Are You Bored Yet?
Are You Bored Yet?
Pairing: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader
Summary: God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.
Word count: 8k
Warnings: Alcohol, annoyance to lovers, a bit of angst, a scary man in a parking lot, frat!bucky c:
a/n: I am so excited to finally post something!! It only took me four months 😅 If you enjoy it please please let me know ❤️❤️
Masterlist
~~
12:59 pm.
The birchwood table nestled in the back of the library was long but otherwise empty, the only thing occupying it being your laptop and quite a few books. He wasn’t late. Yet. You weren’t going to hold onto that hope, however.
Tutoring Bucky Barnes was not what you had in mind when you volunteered for the peer assistance program at your university. It was true you were only using the club to boost your resume, but you had assumed the only people reaching out for help would be those that actually wanted it. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
Sure, Bucky wanted help. Just not with anything that actually warranted the word. He wanted help sweet talking the cops so they wouldn't shut down his parties. He wanted help recruiting girls to show up to his parties. And—the one thing you could actually do—he wanted help passing his classes with the minimum GPA required to not get kicked out of his frat. So he could continue to throw parties.
Everything in his life revolved around his fraternity, which made you very important to him. When he wanted you to be.
With your apparently astounding knowledge of biology (you took notes during lectures), you became the star in Bucky’s life every Monday and Wednesday from 1:00 pm (give or take ten minutes) to 2:00 pm. He was also very attentive during the thirty minute phone calls he initiated prior to tests, and always looked happy to see you when he passed you devouring a bagel at the crack of dawn in the dining hall.
Every situation in which you had come in contact with Bucky was isolated and purposeful (minus the bagel). You didn’t hang out or invite each other places, and you were almost positive that if you were to see him in his natural habitat, you would want to tutor him even less than you did now, and that was saying something. So you were important to Bucky during the times you were supposed to be important, and he was important to you in the sense that he was a job.
But as your laptop blinked the numbers 1:22 pm back at your unimpressed expression, Bucky became much less important today. You took in a long, tortured breath before sending your gaze up to the ceiling, giving it another three minutes before you truly gave up on him for the day.
One minute.
Two minutes.
The library really needed new ceiling tiles.
1:25 pm and you snapped your laptop shut. Your fingers itched to send yet another complaint about this whole ordeal Natasha’s way, but you stopped yourself. She had already heard plenty about Barnes at this point, plus she always gave you a weird look every time you came stomping into the apartment, grumbling about something else he had done.
You hated her weird looks, all raised eyebrows and stiff lips.
With your backpack heaved onto the table and your things slowly funneling in, you figured a nap was the best reward for sitting in the library for an unnecessary twenty-five minutes. Your last prickle of irritation was stifled at the prospect of a warm bed as you stood, only to find that irritation had returned to you tenfold. In the form of Bucky Barnes.
“You going somewhere?” he seemed to taunt, his bag slung casually over one shoulder.
Your jaw ticked. “Home.”
His mouth turned up at one side, an expression you had learned meant he found you amusing. He never seemed to outright laugh at your annoyance, but apparently, it was hard to tamp down all of the joy he got out of it. Bucky took two long strides to meet the table you were attempting to abandon.
“But I still got about—” he checked his watch “—thirty-three minutes? And an arsenal of questions about amino acids. Help a guy out.”
“And I still got—” you checked the nonexistent watch on your wrist “—no patience for this today. You’re over twenty minutes late, Barnes. Use that watch to set an alarm on Wednesday and I’ll tell you everything you’ll inevitably forget about amino acids then.”
He groaned, rounding the table to set firm hands on your shoulders as he hovered behind you. “Sit. I’ll buy you a coffee and I promise I won’t be late on Wednesday, okay? I was dealing with something before this and lost track of time.”
“Were you dealing with another sorority girl in your bed? Who was it last week? Amber? No, Michelle?”
“It’s a Monday, y/n. Cut me some slack.”
“You came to me on a Wednesday with a hangover,” you deadpanned.
Bucky grimaced, the expression visible to you as he managed to guide you back into your chair. “Oat milk, right? A double?”
You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest as he tossed his bag by your feet and jogged over to the coffee cart just outside the library. He fumbled with his wallet when he went to pay, and you watched him point to the carton of oat milk the barista had yet to reach for. His greek letters were printed on the gray hoodie he had haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, and you held the reprimand on your tongue when you saw the matching sweatpants he donned.
The last time he had shown up in his pajamas—late—you’d had some choice words for him. Bucky turned around with your coffee then, poking the straw through the lid and sending you a sheepish smile through the window.
He was lucky you accepted bribes.
~~
“Please,” the boy across from you continued to beg, a pen held loosely between pliant fingers. “Just ask her, that’s all I want. You can even come too.”
“Oh, wow, the great frat president letting me come to his stupid toga party? How could I ever thank you enough?”
It was Wednesday now, and Bucky was surprisingly on time to the tutoring session. You’d gotten through about half of the last bio lecture before he started asking you ridiculous questions that had nothing to do with the content. Today, he was dead set on getting your lab partner from chemistry to go to his party this weekend.
“Okay, yeah, you could come to whatever party you want, you know? I put you on the list—but this one will be even better if you’d just do this one thing for me.”
You finally tore your eyes from your laptop, glancing lazily at him. “And what would make this one so—wait, what list?”
He waved you off. “The one at the door. Did it like… the second week we started this? Anyways, Wanda?”
