster than before. 

You fare no better. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, but it still feels like it’s lodged in your throat. No words are spoken between the two of you; just an invisible string that keeps you entwined to one another. 

It’s difficult to find the words to say, especially after something so raw and vulnerable; so new and budding. You want him to feel safe, like he had done good, though; you want to tell him he has nothing to worry about, not with you. 

And just as you open your mouth to speak, to praise him for how well he had done, Bucky slides his hands up your thighs, over your waist, and up to your neck, cupping the back of it in his large palm. “I want–” 

To your utter shock, he drags you closer, his lips greedily slotting over yours for a far deeper kiss.  

Bucky can’t get enough of you; already addicted and demanding more. You can’t be mad for it, not when he’s a sensational kisser — he’s good, far too good. The basics have you dizzy with want, and you decide on a whim to challenge him, to push him a little further and test the boundaries. 

You part your lips as Bucky pulls back, and before he could kiss you again, you tentatively tease your tongue against his lips. The sensation makes him sit rigid again beneath you, and he chases your tongue, the surprised moan he lets slip vibrates into your mouth.

The power of such a move has you smirking into the kiss. 

You only plan to stoke the fire by pushing him into the deep end a little — the prospect of overwhelming him too risky, but when you feel the effortless slide of Bucky’s tongue entering your parted lips to dance with your own, it leaves you physically stunned and unable to move. 

Bucky compliments you perfectly, as though he is a natural, and someone so timid should not be capable of that — it’s dangerous. 

It escalates — tongues dance and lips clash, and Bucky’s breath is heavy on your lips, as yours is on his, when he pulls back for air. There’s a pull that you can’t ignore, not any longer, and you bring your hands up from his neck to his hair, threading your fingers through it, making him moan quietly against your lips, “Bu–”

Your nails scrape against his scalp while he speaks, and you squeak in shock as Bucky’s hips surge upwards, forcing his hard cock against your clothed cunt. “Oh, fuck–” he gasps, and his body turns rigid with fear again while he pleads for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, Bubs– I–”

Quickly, you place your index finger over his lips. “Hush, you. It’s alright. I loved it,” you reassure, and suddenly, it turns into a game for you — you are desperate to see how Bucky plays along, how close to the edge you can get him. “Let it go, it’s okay.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as you grind down hard against him, and his hands rush down from your neck to grip your waist. The unabashed moan he lets slip is sinful; a delight to be the cause of, and a Cheshire Cat grin splits your lips. You’ll be damned if you don’t get more from him, you decide.

“Fuck,” he grits out, the grip of his hands on your waist turning painful. “Fuck, yes.” 

You moan and allow him to move your body where he wants it — predictably, he perches you straight on his crotch and his hands wander, slipping beneath the tank top you wear to brush against your skin. 

The resolve he had held onto so strongly is starting to slip, and you inwardly scream with joy at the dilation of his pupils, the heavy pants of his breath — a poor, virtuous man is melting into a puddle at your feet. 

The position of your body gives you an impression of just how big Bucky is, and with his cock hard, you can feel the girth and the size of him against your cunt  — a crime, you think, that it wasn’t inside you.

Your motions of grinding down into him have the tip of his cock catching on your clit through your shorts, and the thin material has no pretence of protectiveness, and you greedily lap every single, last sensation up while shamelessly taking more.  

“Bucky,” you whine against his mouth, and in turn, he nips at your swollen bottom lip before sucking on it. “Fuck– S’good.”

“Buttercup, baby,” Bucky slurs, and his fingertips dig into your skin, unknowingly marking you in his lust-fuelled haze. “Fuckin’ feel good, please,” he whimpers, unable to keep kissing you with the way his moans and litany of quiet cries fall from his lips, longing for more; too far gone, he can’t help himself anymore. “Need more, please.”

You’re all too pleased to listen to his cries for you; begging would taste so much sweeter, though. Next time. “Okay,” you soothe, pecking him on the nose. “I’ll give you more, sweetheart.”

The bed creaks as you shuffle up Bucky’s lap, and you move your hands to grip the headboard. “Don’t keep quiet on me,” you warn. 

“Wha– Fuck!”

You pant as you grind down on Bucky’s cock, the effort of making your hips work this hard and fast steals your breath, but the sounds — oh, the sounds falling from his pretty lips make it all worth it. 

The added friction of your lace panties against your soaked clit only amplifies the pleasure for you, and it’s all you can do to keep going.

Bucky throws his head back and groans to the ceiling, but you follow him, leaning over and panting into each other's mouths and kissing messily, barely able to put anything behind them as you work the both of you closer to release. 

You pull back to look at him, and the slope of his neck is too tempting to leave alone — the  loose strands from his hair are sticking to the sweat gathering on his skin, and you watch a bead of it roll down a curve of corded muscle. 

Of course, you weren’t going to let it go — you want him to crack.

Bucky moans, his breath stuttering as your tongue chases the bead of sweat, and you latch onto his skin, sucking steadily at his pulse point. “Baby– Baby, please, fuck,” he babbles, forcing his head back further to expose more of his neck. 

You oblige, all too willingly and with a giddy enthusiasm; the bow of your lips trace over his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone, where you bite down gently. 

“Shit, shit,” Bucky suddenly exclaims, his words slurring together. “No– No, please, I ca– Can’t,” he begs, and you pull away from his neck, brows furrowing in concern. “Please, I don’t want to– To, shit–”

Words seem to be out of his grasp, and you wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts while you watch the thread of his restraint wearing thin, so close to snapping when he’s this overwhelmed with the pleasure you are giving him. 

You can’t have that, though. 

Bucky was torturing himself, not allowing himself the pleasure of giving into his base desires - what he needs. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” you ask. “You can’t cum?”

Bucky nods his head frantically, his eyes widening. You consider him, the sweat on his brow and upper lip, the way his eyes plead for something more; he’s so desperate to not cum, to let go. 

It’s plain as day that he is holding himself back, when you knew deep down that he is itching to relinquish control and give in. 

You decide then to push, to throw caution to the wind and make him take it. “Why not?” you whine, grinding back and forth, back and forth, over his painfully hard cock. “Doesn’t my pussy feel good, baby?” 

Bucky whimpers and scrunches his face up, cock throbbing as he grows closer to finishing. You don’t think he realises how he rambles to himself, “Fuck, yes! It does—fuck, it does baby.” 

“Think for me, sweetheart,” you say, leaning close to his face. “Just think for me, how good being inside my pussy would be.” The lure of being inside your cunt cracks the last of his resolve; control slipping through his fingers before he can grasp hold of it.  