You let this new information settle and tried to ignore whatever implications came with being on some frat list thanks to Bucky. He had never explicitly invited you to any of his parties over the past few months and you had never asked to come. Apparently, you could have shown up whenever you wanted to and had a grand old time.
Not that that sounded the least bit grand.
Bucky was looking at you still, all pleading features and a soft, infuriating smile on his lips. When he wasn’t talking to random girls in the library or taking annoying phone calls in the middle of your sessions, he was sort of endearing. In a terrible, awful sense.
You groaned, throwing yourself back against your chair in begrudging defeat. “I don’t even talk to her outside of chem. Don’t you think it’d be a little weird to invite her to a party that I’m not even going to?”
“So come,” he answered simply, as if that was in the realm of possibilities.
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Sure, I’ll come to your party, Barnes.”
“Great,” he grinned. “Vision’s gonna be so hyped.”
You watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket and kept your lie to yourself. He wouldn’t notice that you didn’t show up on Friday, and likely wouldn’t even bring it up the following Monday. He always had such vibrant, headache-inducing stories that you were sure your absence would be nothing more than a fleeting footnote.
“You have a toga, right?” he mumbled, face still screwed up in concentration as he continued his text.
“Isn’t it just a sheet all twisted up?” you asked, shutting your computer. Tutoring was obviously over.
Bucky pocketed his phone again, brows raised in amusement. “Depends on your motives for the night.”
“And my motives wouldn’t be to… wear a toga?”
He chuckled and huffed out your name, resting an arm along the back of the chair to his right—your chair. “Other motives. Like if you’re trying to get someone’s attention.”
You blinked at the warmth along your back. “Oh, of course. Then I would twist up a pillowcase instead, right?”
“Something like that.”
He smelled like coconut. Like a day at the beach but afterwards, when the sunscreen still lingered in the air but fresh clothes covered skin that had been warmed by the sun. You could usually ignore whatever expensive combination he had on his skin, but when he got close like this it was almost impossible.
Part of you always wanted to chuck his arm away when he leaned over you, but another part of you liked that he kept it there. It was a strange part of you, the same one that relished the looks you got from sorority girls in the library and harbored a sense of pride each time he made a blatant attempt to touch you.
You had spent fleeting moments analyzing these emotions and chalked them up to some internalized desire for validation. Nothing else. Bucky was a hot guy and everyone knew that, so having his attention—in any capacity—felt nice. Sometimes. Meaning right now it was nice that he was looking at you with his arm practically glued to your back, but next week when he showed up late with a hangover and tried to steal the jacket off your body it would be not so nice.
The duality of man.
It helped your partial insanity that Bucky would never actually be interested in you. You weren’t in a sorority or interested to his parent’s money, and, worst of all, you didn’t know how to maneuver a sheet into a toga. When he put his arm around you or moved your hair from your eyes as you leaned over a book, it was probably out of habit. It felt nice, but you knew reality. This was a passing phase, and by the summer you wouldn’t even speak to him anymore.
“I’ll text you more info about everything,” Bucky called, pulling you from your thoughts. “You can come early and I’ll help you with that pillowcase.”
You froze, the book you were shoving into your bag pausing in your hands. “Uh, maybe.”
“No, seriously, it’d be better if you came early. I was kidding about the pillowcase but if you come on time it’ll be too crazy for me to show you around.”
“You don’t have to show me around, Bucky. I’ve been to a house party before.”
“Y/n, are you not coming to this thing?” Bucky accused, swiping the book from your hands and softly tossing it on the table. It still made a loud thud that had a few bitter looks thrown your way.
“Dude!” you whispered, meeting each mean gaze with your apologetic one. “Why does it matter if I come? You just wanted Wanda anyway.”
He knocked your hand away when you went to reach for the book again, encircling your wrist with his fingers. “You just lied to me. Straight to my face. You said you’d come and now you gotta.”
You gave his fingers an experimental tug, but he was unrelenting in his soft grip. You glared at him through your lashes, meeting his uncharacteristically stern gaze that contrasted the humor on his lips.
“You ever hear of sarcasm?” you whispered with a half-hearted bite.
“Unfortunately, that’s about all I hear outta you,” he smirked back.
You rolled your eyes, finally yanking hard enough to free yourself from him. “Then you should have known I wasn’t going to come. No matter what ‘list’ you put me on.”
“What else could you possibly have going on on a Friday night?”
Ouch. You felt your brows furrow even though you didn’t will them to, and even worse, you felt a rash defensiveness lodge itself in your throat. You hated the heat that now prickled along the skin of your neck, and you hated even more how it extinguished all of the good warmth you had felt from him earlier.
This was humiliation, surely—the kind that only came from feeling small.
“You don’t have to be a dick,” you seethed, snapping up the remainder of your belongings. “Just because I don’t want to go to your stupid frat doesn't mean I have nothing to do. I don’t spend all of my time hoping to get invited to ridiculous parties.”
Bucky shifted up in his seat, eyes blown just a fraction wider. “Whoa, I didn’t mean—hey, stop a sec, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Whatever, Bucky,” you droned, as a new temperature seeped into the skin of your palms and made them clammy. Any semblance of delusion you’d fallen into earlier was long gone now, but you knew to expect that. He wasn’t interested in you and you weren’t interested in him. But embarrassment wasn’t a good feeling, regardless of a multitude of reality checks.
Bucky got up when you did, his clothes looking creased and lived in. “We still have time in our session,” he defended, arm jutting out to the table. “C’mon, I didn’t mean you don’t have friends.”
Your glare sharpened. “Great, another insinuation.”
Bucky sputtered out incoherent words as you continued your trek outside, resorting to grabbing your wrist again, this time with more urgency. You felt the heat in you simmer down to a dull throb as he made contact, mostly out of respect for your future self. If you made this a huge deal it would only embarrass you more.
“Look, it doesn’t even matter, okay?” you huffed, but he just tugged you forward. It was then that you realized you were in the doorway of the library, effectively blocking it off from anyone trying to leave. Bucky pulled you close enough to his chest that you weren’t in the way anymore. His cologne was back with a vengeance, your nose just inches from his collar.
You took a steadying breath, blinking away the remnants of shame. “It doesn’t matter, I overreacted.”
He clicked his tongue. “I’m still apologizing. I didn’t mean any of that stuff you were talking about.”
Of course he did. You were sure he thought it all the time. He just didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“It’s fine,” you rushed. “I have to go, anyway. Office hours.”
“Okay,” he nodded, soft and low, like he just remembered he was in a library. “You’ll still come this weekend, right? Even if Wanda can’t?”
“You have some kind of girl quota you need to meet?” you pressed.
Bucky smiled, still so close to you that you could feel the small breath that accompanied the expression. “And she’s back.”
You left without promising anything, and Bucky left feeling like you had.
~~
Sometime between Wednesday and Friday, your detestment for frat parties had snowballed into determination. You were going to go and you were going to look like you were having so much fun it was ridiculous. Then, on Monday, when Bucky would usually poke and prod about what you’d gotten up to over the past few days, you were going to pretend that it was nothing for you. That you did that every weekend.
Of course, you didn’t. Your weekends typically consisted of calm nights with friends or dinners near campus. You’d been to a party before, sure, but you didn’t exactly frequent those kinds of scenes.
Bucky had continued to make it clear that you were invited. He had texted you a few times, prompting you to come and thanking you for getting Wanda to agree. The messages looked strange under the plethora of biology related questions, but that just spurred you further into action. You weren’t just a tutor with no social life, and Bucky was going to see that tonight. You couldn’t remember doing something out of pure spite before, but you figured having fun to prove a point wasn’t the worst thing.
Wanda pulled you out of your thoughts as the Uber rounded the last dark corner and revealed an overcrowded house with too many lights on. She rambled on about some guy she couldn’t wait to see and confirmed that she would likely be spending the night. You expected as much; it hadn’t taken much convincing to get her to come. If this night resulted in anything good it was apparently the blossoming relationship between your new friend and a man you’d never met.
Wanda continued to chat as she yanked you out of the car and past the yard littered with sparse grass. The music was loud already—the type of loud that you needed to be at least a little drunk to enjoy. And that was the plan.
“Okay, if I start dancing on a table you pull me down. And if you start dancing on a table I support you, right?” Wanda giggled, her voice now raised as you walked past the threshold of the house.
“Exactly,” you yelled back. A guy nodded to you as he leaned against the front door, his eyes glancing up from his phone and then returning. It seemed Bucky’s ‘list’ was a page on some guy’s notes app. How luxurious. “Let’s drink.”
The next hour was a blur. You tried your hardest to get as drunk as possible and Wanda tried her hardest to find the British man she was enamored with. You hadn’t seen Bucky, but you figured he wasn’t looking for you too hard since you hadn’t responded to any of his texts. Not out of anger, but because you didn’t know what to say. Somehow, with alcohol warming your blood and music vibrating your skin, none of that mattered anymore.
You: Your house is soooo dirty
Your phone jostled in your grip, people bumping into you from every side. When he didn’t answer in the thirty seconds you spent staring at the screen, you locked it and continued on with your mission.
After a few too many shots of hard liquor, you switched to beer. Gross, but decidedly less likely to make you pass out on the staircase of this house. Because you weren’t lying in your text—it was slightly disgusting. You figured you should clarify that with Bucky. You reached for your phone once again, knocking your head against the wall in the process and giggling to yourself. You had no idea where Wanda went.
The device was snatched from your hands just as quickly as the screen had lit up your face.
“You ever answer this thing?” an accusing voice called out. “Or do you just insult people and put it on do not disturb?”
The look on Bucky’s face would have made you roll your eyes in any other circumstance. Right now, however, it had a startled laugh bursting past your lips. You clutched at your stomach as the laugh grew and you found yourself tipping forward until your forehead met his chest. You felt delirious, almost silly. A hand came around to rest on the back of your neck.
“Alright, alright.” Bucky’s words rumbled against your face. “I get it, this is hilarious.”
“Your… your face,” you breathed out, catching your breath enough to part from him. “It was all—” you mimicked the straight line of his eyebrows, voice raising in a mocking tone. “—You don’t ever answer your phone. You’re so boring, y/n, answer your phone.”
“I didn’t call you boring. Hey—hey,” Bucky stressed, reaching for you as you leaned too far to the side, a smile still lingering on your face. “Jesus, y/n, how much did you have to drink?”
You went to mock him again, but his fingers on your jaw stopped you. He tilted your head up and to the left, and although he was much more composed than you were, you could still smell the alcohol on his breath. You scrunched up your nose as he continued his inspection.