You smirk, watching how his brows furrow and his eyes squeeze shut. “Just think, Bucky,” you repeat, “How wet and tight I’d be for you. How I would scream for more; beg for more of your cock and what you give me.” 

The sound Bucky makes is close to a wounded animal, and his grip on your waist is sure to leave bruises. “Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, mouthing softly up his neck until your lips brush over the shell of his ear, and you whisper, “Doesn’t that sound good, baby?”

Something snaps within him. 

The headboard of the bed thumps against the wall as Bucky tumbles over the cliff, his restraint long gone, and he wraps his arms tightly around you, curling them around your waist to hold you impossibly close. You feel something wet on your neck, and you realise belatedly that Bucky is crying silently, overwhelmed with the pleasure. 

To reassure him, you thread your fingers through his hair again to scratch at his scalp. You feel his lips move up and down your neck, placing open mouthed kisses over the skin “Are you okay?” you ask softly, careful to not move in his hold. “Bucky, baby?”

“Mhm,” Bucky hums, and he buries his face further into your neck, nodding frantically. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

A victorious smirk pulls the corner of your lips up. You know you have him — Bucky’s too far gone to come back down now, and he won’t be able to stop. 

“Go on,” you purr. Bucky hungrily grinds up into your heat, seeking it out and forcing a gasp from your lips with the pressure. “That’s it,” you push, and your last deadly blow has the dam breaking, once and for all: “Cum for me then, pretty boy.”

“Oh, oh, fuck– Baby–” Bucky moaned, but you keep steady pressure over his cock, and his hips start to stutter in rhythm. “Shit!” 

“That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart,” you coax, just as a damp patch stains the crotch of his sweats, and his legs tremble under your thighs. There’s a loud thump as his head hits the headboard of his bed. 

“Fuck–” Your own climax begins to mount, the tension of it unbearable, and just the band snaps, you cry out to the ceiling, “Bucky!”

The room is full of pants for air, the synchronised rise and fall of your chests in tandem with the twitching muscles of your body; the rushed gasps for breath a symphony to your ears.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, and you finally look at Bucky — only to be taken aback with the awestruck expression on his handsome face. His lips are stretched wide in a dopey grin, and his eyes, while normally so bright and soft, are glazed over with post-orgasm bliss. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he whispers. You feel the brush of his fingers over your waist and thighs, a soothing touch that in combination with his words sends another wave of heat up your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

You smile nervously, suddenly speechless with the earnestness and fondness in his voice. Instead, you shuffle down his thighs to rest your arms on his shoulders more comfortably, and you play with the hair on the nape of his neck — the soft locks damp with sweat. 

The two of you stare into one another’s eyes, then, you rest your forehead on his to whisper, “Well, handsome, not so bad for your first kiss.”

Bucky starts to laugh, then giggles take over as he faceplants into your chest, nuzzling himself against your tits in shyness. 

After a while, Bucky starts to shift in place, and you start to rise up off of his lap, when his sudden stiffness alarms you. “Bucky? What’s the matter?”

“I— I don’t, I didn’t mean to—“ He stutters, looking down at his crotch. You follow his gaze, utterly confused — there is nothing abnormal, only the wet patch of cum staining the material. 

Your confusion only increases, and you look back to Bucky’s face. It’s blotchy and red from embarrassment. “Bucky?”

“I– Oh, goddamnit,” he mutters, and he looks down at his lap again pointedly.

The realisation washes over you; a lightbulb suddenly going off in your head. He was embarrassed over coming in his pants. “Bucky, sweetheart,” you say, moving to cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. “Listen to me, okay?”

Blue eyes meet yours, his gaze pensive. You muster the warmest, kindest smile; no judgement apparent in your own eyes as you stare at him. “There is no need to feel ashamed.”

“But–” Bucky tries. 

“No, listen to me,” you interrupt, and you lean in closer, bumping his nose with yours before reassuring him, “There's no need to feel ashamed, sweetheart.”

His pure, innocent gaze doesn’t fail to make you swoon even more over him. “It doesn’t?”

“Of course not, you know why?” Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide and intent to listen to anything you have to say. Your lips hover over his as you whisper, “Because I love you making a mess for me, baby.”

The weekend passes by swiftly, a tangle of bedsheets and limbs; kisses and fleeting touches that turn into passionate embraces. 

It was only when Steve came home on the Saturday night did he kick both you and Bucky out of the apartment with a yell of, “Bye! Have fun, kids!”

You decided to take Bucky back to your dorm-room — an easy decision when you get to watch how his eyes trail over your body as you walk down the halls holding hands. 

And on Sunday morning, bright and early, a series of knocks on your dorm-room door wakes you out of your slumber. “Damn,” you grumble, blinking slowly into the dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, but a slither of gold peeks from behind the fabric; right over Bucky’s face and the mess of his hair. 

You sigh and tiredly throw the covers off you, mentally preparing yourself to get out of bed, but before you can get up, two arms curl around your waist and tug you backwards into a muscled chest. The warmth of the embrace makes you sigh contentedly.

“No,” Bucky groans before burying his face into your neck and smothering you with his body; trapping you with his arms and winding his legs around yours. “Dun’ get up.” 

You giggle as he starts kissing your shoulders and nibbling at your neck — the stubble of his jaw tickling the soft skin while his lips soothed over it. “I have to,” you say quietly, and you grab his arm to pull it off, only– 

“Nuh-uh. Where y’think you're goin’, Buttercup?” The deep rumble of his morning voice has you inner self trembling, memorising your antics of your weekend together. “Can’t leave me.” And to solidify his claim, Bucky clings onto you like a koala. 

“Bucky, you big goof.” You slap his arm, but he just grunts his protest, clinging to your body tighter. “Come on,” you say, wriggling — it’s met with no success of him releasing you. “Get off of me so I can answer the door.”

But you should have known that he is far too stubborn to let up that easily — a stubborn puppy that refused to give up his treat. “No. Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Fine.” Your only hope is an attempt to bribe him, you decide, and you look at him to find he’s staring at you through a half-lidded eye, the other eye obscured by his pillow. “How about you let me go, and I promise to give you unlimited cuddles for the rest of the day, no moving whatsoever?” 

That gets his attention, and he perks his head up to lean closer to yours. “I wan’ unlimited kisses, too,” he negotiates, pouting his lips and narrowing his eyes. 

You cannot help but chuckle. “Deal, handsome.”

Bucky plonks backwards onto the bed, star fishing in his sulking — the treat now successfully taken away. 

With your newfound freedom, you sit up and stretch, ignoring the grumbles and quiet whines of, “Bein’ left alone ain’t right,” and, “Tell whoever it is to fuck off, I mean it.”

The bedsheets rustle under you when you scoot to the edge, the warmth of Bucky’s body and the softness of the covers already sorely missed, especially when you stand up and slip into your fluffy, warm gown and slippers. The brush of Bucky’s shirt over your skin makes you smile, the fabric soft and worn but oh so perfectly Bucky. 

“Hurry back, Buttercup,” he calls after you as you walk slowly out of the room. “Please—don’ leave me too long.”

“Drama queen,” you whisper, quiet enough he wouldn’t hear. The knocking comes again and you curse the cause — if it’s your friend from class asking to borrow your notes again, you were going to slam the door straight back in their face. Aloud, you say, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t bust the hinges.”

You prepare the speech to scold your friend as you walk to the door, and you grab the hand;e — the metal of it cold from the chill overnight. The door swings open with a loud creak, and you start saying, “What are you–”

The lack of a presence, or anyone at the door, stops you short — not even a shadow of someone running away down the hall.  “Fucking door dashers,” you groan, and you turn on your heel to go back inside when the toe of your slipper bumps into something on the ground. “What–?”

A gift basket, filled to the brim with an assortment of chocolates and scattered gift cards to your favourite stores, is innocuously sitting there. In the middle of the basket, poking its head out next to a bouquet of your favourite flowers, is the head of a stuffie Golden Retriever, the fur irresistibly soft and the eyes bright — much like Bucky’s. Its mouth held a note scrawled in messy cursive. 

“Okay,” you mumble, and you kneel down to look at it closer, worried that there had been a mix up or confusion of a dorm number. As you near the letter, you realise that the messy scrawl spells out Flower. “Wait.” 

That meant only one person was responsible. 

Your fingers tore open the letter and unfold it; the messy scrawl continues on the inside, too.  

Flower, I’m sorry for bailing on our movie night. 

I know you’re pissed, but I hope this and the beefcake attached to your back makes up for my mistake. 

Love ya squirt, 

Your big bro.

“Stevie,” you say, eyes darting over the lines of script. “You sneaky bastard.” There is a post script just below his sign off, and you continue to read.

P.S. Date went well, tell you all about it on movie night next week? I’m sure we’ll have guests joining us x 

Shaking your head in amusement, you place the note back with the stuffie, and pick up the rest of your basket. “What am I going to do with you,” you mumble, stepping back into your dorm to place the basket on the entry table to admire it again. 

“Wha’s happenin’?” a voice rasps behind you, and sure enough, the aforementioned beefcake in the letter from Steve plasters himself to your back; arms around your waist and his face tucked into your neck again. “Back to bed, c’mon.”

Bucky drags you backwards, chuckling deeply at your squeal of laughter that echoes down the hallway to your bedroom. “You made me a promise,” he grunts, and he pulls you back into bed and underneath the covers, intent on making sure you fulfil your end of the bargain. 

Part Two, Part Three

[ellemj]

Making Sure: 12 Days of Smut #3 - Sex Pollen

Bucky Barnes x Reader One-Shot

Summary: Bucky is exposed to a sex pollen while the two of you are snowed in, stuck in a cabin in the Swiss Alps after finishing up a mission. Oh, and of course, you happen to be his ex-girlfriend.

Warnings: profanity, dubcon (sex pollen), possessive!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected sex, mutual pining of sorts, some use of y/n, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Feel free to comment and let me know if this requires any other warnings.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: My laptop decided it didn't want to turn on today, and then when it finally turned on it didn't want to run any apps so 12 Days of Smut almost became 11 Days of Smut. But anyway, let me know if you guys like this one! For once, it doesn't involve anyone hating anyone or an obscene amount of unbearable tension (which I severely miss).

            It’s not all that hard to work with your ex, not when you ended on decent terms. Well, as decent as they could have been. When Bucky broke up with you three months ago, it wasn’t completely out of the blue. You hadn’t been having any problems, you never had any fights, but you knew he was never as into the relationship as you were. He had said from the very beginning that he didn’t think he ever wanted a lifelong commitment. The majority of his life had been spent without having true freedom to make his own decisions. It’s safe to say the man only had about six years of making decisions for himself, between turning eighteen and joining the army. Then the army had a say in everything he did until he was taken by HYDRA. HYDRA controlled him for so long, and honestly, they still have some form of control over him if you consider his nightmares and insomnia issues. So, when things started to feel a little too serious between you two, when Bucky started to realize that he actually loved you, that’s when he called it off.

            You’d both agreed to keep the relationship between yourselves, remaining professional at work and around the others. Even Sam had never figured it out. Bucky was so good at keeping it hidden, staying completely stoic unless he was positive you were both alone. When things ended between you two, he became stoic all the time. There have been a few times where you’ve felt a bit angry with how easily he can just shut himself off and pretend like you never had anything between you. You think you might’ve been in love with him. How can you be stoic around him when you loved him? You can’t be. So, instead of being stoic, you’re just a little more quiet than usual. You get your job done, you speak to him as professionally as you can, and then you get away from him.

            Unfortunately though, there’s no getting away from him tonight. Technically, your mission is already over. You broke into HYDRA’s only remaining functional lab, you stole at least one sample of each of the various compounds that they were working on, and then you got the hell out of there. You made it all the way back to the safehouse, a small rustic cabin a little ways up in the Swiss Alps. It had been snowing for the last twenty-four hours that you’d been here, but the winter weather came to a head to today on your drive back from the break-in. By the time you got all of the samples safely inside the cabin, there was no way either of you could make the drive back down the mountain to reach the quinjet. You’re stuck here for the night.

            “I want them kept at a pretty low temperature overnight, well below thirty degrees.” Bruce has been watching you over a video call as you’ve been cataloging the samples and packing them safely into a padded case. “It’d probably be best to leave them all in the trunk of the car, since it’s so cold out there.” Bucky’s sitting in the living area while you’re working at the kitchen table, but he’s still listening in. He’s listened for the last half hour as you labeled the samples and hummed a little Christmas tune to yourself. Truthfully, he almost forgot that Christmas is in a few days until he heard you humming that song that you love so much. What was it? He can never remember the name, but he recognizes it from last Christmas. You sang it often and he was lucky enough to still be yours then, to still get the privilege of listening to you flit around the tower so festively, infecting everyone around with your cheerful spirit.