“Why’re you being so uptight?” you slurred, trying and failing to push away from him. “I thought you were all like, ‘I’m Bucky and I party and get drunk and have sex with girls.’”
Bucky pulled you forward as you laughed at your impression of him, his shaking head making you blink away a bout of dizziness. You toppled over a set of stairs as he threaded his fingers through yours, and then you stumbled through a doorway and onto carpeted floors. Being pressed into an uncomfortable chair was the most jarring action, the world still spinning as you sat.
“You’re even more mean when you're drunk,” you heard Bucky mumble. You couldn’t quite catch him as he moved around whatever room you were in. “And I don’t talk like that.”
You let out a careless sigh and leaned back. “You soooo talk like that.”
Something cold pressed to your hand, followed by another touch to the back of your neck. You gazed down at the water bottle being guided up to your lips and couldn’t find it in you to fight against it, despite the small spark of defiance on the tip of your tongue. After about four large swallows, Bucky was satisfied.
He asked again how much you’d had to drink.
You answered that you didn’t know—that it didn’t matter because he wasn’t your dad and you were having fun like you always did. He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for the next few moments.
And then, “Thought you weren’t gonna come tonight.”
You hummed, rolling your head against the chair to look up at his standing form. “Of course I was going to come. I love parties. Love drinking alcohol.”
His expression twisted into something you couldn’t recognize. “God, you’re so drunk.”
“M’not even that drunk!”
“You’re willingly in my room right now. You’re plastered.”
“Maybe I want to be in your room.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
You chuckled breathily, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see the pretty flush of Bucky’s face. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Don’t know much about me though. Or biology.”
Bucky kneeled down to the height of the chair. “And what do I not know about you?”
“So much.”
“How much?”
You bit into your lip and cracked an eye open, catching the amusement that had slipped past the strange mask of his emotions. With blissful ignorance, you heaved yourself forward on the chair, your nose a few inches from Bucky’s. His eyes didn’t waver from yours as you swayed.
“You don’t know that I’m the most interesting person on Earth,” you boasted, fingers gripping the upholstery of your seat.
“That right?” Bucky probed, his voice a melodic hum.
“Yup, I’m always really busy and even though you think I’m some boring biology tutor I’m actually super cool and, like, go to raves and stuff.”
His brow twitched but his mouth stayed soft. “I’ve never said you were boring. And I don’t think you’ve ever been to a rave.”
You groaned loudly and flopped against the backrest of the chair. “See! I’m telling you I do all this cool stuff and I’m so drunk my fingers are buzzing and you still don’t believe me.”
You crossed your arms with a huff, a small pout forming on your lips. In any other context, this behavior would probably embarrass you to no end. In the dim light of Bucky’s room where you felt the feeling leave your fingers and the care leave your mind, you were just disgruntled, not embarrassed. If you remembered this tomorrow the latter would surely catch up to you.
Bucky stared at you from his spot on the ground, his gaze a bit foggy and unfocused. He was clearly intoxicated, as you deduced earlier, and it made him look more wild. Mused hair and pink cheeks, he looked like he’d been having plenty of fun before he found you. It was distracting. He was distracting you from proving that you were having a blast.
“What?” you snapped, the tone a testament to the drunken fit you were throwing.
“You’re so fucking pretty.”
He must be really, really drunk. Despite your clouded mind, you knew that, but the words affected you just the same. Your lips parted as a new lightness both lit up and compressed your chest, and Bucky watched the movement.
“Yeah,” you scoffed, but it was hardly a scoff. “Sure, Bucky. How much did you have to drink—”
“I’m not lying. I’ve thought about you in my room for weeks and now you’re here and you’re so pretty. Even when you’re yelling at me.”
“You’ve… thought about me in your room?”
Bucky shuffled forward and you subconsciously parted your legs to allow the space for him. “I think about you everywhere.”
This was crazy. It was certifiably insane. A voice in the back of your head—Natasha’s voice, it sounded like—was screaming at you to stop and think about the situation at hand. He was drunk, you were even more drunk, and he was far too close to you. He had ushered you in here with good intentions and had sobered you up a fraction, but things had taken a turn and this was a sensitive situation. The kind of sensitive that altered your reality and his and probably a bunch of other people’s you’d never met.
Or it could be nothing and you were over exaggerating.
But then Bucky’s hand was warming your thigh. You’d felt the press of it on your back and your shoulder and your head before, but it had never been on your thigh. It felt heavy there, hot. His other hand moved to touch your face and he propped himself up on one knee. His thumb brushed your cheek. Words tumbled from your mouth before you registered that you were speaking.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
Why would you ask that? Who asks Bucky Barnes if he’s going to kiss them?
“Would you let me?” he responds.
“Yes.”
He didn’t waste any time, his mouth hot against yours. He tasted like mint and vodka and his lips moved so slowly it ached. You had expected a fervor behind his lips, but instead you got a build up, an orchestra reaching its crescendo. He was kissing you like you were important, like this wasn’t some random hookup in his bedroom at 1 o’clock in the morning, and you had to catch your breath when he parted from you.
But he moved back in so quickly after your brief respite, and you were eager to give him more. This was crazy, insane. This was the best kiss you’d ever have and also the worst. This was months of staring at his stupid lips when he tried explaining concepts back to you, but this was also weeks of feeling small in his presence. Bucky slid his hand back to press against your hair and you didn’t feel small anymore.