            “They all fit in the case except for one, but it should be fine. I’ll just stick it in the trunk next to the case and slip it into my bag tomorrow before we drive out.” You say, holding up the thin glass flask containing a very watery, clear liquid. It looks the least terrifying, out of all of the chemicals you retrieved from the lab today.

            “Good work today, we’ll see you guys back here tomorrow, if the weather permits.” Bruce gives a little wave before ending the video call. Just as you’re closing the heavy black case of samples, Bucky rises from his seat on the couch and joins you in the kitchen.

            “I’ll take them out.” He offers, staying a few feet away from you but at least making eye contact with you. He doesn’t seem to look at you very often since you broke up, but you can’t complain about it. It makes it a little easier to get over him when you’re not drowning in his blue eyes. You give him a curt nod before sliding the case across the table and then setting the sealed flask of clear liquid on top of it.

            “Try not to jostle them around too much, carry it with two hands.”

            “Got it, two hands.” Bucky repeats. You watch as he lifts the case, leaving the glass flask resting on the lid. You think about carrying the lone chemical out there in your own hands, worrying that Bucky might tip the case a little too far and let the flask fall to the ground outside, but you brush off the worry. He’s never been clumsy, and he sure as hell hasn’t ever been careless. It’ll be fine. It’s just a short walk from the front door to the back of the car.

            In retrospect, you should’ve listened to your instincts.

            When Bucky rushes in the front door only a minute after he’s stepped outside with the chemicals, a sickening feeling settles deep in your stomach. You quickly turn to the source of commotion as he slams the door shut behind him and starts nearly jogging across the cabin, heading straight for the bathroom at the end of the hall.

            “Bucky? What happened?” You call out, your feet carrying you down the hall after him. Bucky strips off his coat, dropping it on the floor in the hall before throwing the bathroom door open and ripping off his shirt. He doesn’t even close the bathroom door. You step over his coat and come to a stop in the doorway as he leans down and turns on the shower.

            “Stay back.” He warns, giving you a sideways glance that makes your stomach flip. “I slipped on a patch of ice and the little glass thing on top of the case fell and shattered. Whatever was in it evaporated quick, but I inhaled a lot of it. I don’t know if I got any on me.”

            Shit. This is not good. Bucky starts unbuckling his belt, but stops himself after he gets it undone, finally turning and looking you straight in the eye. Right. You’re not together anymore.

            “Only rinse, don’t use soap. We don’t know what the chemical was or what might interact with it.” You say, forcing your voice to sound calmer than you feel. Bucky nods, and then shuts the door between the two of you. Shit. You knew you should’ve carried that damn flask yourself.

---

            Half an hour later, after Bucky’s finished showering and is resting on the couch per yours and Bruce’s orders, he begins to feel something. He wanted to go to bed, just sleep it off and see how he felt in the morning, but you and Bruce insisted that he stay in the living room and awake so you could monitor him for any weird signs or symptoms. You miss the first few symptoms that Bucky begins to feel. First, his heart rate began picking up. It was so miniscule at first that even he didn’t notice it, but it increased more and more until he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Then, even in the chilly little cabin with a near-blizzard raging outside, Bucky began to feel hot. Hot to the point of wanting to take off everything he was wearing and go lay in the snow. Now he sits on the couch, breathing a little quicker than he was earlier, with beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck. It’s his increased respiratory rate that you notice first. Then, as you begin looking him over from your far away seat at the kitchen table, you see the way his cheeks are flushed and the way his dark gray t-shirt is beginning to stick to the sweat coming off of his back. Shit. Whatever it was that he was exposed to, it sure as hell wasn’t nothing.

            You’re just about to ask Bucky what he’s feeling when he abruptly stands from the couch and looks right at you, his gaze wild and pupils blown.

            “Bucky—” You start, but he cuts you off in an instant.

            “I don’t know what was in that flask, but I’ll be fine. I’m not going to sit out here all night.” Bucky’s trying to play it off. He has no fucking idea if he’ll actually be fine, but the newest physiological response his body is having to the chemical isn’t one he wants you to become aware of. He’s aroused. His cock is harder than it’s ever been, and he’d rather sleep outside on the icy road and get run over by Santa’s fucking sleigh then stay this close to you. He worries he won’t be able to control himself if he has to look at you one more time tonight, if he even hears another breath leave your lips, he’ll be done for.  

            “Bucky, tell me what you’re feeling.” You say softly, pushing your chair away from the table and standing, but not daring to move any closer to where he stands in the living room. He scrunches his eyes closed and presses his vibranium hand to the back of his neck in an attempt to cool the skin there.

            “Y/n, I’m going to bed.” He sounds so frustrated. It’s a tone of voice you actually recognize. This is how he used to sound when you’d tease him at the worst times, when you were somewhere that restricted him from being able to touch you, to fuck you.

            “Is it what I think it is?” You ask, your voice impossibly quieter than before. Bucky’s eyes snap open now and he studies you. Looking at you makes his dick throb and his balls feel so fucking full and heavy. He closes his eyes again as quickly as he opened them and then, you’re sure. It was a fucking sex pollen.

            You don’t dare make a move to stop Bucky when he hurries down the hall and locks himself in his bedroom. You stand frozen in the kitchen for the next two minutes, trying to figure out what the hell you should be doing in a situation like this. You end up doing what you do best: researching. You sit yourself right back down at the table and open your laptop, quickly accessing the online archive of SHIELD research files. You type in every word you can possibly think of to find what you need. Luckily, the first article that pops up is exactly what you needed.

            You skim through it at lightning speed, your eyes picking up on the important details. Heightened senses, increases sexual drive ten-fold, may result in permanent disability or death if state of intense arousal is not rectified. Shit, this is bad. You’re wondering how the hell one is supposed to rectify the intense arousal when your eyes land on the most key piece of information in the entire article. Human trials have revealed that allowed the specimen to engage in sexual intercourse is the only successful way to return to a normotensive physiological state.

            You have to fuck. You have to convince him to have sex with you. You have to convince the man who broke up with you three months ago to have sex with you. You’ve suddenly decided that you fucking hate your job.

            However, you’re not going to sit around while Bucky becomes permanently disabled or lets himself die of exposure to a damn HYDRA sex pollen. So, you slam your laptop shut and march right down the hall. You tap your knuckles against his bedroom door three times, until you hear the bed creak slightly, so you at least know he’s alive. He doesn’t make a single move to answer the door. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard that it’ll probably never spring back into shape. His sense of hearing is heightened so much that he can hear every breath you take. He thinks he can even hear the sound of your eyelashes fluttering as you blink.

            “Bucky, I did some research.” God, just the sound of your voice might be enough to make him cum in his sweats. Bucky bites his bottom lip and looks down at where his erection is fighting to escape the confines of his sweats. “If this is a sex pollen, which I think we both know it is, it can kill you. The only way to fix this is to…” Your voice trails off, but you don’t have to finish your sentence for Bucky to know what the solution is here. But he won’t ask that of you. He refuses to ask you to sleep with him. He knows he broke your heart three months ago, and he’d be the world’s biggest asshole if he used you for relief now. So, he stays silent. “We could…”

            You can’t seem to finish any of your sentences. Why is it so hard for you to say we could fuck. Oh, right. Because you’ve missed the way he fucks for months. Because you know that if he wasn’t under the influence of this chemical right now, he sure as hell wouldn’t be turned on around you. You’d happily have sex with him right now, but he’d only be doing it because he has to do it to survive.

            “I know I’m probably the last person that you’d want to be offering this, but I’m offering. I don’t want you to sit in there and die.” You say softly, your voice cracking a little bit on the final word. The last person he’d want to be offering this? Fuck, you have no idea how he really feels, do you? Bucky screws his eyes shut and fights back the urge to throw the door open and tell you how much he fucking loves you, how much he’s missed you. It’s why he broke up with you in the first place. What if something happened one day that turned him right back into the Winter Soldier? What if he ended up on ice again and by the time he came out of cryo, you were dead and gone? He had to break up with you, because he felt like his future was always too unclear to promise it to someone.

            “I’m here, Bucky, if you need me.” You whisper, with your forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door. He can tell that you’re hurting for him. It’s why, against his rational mind, he finds himself crossing the room and tugging the door open. When he sees you standing there in the light of the hallway, he can hear that little Christmas tune that you love so much playing in his head. Fuck it.

            You’ve barely had a second to realize that Bucky’s just opened the door for you before you feel his hand fist in your hair and he yanks you forward against his chest. His mouth captures yours in a heated kiss. Bucky sucks your bottom lip between his and wastes no time in using his hold on your hair to tilt your head to the side and slide his tongue into your mouth. You act on muscle memory, kissing him the same way you used to every single day. You let his tongue dance around your mouth, but when he begins to pull back you suck on it lightly, earning a groan from him. He tastes just like you remember, and suddenly you want him so badly that for all you know you could have some sex pollen coursing through your veins.

            “The last person I’d want to be offering this?” Bucky rasps against your lips, briefly looking into your eyes as he repeats your words in question. “You’re the only person I’d want to be offering this.” He pulls on your hair again, tilting your head further to the side and sucking on the skin right below your ear. Your eyes close as you try to calm your racing heart, reminding yourself that as perfect as this might feel right now, it won’t last.

            It takes mere seconds for Bucky to pull you into his room and practically throw you onto his bed. When he crawls over you a second later, it’s like he’s suddenly realized you both still have your clothes on. He stands back up beside the bed and strips quickly, exposing every bit of his fucking heavenly body to you. You don’t even try to choke back the whimper that leaves your lips. Bucky freezes when he hears it. He’s heard it before. He’s heard it in his dreams, ever since you broke up. It’s sort of funny. He never had dreams before, only nightmares. Until he broke up with you, and then he started having dreams about you every night. They’ve replaced nearly every nightmare. Instead of HYDRA being the reason he’s up at night, it’s all you.

            You start shimmying out of your pants right there on the bed as you look at Bucky, too impatient to stand up and take everything off like he did. He strokes his cock slowly in one hand, but every time his palm glides over the tip he makes a face like he’s in pain. You know from your brief research that touching himself won’t give him an ounce of relief, it’ll only make things worse. So, once you have your pants off, you reach up and grab his wrist, stopping his stroking, and pulling him closer to the bed. He gets the hint and positions himself on top of you again, spreading your legs apart with his knee before settling between them.

            “I’ve missed you.” Bucky coos against the side of your neck, right as you feel the head of his cock brushing against your clit through your already soaked panties. He didn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t want to make the break up any harder for you, but fuck. He’s missed having you under him like this, though in the past you never kept your panties and shirt on when you were under him.

            “I’ve been right here.” You respond quietly, letting your hands coast down his sides until you feel the way his back muscles are rigid underneath your palms. He’s restraining himself. “Bucky, you don’t have to hold back.” He sighs deeply and grinds his cock against you, hard. It draws a moan from your lips that’s so needy, Bucky can’t wait any longer. He knows he’s only waited a minute at this point, but he just can’t anymore. He reaches down between the two of you and snags a finger in your panties, deftly pulling them to the side and guiding his cock straight into you without warning. The cry that escapes you isn’t one of pain or surprise, it’s one of pure lust. It might’ve been three months since the last time you had sex, but your body accepts his cock like it never left. There’s no pain, there’s only pleasure as he starts fucking into you slowly. He builds the pace up in mere seconds, speeding up more and more until he’s fucking you so hard and fast that the headboard is snapping against the wall and scratching the paint.

            “God, you’re still so fucking tight for me.” He groans, burying himself balls deep inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting your pussy grip his cock like a vice.

            “It’s still yours.” You whisper the words against his jawline. When his eyes snap open and stare straight into yours, you know you probably shouldn’t have said it. His pupils are already overly dilated, but they expand a little more as possessiveness flares in his chest. He always loved when you let him know who your pussy belonged to. He fucking loved it.

            Wait. The realization hits you both at the same time. He isn’t wearing a condom. As he looks into your eyes, his face falls and your eyes widen. He never once fucked you without a condom on. It was part of his whole no-long-term-commitment thing. He didn’t want to risk an unintentional pregnancy, so he never let himself fuck you raw. When he starts to pull out, you’re quick to wrap your legs around him and lock him in place.

            “Don’t.” You plead. You want this. You’ve always wanted this. Bucky bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, trying to find a single rational thought in his mind. He knows he shouldn’t do this, he knows he should pull out and find a fucking condom. But will he?

             The answer is no. He uses what little space you give him between your legs to start thrusting into you again, slower this time, but still every bit as deep as before.

            “If you don’t let me pull out…” He starts, but you pull his face down to yours and silence him with a kiss. After a few seconds, he picks up his pace and begins fucking you relentlessly once again, further ruining the paintjob on the bedroom wall behind the headboard.

            “I always wanted you to fuck me like this.” You sigh against his lips. You feel Bucky’s entire body tense up as he nears his release, your words egging him on.