A loud thud from the hallway interrupted the silence you’d created, and Bucky pulled back, keeping his hands on you as he craned his neck around to stare at the door. He waited a beat, and then two, and then he turned back to you. The moment was gone, but he was still touching you. You weren’t sure what you wanted—if you wanted him to kiss you again or run out the door—but when he slid his hands from your body and rubbed them down his jeans, it became clear that was not what you wanted.
A knot formed in your stomach when he met your gaze again, and you tried blinking the feeling away. It didn’t work.
“Um,” Bucky began, his voice sounding more clear, his tone not holding the weight it had.
Your plan had backfired. Severely. This was a mess and you needed to save yourself before you ended this night even more humiliated.
You were still drunk. Pretend you were still plastered.
You giggled airily, the sound burning your throat. “That was loud.”
Bucky blinked at you in what you assumed was disbelief. “Probably just someone trying to find the bathroom,” he clarified.
You shrugged, nudging him back with your knee as you stood from the chair. “I’m bored now.” You took fast steps to the door, your words foreign to you. “Thanks for the water,” you all but gritted out.
You expected him to get up. Not to run after you or proclaim his love or even say anything. But you expected him to get up.
He didn’t, and you couldn’t understand how the knot in your stomach had moved to your throat. Or how it made tears spring to your eyes when your feet hit the sidewalk outside. Your Uber came and you couldn’t understand how you felt hot and cold at the same time. How it was freezing outside but you were sweating.
You couldn’t understand why you were crying over a boy that so often infuriated you, or why he kissed you in his bedroom. The reasonable side of you sent gentle reminders that he was in a frat and kissing people is just what he did. All the time. But the unreasonable side of you won out tonight, and it was telling you that this felt different.
That you should be different, somehow.
~~
Bucky: You’re here???
Bucky: Where are you?
Bucky: Y/n answer your damn phone
Bucky: This place is fucking packed tonight I thought you weren’t coming
You stared at the text messages you hadn’t read last night, the bright light of your phone burning into your retinas. You had a brutal hangover, and the memory of the disaster in Bucky’s room felt like an even bigger one.
You’d gone through a myriad of emotions the night before, tossing around excuses and speeches in your head until you were so exhausted you let the alcohol in your system lull you to sleep. With all of that delirious thinking, you’d landed on blacking out. You were going to tell Bucky you blacked out last night and couldn’t remember a thing. He obviously wouldn’t care and would probably appreciate it.
Saturday was slow-moving. Reruns of television shows and bags of popcorn and overthinking. Natasha was at her parent’s house in the city, so you had no one to bounce your racing thoughts off of. You certainly weren’t going to text her about it.
When the evening finally rolled around and your attempts at distracting yourself with mind-numbing movies failed, you checked your email. You always tried not to on the weekends, but doing anything else sounded much less appealing.
Unfortunately, you didn’t get past the first one.
From: University Peer Assistance Program
Dear Y/n Y/l/n,
This is an automated message from the campus peer assistance program. We thank you for your continued devotion to the betterment of students at this school. At this time, your tutoring placement with James Barnes has ended. We will search for a new placement to fill your current hours.
Thank you,
University Peer Assistance
You blinked at the email, then blinked again. The breath left your chest and the muscles on your face twitched, but you were otherwise frozen.
This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be free from the haughty frat boy that didn’t even listen to you when you tried to help him raise his grades. You wanted someone nice, someone that had the same goals as you and appreciated the color-coded notes you took for them. Bucky only tried to get a rise out of you. He sat too close and made fun of you and put you on lists you didn’t ask to be on.
But he had kissed you. He had kissed you and then tutor-dumped you.
You knew you weren’t his type, but were you really that bad? Was the kiss so terrible?
Every inferiority complex you had developed exploded. You over-analyzed things that had already happened, things you had said. Not just at the party, but in the library, the coffee shops, the lecture halls.
Was he really willing to risk his position in the frat just to avoid you?
The strangle tickle of tears itched to be released from your eyes again, but you pressed it down. No, this wasn’t on you. He had kissed you. He had dragged you into his room and stumbled on pretty words. If he didn’t want you to tutor him anymore because of his stupid mistake, fine.
His mistake.
That word felt wrong.
You tossed your phone on the couch with vigor. The clock above the television read out 10 pm, but that meant little to you as you slid on your shoes at the front door. You were wearing sweatpants and a jacket that was far too big on you, sadness and frustration and raw confusion propelling you down your apartment stairs.
Ice cream would fix this.
The only place open at this time was the gas station at the edge of campus. It wasn’t university affiliated and was usually overrun with belligerent greek life trying to buy alcohol, but the decision-making part of your brain was currently shut off.
Ice cream, anger, probably watching tiktoks until your eyes were too heavy to keep open—those were the only things rattling in your head.
You yanked open the gas station door after your short walk, the glass smudged and fogged from the cold night. The fluorescent lights aggravated the headache you’d been sporting all day and the floor made sticking noises with each step you took. To add insult to injury, there were only three cartons of ice cream left, and they weren’t even the good flavors. Grabbing the least offensive one, you made your way to the small line of people by the register.
“Nice outfit.”
Too enthralled by the disappointing ingredient list on the side of your ice cream, you had missed the tall man now looming at your shoulder. You whipped your head around with a start, taking a step back, smelling menthol and asphalt and nothing good.
“Thanks,” you quietly replied.
He waited until you turned back around to continue. “You go to school over here?”
You kept your gaze forward. “Um, yeah.”
“Nice. I graduated a few years back. Marketing.”
“Cool,” you replied. What had compelled you to leave your phone on the couch? This night sucked.
You found reprieve in the line moving, the employee calling you over to check out. As soon as you paid—a few dollar bills funneled out of your pocket with shaky hands—you booked it. Your ice cream burned in your palm but you didn’t care, feet carrying you out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot. You fisted your keys in your fingers; pointless, you knew, but a small comfort.
The man’s voice returned with the chime of the bell over the gas station door. “Wait! Wait, I’m Beck. I own a business nearby.”
You should have kept walking, but one of your fatal flaws was, apparently, people pleasing. You turned to him. He smiled at you but it made your stomach twist.
“Oh, nice,” you responded, rocking back on your heels.
“We should connect. Maybe go for coffee or something?” He took a step forward. You fought the urge to take one back. His beard was unkempt and he held a six pack in his white-knuckled grip.
“Um, I don’t know. I’m pretty busy with finals coming up. Plus, I’m not really in the business field.”
“Not for business then,” he smiled again, teeth dull in the streetlight.
Just agree. If you agreed you could block him soon after and everything would be fine.
You took too long to answer. He took the final step forward to arrive in your space and wrapped his fingers around your bicep. “C’mon, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything.”
Frozen by fear, you let out a weak laugh. The pint in your hand was sticking to your skin now in a way that would be painful when you tried to let go of it later. Your breath rattled in your chest when you laughed again.
“Sure, okay.” But he didn’t let go of your arm, instead sliding it down to the bone of your wrist.
“What about now?” he posed. “You don’t look too busy. I can make you something at my place.”
He was at least ten years older than you. You attempted to pull yourself from his grasp to no avail. Maybe reasoning would work.
“My roommate's waiting for me,” you lied. “Could you let go? I sprained my wrist at the gym last week,” you lied again.
He refused with a shake of his head. You took a panicked glance inside the gas station to your right. No one was looking.
“Please let go of me.”
The call of your name from the other side of the parking lot initially sent more unbearable fear down your spine. But then the owner of that voice registered in your brain, and although it had been the cause of your recent internal strife, you couldn't be more grateful to hear it.
He said your name again, closer now and questioning. Bucky jogged up to the pair of you, saw your wrist and the man holding it hostage, and looked back up at you with confused, wild eyes.
“You know this guy?” he asked, jutting his thumb out at Beck.
“No,” you whispered. The word was short but the syllable still trembled.
Bucky didn’t look confused anymore. He looked pissed. “Wanna take your fucking hands off her?”
Beck was tall, but Bucky was taller. And angry. Beck released your wrist and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa, man, no need for the theatrics. I’m guessing you’re here to stock up for a party? I used to be in Sigma Nu.”
When Bucky’s silent glare failed to dampen, Beck continued with, “We were just planning a night at my place, right?”
His nod in your direction made your breath catch. Bucky took his piercing gaze off of Beck and softened it as it fell on you. You wanted to respond, but words were gone. They were impossible. Your ice cream was melting.
“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Bucky scoffed, placing his arm around your shoulder. He guided you past the wall of a man, making sure to drive his shoulder into his chest as he went. Beck went to say more, to protest or whine, but Bucky shot him such a scathing look it almost made you wither.
The smell of coconut and spices and a hint of whisky met your nose, and it was familiar. It was safe. You fumbled with the keys in your hands as your feet guided you wherever Bucky was going, and then you fumbled even more, soft jingling disrupting the softness of footfall. God, why wouldn’t you stop shaking?
A hand fell atop yours, crunching the keys to a halt. You stared down at them, unsteady breath hitting the tanned fingers that served as your current anchor.
“Look at me, y/n.”
You couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything.
“Sweetheart, eyes up. All you gotta do.” Bucky’s voice was as soft as it was last night. That was the only reason you were able to follow his request. “There she is,” he hummed.
He removed his arm from your shoulders and shifted in front of you, placing his hand on your cheek. You ignored that it felt the same as it had last night. You ignored that you wanted it to feel the same for him, too.
“You okay?” he asked, tilting his neck down to better see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye. “He hurt you?”
You shook your head, whispering no, whispering that you were fine.
Bucky nodded to himself, eyes tracking down to your toes and then back up again. He must have mistaken your shaking for coldness because the next thing he did was guide you into the car behind him. You didn’t know it was his.
He blasted the heat the second he got in. He had shuffled you into your seat with his hands before that, smoothed your hair down and closed the door after you were settled and not shaking as hard. The heat dried out your eyes. It distracted you enough to let words form.
“Thank you,” you said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t bring my phone with me. I should’ve.”
“Of course.”
There was a beat of silence. The relief you had felt earlier had been muddled down to an awkward pit in your stomach, and you weren’t sure if Bucky felt it too or if he was still riding a testosterone-fueled adrenaline high.
You wanted to go home now; this was uncomfortable and you had felt Bucky’s lips on yours less than twenty-four hours ago with no closure. He obviously didn’t want to be around you. This was probably a responsibility thing for him.
“I can… I can walk home now. The guy left. I’m just a quarter mile away and you probably have to stock up or whatever.”
He looked at you with a pinched expression. “I’m not letting you walk home after that. You kiddin’ me?”