            “Oh, baby, I always wanted to fuck you like this.” He admits, snapping his hips into yours and getting you that much closer to the edge. As your orgasm threatens to tear through you, something weighs heavy on Bucky’s mind. He wants to cum inside you. He loves you but he’s always told himself he can’t have you, because his future is so unclear, he can’t make promises to you and possibly break them. But…he’s a good guy. If he were to knock you up, he’d do the right thing. The traditional thing. He’d marry you and take such good care of you, of the little family you’d have together. Maybe that’s what he should do. He thinks that maybe if he gets you pregnant right now, it would force him to give you his future, no matter how much it scares him. He’d be so much more concerned with doing the right thing in the present, rather than worrying about what might happen in the future. “Let me cum inside you.”

            “You can, Bucky. You can cum inside me.” You moan out, locking your ankles together behind him and pulling him harder against you. He groans and presses another kiss to your lips, but a gentler one this time.

            “You’ll have a baby for me.” He doesn’t even phrase it as a question, no, he’s telling you what you’ll do. “You’ll let me get you pregnant, and then you’ll be mine.”

            “Fuck…” The curse falls from your lips as bliss surges through you. You can’t even find the words to say what you want to say, which is fuck yes. So, you lay there submissively, with your legs wrapped around him as he fucks every drop of cum that he has into you. Then, you catch your breath while he pulls his cock out of you and slides your panties back over your sore cunt. You even let him pile the pillows beneath your hips and legs, elevating your pelvis to make sure his cum won’t drip back out of you.

            Fuck. He really wants to make sure you’re pregnant after this.

TAG LIST (if your user has a line through it, Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you):

@gyokujyn @mrsjoequinn @thealloveru2 @nixxaswrld @ordelixx @sweettae02 @frombkjar @hellfirebabe @edelweissbarnes @sunnyhummingbee @jenniferpendragon @siciliano13 @crist1216  @twlkdead

[cosmicbucky]

daisies and dances lead to heartfelt romances

summary: you offer to take bucky out a few times so he can practice what it's like to date in the modern world. unbeknownst to each other, both your offer and his acceptance have an ulterior motive

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

word count: 3845

part: one

warnings: minor swearing, fluff, tony is a dick with a hidden agenda, some angst, soft/shy/grumpy bucky, pet names/nicknames, unknown but mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, sad bucky, mentions of bucky's struggles

a/n: this is planned to be at least two parts, maybe three.

big thank you to @buckys-wintersoldier for encouraging and supporting me with this!!

《《《《 ♡ 》》》》

The compound was quiet, softly lit to guide your way to the kitchen. It was late in the night, but not too late that everyone was asleep. Your socked feet were silent on the cold floor, and as you made your way to the fridge you heard laughter coming from the main entertainment room. You smiled to yourself as you went to grab a bottle of juice, focusing in on the conversation being held.

"Come on man! You can't be serious," you heard Sam say, laughter clear in his voice.

"Just drop it, Sam," Bucky replied, warning clear in his voice.

The smile slipped from your face as you closed the fridge with a sigh. You knew that tone. It wasn't Bucky's patented 'my god these people are so annoying' tone. It was his 'the next person who says something is getting thrown into a wall' tone. Which meant he was actually upset over whatever the conversation was about. It was rare for him to really get worked up beyond his usual moody demeanor, and you couldn't help the worry that surged through you.

"Oh, no. No, no this is way too good to drop, Barnes," Tony chimed in with a laugh. You could just picture the smirk on his face, and your feet moved quickly to carry yourself towards the conversation.

Bucky noticed you approach from where he sat, and he sent you a pleading look. Please help me, his eyes screamed.

"Don't tell me you guys are picking on Bucky again," you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the wall.

"You mean grumpy mcgee over here? You bet your ass we are," Tony replied happily.

You sighed, rolling your eyes at him. "Why now?"

"This dude can't date to save his life!" Sam spoke up, overly amused about it.

Bucky sank further into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest as he zoned out to somewhere far away, and you felt a pang in your heart at the sight- how can such a large man manage to look so small; so defeated?

"You guys are roasting him because he hasn't been on a date yet?" you asked, your annoyance about it clear in your voice.

It may be a little strange, but you had always felt protective over Bucky. The team often ganged up on him, and besides Steve, you were his closest friend - the two of you took a little while to warm up to each other, but once the ice thawed the two of you were rarely seen without the other. Now, it's not to say you never joined in on teasing him - because you did, quite often - but you knew when to stop. Perhaps it was because he would open up to you about some of the things he felt insecure about during your moonlit talks, the two of you tucked safely under blankets or hidden away somewhere in the compound as you spoke what neither of you could say in the light of day. Or, maybe it was because you just knew him well enough to know whether a topic would upset him or not. Whatever the reason may be for it, you always knew what was okay to say and what wasn't. Bucky would never be able to say how much he appreciated you for that.

"Tinman's been on dates, didn't you know?" Tony asked, grinning at you mischievously. "He just blew them all."

You tried not to let the hurt show on your face. He's been on dates? God, of course he has, look at him.

"Okay, and? You've never had bad dates before?" you asked, letting the anger start to shine through. "Just leave him alone."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Awe, look at that. Mommy dearest to the rescue once again, huh, Barnes?"

You stood up straight as rage surged through you, opening your mouth to tell him where to go. Before you could, Bucky's voice rang out: "Watch your fucking mouth, Stark. Or I'll shut you up myself," he warned, voice eerily calm as he glared at Tony.

Bucky was never really one to speak up when others came at him, more or less just taking it with an eye roll, clenched jaw, or tight smile as they all had their fun. However, once the comments turned towards you, as they always seemed to if you were around (and let's be honest, how often were you not around?), he was quick on his feet to stop them in their tracks, making the room feel so tense that no one else said anything for fear the air around them would actually suffocate them if they opened their mouth.

"Here we go again," you heard Sam mutter to himself. "Alright, I'm out of here. See you guys later," he added, walking out of the room with his hands up in a display of surrender.

He gave you a knowing look as he walked out, ignoring your questioning gaze and instead giving you a loving pat on the shoulder as he passed by. With him now out of sight, you turn your attention back to Tony, waiting for what was to come next.

"Look, all I'm saying-" Tony started, waving his glass around emphatically - amber liquid on the verge of splashing everywhere.

"No one cares what you're saying, Tony," you interrupted, already exasperated from the interaction.

He held up his hand, pointing a finger at you. "Come on, princess. You really gonna take away my fun? Under my own roof?"

"Yes, I am. Can't you take a day off from being a complete dick to him? Just once? We've all seen this show before, Tony, and it always ends the same way," you said, walking further into the room to snatch the glass from his hand, glaring at him as you did so. "And don't call me princess," you seethed, slamming the glass down on the side table behind you.