“I’ll be fine, really. I walk over here all the time.”
“You get harassed all the time too?”
“No…”
“Exactly. So you’re not walking home.”
“Bucky—”
“Look I’m not gonna kiss you again, alright? So you don’t have to turn down a ride because of that.”
Your ice cream was soup at this point. You let it roll into your lap as you clamped your mouth shut just to open it again. Bucky ran a rough hand through his hair before dropping it on the steering wheel, clutching at it with no place to go.
“I’m not following,” you finally relented.
A loud sigh released from his nose. “You don’t have to worry about me kissing you again. I just want to make sure you get home safe and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Worry about—you’re the one trying to avoid me,” you snapped, frozen fingers pointing to your chest. “You tutor-dumped me.”
“Tutor-dumped? How do you…” he trailed off.
“I get an email when you make a change request, Bucky.”
He stared at you for a moment, lips parted and unmoving. He clenched his jaw a moment later, a red tint adorning his cheeks.
“Well, you—you—look, I know you don’t like me, y/n. You’ve made that clear,” he stuttered, words getting louder as he moved his hands around with each one. “But I like you. I like when you get mad at me and when you yell at me for not listening and when you get all embarrassed when I play with your hair. And I’ve been trying to get you to come to one of my parties since we started this whole thing, but every time I talk about them you seem to like me even less.
“If I had known insulting you would get your attention, I woulda done that week one,” he exasperated. You sat up in your seat but he continued. “I didn’t mean any of that shit you thought I did. You’re not boring. And I didn’t mean to kiss you, but you looked—well, I already told you.”
“So you don’t want me to be your tutor anymore because you like me?” You spoke slowly, each word careful.
“No,” he sighed, frustrated. “I can’t be around you because I kissed you and you didn’t care. Because I’ll want to kiss you all the time and you didn’t even wanna kiss me once. I know we were drunk, I get that, but I’ve wanted that for a long time and I need to move on. It’s nothing against your… tutoring skills. If that’s what you’re worried about”
“But you talk about hooking up with other girls all the time, Bucky. To me.”
“You ever hear of lying?”
“Why would you—”
“You really gonna make me live out all of my failures with you?”
You’d read so many things wrong. Taken so many things the wrong way. You figured the email earlier was the final nail in the coffin, but this was something else entirely. This was Bucky, sitting next to you in his car looking distressed and frazzled with his hair six different directions, telling you that he’s been trying to get your attention since he met you. That you weren’t small or insignificant or boring.
It was probably a terrible idea to follow through with your next thought. You’d probably get hurt in the long run. But you did it anyway.
“I wanted you to kiss me.” Bucky’s head whipped towards you. You bit the inside of your cheek and said, “I want you to kiss me all the time.”
He whispered your name. It sounded like the air had left every corner of his body. But he didn’t move, and you needed to rectify that.
“You’re infuriating,” you began. Bucky cringed, but you needed to explain as he had. “You’re like the antithesis of everything I want out of college. You don’t care about classes. You’re always late. You talk too loud in the library.”
You took a deep breath, fiddling with the loose thread of your pants. You couldn’t make eye contact with anything but the ground.
“But then you know my coffee order when I’ve never told it to you. You save me from losers in parking lots and make sure I’m not drunk out of my mind at your obscene party. You make me feel… you make me feel stupid sometimes. And I thought it was because you’re everything I’m not, but I really think it’s because you’re everything I told myself I should stay away from. But I don’t want to.
“I wanted you to kiss me at that party and I want you to kiss me now.”
“Then get over here. I’m not kissing you over some bullshit center console.”
You twisted to follow his directions, gasping as his hands clasped around your waist to tug you into his lap. It wasn’t seamless—there was laughing and your head briefly connected with the roof of the car—but Bucky’s touch was everywhere, soothing the uncertainty and fear and slight headache.
His forehead connected with yours when you felt secure in his arms. His fingers slid down from your waist over the material of your sweatpants and when he spoke next you felt the words on your own lips.
“You’re wearing sweatpants. You get so mad when I wear sweatpants.”
You laughed. “I get mad because it usually means you just rolled out of bed, and you’re usually. late.”
“I got a secret,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “I’m never late. And I only wear those sweatpants around you. You get cute when you’re pissed at me.”
“Well, I’m about to be really cute—”
He kissed you. You’d have plenty of time to argue later.
More Posts from Spookyreads and Others
Loverboy
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Word Count: 4.3k
Summary: Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.
Warnings: Avengers AU, Bucky’s POV, fluff, crack (my lame attempt at comedy), suggestive thoughts (no smut), just our boy being a lovesick little bean with a big ol’ crush.
Author’s Note: Dividers by @saradika. Proofread by @buckys-wintersoldier, thank you so much sweetie, I love you!! This was inspired by a wonderful request from @prettyboy56, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy x
“Hi, Bucky.”
Instantly, he sputtered over his mouthful of cereal, eyes watering from his food going down the wrong way.
Bucky knew that melodic voice before his gaze even reached its owner. You entered the kitchen, wiggling your fingers at him in greeting.
Clearing his throat, he swiped his bowl to the side, his breakfast now forgotten about, and directed his attention solely onto you. “Hi—um h—hello, doll.”
The muscles of your cheeks lifted up to your eyes in a smile that made Bucky swoon. Hard.
Your eyes fell to Sam then, who stood in the corner, fresh from a workout with a shit eating on his face. “Good morning, Samuel.”