You didn't want to hate Tony, in all honesty you truly did love him. At the end of the day he was your family, and family wasn't perfect. However, you couldn't keep down the small bubbles of hatred that boiled inside you whenever he started to target Bucky. You didn't see him as family when he waved his disdain for the soldier around like a kite in the wind; you just saw him as a rich douchebag picking on someone beneath him. You hated the way he treated Bucky, and you absolutely loathed the way he made Bucky's voice tremble ever so slightly with self doubt when he lays in your arms in the dead of night, recounting the things Tony said to him that keep him awake, that make old wounds reopen. You loved Tony, but his hatred for Bucky also made you hate him.

"No? Do you only like it when RoboCop calls you that?" Tony asked calmly, a malicious glint shining in his eyes, his smirk growing wider when he saw your expression. 

You felt the blood rush to your face, recounting a few of the times that the name had slipped through Bucky's lips; though it was from the haze of sleep and moments of vulnerability, there were few memories you cherished more. "Go to sleep now, princess. I'll be here when you wake up." "Thank you for staying with me, princess." "You're safe now, princess." 

"Yeah, I hear a lot of things around here that I probably shouldn't. Now, why don't you lighten up and let me say my piece, princess?" Tony continued with a grin, and it took everything in you to not smack it off his face.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Bucky suddenly spat, making you jump slightly - he had fallen so silent you half forgot he was even there. The menace that dripped from his words sent a chill down your spine, and you sent one last glare at Tony before you glanced over your shoulder.

One look over at Bucky as he jumped from the couch told you he had never been more serious. His jaw was tight as his lips pressed together in a fine line, his fists clenched so tightly that the mechanisms in his left arm started to whir and the veins in his right arm shone prominently, his whole body tense as his chest heaved. He took two quick steps forward, but the second you raised your hand to his chest he stopped.

"Buck, it's alright," you said calmly. You knew it wasn't - you were angry, hurt, embarrassed, and a million other things; but you couldn't let Bucky in on that. You had to brush it all off so you could be the calm that Bucky needed in order to tame the never ending storm raging furiously inside him.

Bucky looked down at you with narrowed eyes, as if he didn't understand a word you said. "I'm supposed to just let him talk to you like that?"

If it weren't for the seriousness of the moment, you would have blushed from his words. Instead, you huffed and lightly shoved him away. "Yes, because you're feeding into exactly what he wants, Bucky. You know all he wants is to mess with you."

"Not true," Tony chimed in from behind you. "I want lots of things, pumpkin. In fact, one of those things is Pepper, so I'll be going now. And hey, when you and soldier boy here finally get married, just remember - I'm ordained."

You spared a glance in his direction just in time to see his shit-eating grin before he turned and sauntered happily out of the room.

"Can you two ever give me a fucking break?" you scolded, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Aw don't you start now, too," Bucky whined, tossing his head back slightly as he sighed, making his way back to the couch.

You sighed as well, following in his wake to plop down beside him. You didn't need to say anything, he took one look at you and knew the question that was already dancing on your tongue: what was it about this time?

"Look, it doesn't matter," he huffed out, slumping his shoulders as he looked down at his hands resting on his lap, wringing his fingers together. 

“Come on, when have I ever let it go that easily?” you asked, nudging his shoulder. 

He let out a humourless chuckle, the corners of his mouth flicking upwards for the briefest of moments as the memories of the countless times you two have been in this situation flashed through his mind. 

You could see the turmoil on his face, and you knew he was trying to find a way to express what was going on, so you sat patiently and waited for him to find the proper words. 

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he finally settled on, the words coming out in a rushed breath. 

Before you could question him, he carried on with a frown, his brows knit together. “It was so much easier back then, you know? Flash a smile, go to the fair, wear the uniform, whatever. I never had to think about it, but now there’s- there’s just so much…. so much expectation. You bring flowers and you care too much, you don’t bring flowers and you don’t care enough. I-it’s like everything that I do, I should have done the opposite. I can’t get anything right.”

You sat in silence for a moment, his words bouncing around in your head. Each syllable he spoke fractured your heart until it was shattered into bits; but all you cared about as you looked at the broken man in front of you was putting him back together, hoping that your words and your comfort and your care would be enough to put together the delicate pieces of him - the pieces that broke off every time he doubted himself, every time he remembered his past, every time he did something wrong on a mission - the pieces that you picked up and kept safe inside of yourself until you had the chance to give them back to him, gluing them on with whispers of affirmation and promises that everything would be okay in time.

“You never mentioned any of this before,” you said tentatively, the unspoken words why did you keep this from me? hanging in the air. “Is this what they were teasing you about? Your struggle to figure out how to date again?”

He let out a huff of air as he slung his head back to rest against the back of the couch, shaking it lightly as he stared up at the ceiling, his jaw flexing with contemplation. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal, but then Jackass 1 and Jackass 2 found out and ran with it.”

“Okay, well.. walk me through it. Is there someone you want to take out on a date right now? Maybe I can give you some ideas,” you offered softly, the words tasting bitter in your mouth as you spoke them. 

He groaned, running his hands over his face before smacking them back down on his legs, his palms dragging across the fabric covering his thighs for a few seconds; a habit, you noticed, that he often did when he was nervous or uncomfortable. “No,” he said flatly, biting down on his tongue to keep the words yes, my delicate little flower, I want to take you out on a date from tumbling out of his mouth. 

“No?” you echoed, surprised by the response. 

He nodded his head in confirmation. “No,” he repeated, looking at you. Taking in your expression, he carried on. “Like, no there isn’t anyone. I don’t- I didn’t even want to go on those dates, but… I couldn’t- I mean, I kinda just…. felt like I needed to."

There was so much he left unsaid at this moment. So much he wanted to say, needed to say - not only just to get it off his chest, but because he believed that you deserved to know. Every time he looked at you he had the burning desire to bare his soul to you, to tell you all the things he kept buried away in the deep recesses of his mind, locked away in a vault only you could open. He wanted to tell you that he still feels so out of place, that most days when he was out in this new world he suddenly resembled a child who was lost amongst a crowd of scary and unfamiliar things - desperately searching for something he recognized that he could cling to. He wanted to tell you that you were the familiar thing he found to cling to, that he carried you in his head and in his heart every time he was out; that when things got too overwhelming he closed his eyes and recalled the encouraging words you always told him, that when that wasn't enough he called you with some lame excuse just so he could ground himself with your voice - "Hey, doll. What was the name of that bakery you took me to the other week? I'm thinking of getting more of those cookies we liked." He had saved the bakery's location to his phone (something he knew how to do thanks to you) the second he saw how your eyes sparkled when you got there, just to make sure he could always find it and pick things up for you. "Hey, so, I just got yelled at because I walked by and ruined someone's… what the fuck was it? It has to do with a clock or something? Does that sound like something you know? Please tell me what the hell that is because I feel like I'm going insane." He knew what it was. He had downloaded the app after he witnessed how much it made you laugh, and he had an endless amount of saved videos that he thought you would like, but for some reason wasn't brave enough to show you. "Okay, I’m out shopping - and don't laugh because this is a serious question - do you think I would look good in pink?" He vividly remembered your words from a few months ago, when he was burritoed in your fuzzy pink blanket during movie night, and you told him so casually that he should start wearing pink because it complimented his eyes. He wanted to tell you that you were the only thing in this universe that could still the incessant maelstrom that was his mind. That when he was out on those dates the storm raged on more intensely than ever, but one look or word from you and everything was quiet; not even a trace of rain. 

He wanted to tell you. But he didn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Oh, but he needed to- 

"You wanted to try to fit in," your gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts, his head snapping to look at you. To see your eyes, full of understanding. To see your lips, pulled into a sad smile - but not one of pity, one that said all you wanted was to help him through yet another battle he was fighting with himself.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah. I guess I just figured.. well, I don't know. Everyone kept saying how I needed to get out there. That dating was the next best step I could take to try and….. to- to understand how to live in this world better. I just wanted things to make sense again, but now I'm even more lost and confused than before I even went on those god damn dates."

You tried to keep your face even, to not let him see how sad it made you to hear the way his voice wavered when he told you what was going on. To not let him know that you sensed how small he was feeling, how even though his broad frame still shadowed you as you both sat there, he had never seemed so small.

"Well…. take me on a date," you suggested, not taking the time to even think about it. 

Bucky swore the whole room started to spin. His mouth ran dry and his heart hammered so heavily in his chest that he was convinced you could hear it. He knew he heard you wrong, he wasn't lucky enough to have a girl like you. The world was cruel, and he knew that the one sliver of hope that he had for a truly blissful life would never be fully his. That one day it would leave him, just like everything else throughout the years, as you found yourself in the arms of someone else. He would never have you the way he wanted you, the way he needed you. He knew that. So he had to have misheard you. "Come again?" 

Your whole face lit up when he asked this, and Bucky could feel himself coming undone. Your hands on his arm when you grabbed him in excitement suddenly felt so different than in the past. It used to feel warm, comforting, calming; but for some reason this time it sent a jolt of fire and electricity through him, and he never wanted to lose that feeling. He wanted to feel it again, feel it always, feel it forever. 

“Yeah! Oh, it would be great, Buck! We can go on a few dates, and I can help you find your footing with it all before you get back out there,” you said excitedly. You purposely overinflated your smile so he wouldn’t see the way your lips faltered with the struggle of getting out the last part, diverting your gaze for the smallest of moments so he wouldn’t see the way your eyes dimmed with the thought of him being with someone else. 

Bucky shifted where he sat, opening and closing his mouth a few times as his mind went into overdrive trying to think of a response. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to say yes, but then there was a small piece of him that knew it wouldn’t end well - the piece that knew how he truly felt about you, the piece that knew it would easily be tricked into thinking these dates actually meant something to you; because lord knows they would mean the world and more to him. Bucky wanted to say yes, but he knew he had to say no. He had to say no because it wouldn’t be fair to you - you were offering to help him and he would be taking advantage of your kindness, using it to get to see you in a light he’d never be able to otherwise. He had to say no because saying yes could ruin everything. He may not be able to go back to the way it was before these dates, too addicted to ever quit you. He had to say no, for your sake, because it was a selfless offer. Bucky, however, was selfish when it came to you. 

“You know, doll… that may not be the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” he had said, giving you a lopsided smile. Your eyes lit up once more as you grinned at him, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his composure he couldn’t help but mirror your expression, feeling as giddy as he did the first time he was allowed to stay up late as a kid. 

“Excellent choice, Barnes,” you said playfully. “I swear you won’t regret it, it’ll be really fun. Just you and me, no expectations.”

Bucky nodded, shifting his head to scratch his jaw so you wouldn’t see the light frown that danced across his lips for a moment. “No expectations,” he repeated, careful to keep his voice level. “I can work with that.”

“Good,” you said softly, nodding a little. “I’ll give you some time to think about it and plan something, and you can just let me know whenever you wanna go on date number one.”

He was silent for a minute, taking the time to carefully churn the words over in his mind before answering. He didn’t want to make it obvious, but he knew immediately what he wanted to do. How could he not? All he ever did was look for new things he thinks you’d like, find himself dreaming of where he’d take you if he ever got the chance. Sure, you guys have done lots of things together before - brunches, lunches, dinners, movie nights, events, parties; you name it. Though there was never any meaning with any of those, it was always just friends spending time together. How were either of you supposed to know you each wished they meant something more? Heaven forbid you two would actually say how you felt.

"No need," Bucky said, rising from the couch with a small chuckle, looking down at you with the smile he reserved only for you. The one that skillfully said everything and nothing all at once. “Lunch. Tomorrow.”

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

MY BEST FRIEND'S GIRL

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes is in love with you, his best friend. But not in his wildest dreams can he imagine that his feelings are reciprocated. In a futile attempt at moving on, he finds himself a girlfriend, Priya. Unfortunately for you, her presence in Bucky's life comes as an unexpected and rather unpleasant surprise and you have to deal with the pain of losing the man you love to another woman.

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Word Count: 47k

General warnings & themes: angst, mutual pining, girlfriend!oc, aliens and arms dealers, canon-level violence, some explicit sexual content, mentions of sexual trauma.

I will add warnings to each chapter but please tell me if I've missed anything.

A/N: Shoutout to @samodivaa and @scoonsalicious for your valuable input and for listening to my crazy for the last month!

1: PRIYA & JAMIE

2: UNWELCOME DISTANCE

3: COMPANY

4: UNDERCOVER MISSION

5: EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

6: A FINE LINE

7: SPRING FLING

8: SURPRISE!

9: NEW DAWN

10: REVELATIONS

11: SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

12: MENDING FENCES

13: NEW BEGINNINGS

14: CRICKET & BUCKY

Posting schedule will be Tuesdays and Fridays around 7.30am ACT / 9.30pm BST / 4.30pm EST / 1.30pm PST