“Mornin’, beautiful. How did you sleep?”
Bucky fought the growl rising in his throat, the unprecedented possessiveness caving its way through its internal barriers in your presence.
You grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and closed the door, leaning your back against it to take a big gulp.
“Not bad at all.” You licked your lips, ridding the dryness that came from a long slumber before your eyes lit up. “Oh, by the way! I drank some of that tea you recommended. It’s helped a bunch—”
Bucky zoned out while you continued to express your gratitude to Sam. He couldn’t help the way his eyes dilated as he rested his head in the palm of his vibranium hand, a lovesick sigh escaping his lips. You were just so gorgeous – a deity in human form right in front of his own very eyes. Bucky had never considered himself so lucky in all his time on earth to be within your vicinity.
In his own world of oggling, Bucky didn’t notice how the conversation fell short between you and Sam. Neither did he realise how the two of you were staring at him; you with concern and Wilson smothering his laughter with his hand.
“Bucky? Sweetheart?” He finally registered that you were speaking to him and almost choked, again, on his own spit.
“Mhm?” Bucky murmured, drunk off your attention.
You smiled once again, so devastatingly beautiful that his left arm whirred in stupor. “Are you okay? You feeling alright?” Not waiting for a response, you walked over to him and Bucky almost let his eyes roll to the back of his head when you lifted your wrist to his forehead. “Jeez, you’re a little hot, Buck.”
Sam keeled over in hysterics, unable to keep his composure any longer. Meanwhile, a bright red blossom of colour rose up from the skin of Bucky’s neck all the way up to his cheeks.
Had Bucky not been embarrassingly infatuated by you, the throwaway comment wouldn’t have had any effect on him. But this was you. The woman who had the ability to make him melt on the spot.
While logic and a basic level of common sense screamed at him that you were talking about his temperature, his mind could only conjure up the fact you had called him hot.
Bucky saw your mouth moving, however he couldn’t concentrate on the sound of the words coming out of it. You were still touching him, patting his cheeks and sweeping the tendrils of hair that had fell out from behind his ears out of his face. The close proximity of your bodies threw him through a loop and without even realising, his thighs spread further, subconsciously begging you to forego all boundaries and smother yourself against him.
Gently tapping his nose three times, you managed to gain his full attention again. “You seem out of it, sweetie. Maybe you should go down to the medbay. See if you’re coming down with a fever or something.”
Sam blew out a breath of air. “Yeah, because that’s what’s wrong with him.”
You threw a lighthearted glare his way before bringing your eyes back to Bucky. “Promise me you’ll get seen to?”
How could he refuse when you asked so sweetly? “Anything you want.” He vowed sincerely.
Scrunching your nose, you chucked his chin and whispered under your breath, “Good boy.”
Bucky almost whimpered when you withdrew your hands and stepped back. He so desperately wanted to follow you and nudge your arm until you paid attention to him once more. Your touch was fire and a cool breeze all at once. Electricity that created static across his stubbled cheek, yet also stoked a warmth through his entire body.
Peace. He’d never felt anything like it. Never before felt drunk from just the delicate essence of a perfume or experienced the loosening of his limbs, relaxing until his legs felt like jelly whenever you so much as cast him a glance.
You grabbed a piece of fruit from the table, ready to go down to the gym and train. “Catch you later, Sam,” you called over your shoulder. Meeting Bucky’s eyes a final time, you winked while you headed for the elevator. “Bye, sweetheart.”
Bucky’s gaze was glued to you, following you out hopelessly until you were completely out of sight.
He was fucked — well and truly out of his depth.
Sam crossed his arms and smirked. “You are down bad, man.”
Bucky swiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Fuckin’ tell me about it.”
“This is serious.” Sam sobered up, his lips softening into an honest smile.
With an embarrassingly loud thud against the island countertop, Bucky let his head drop. “I have no idea what to do, Sam. I thought this crush would have passed by now but it’s been months.”
“Well,” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Have you even tried asking her out?”
“And why would I do that?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused.
Sam sputtered over his words. “What do you mean—Because that’s what people do when they like someone, you dumbass!”
Bucky had lost enough braincells daydreaming about you constantly. He didn’t need to be told what he already knew. But the pressure of asking you out to then have a chance of being rejected? He would never come back from that. “Yeah, no thanks,” he mumbled.
“Come on, man. What’s the worst that could happen?” Sam asked.
Bucky lifted his head up and huffed sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she could turn me down and rip my heart out into little pieces, so much that I would hide out in my room for the rest of eternity never to be seen again?”
“Now you’re just being dramatic.”
Bucky sighed longingly. “Let me wallow in my misery alone, Sam.”
“Why? So you can spend your days staring at her with your googly eyes and drooling over her.”
“I have never drooled over her,” Bucky snarled.
A twinkle shone in Sam’s eye, a mischievous grin donning his face. “Then what’s that on your chin?”
Bucky’s eyes widened and he quickly brought his hand up to his face to check if he did in fact have any wetness coating his mouth. Finding none, he looked back to Sam with a scowl. “I hate you.”
Sam shook his head with laughter. “You shouldn’t make it so easy to tease you, loverboy.”
With a growl, Bucky lifted from his seat and stormed out of the kitchen.
The irritating voice followed him. “Don’t forget training tomorrow morning, loverboy!”
The sun was shining over the compound the next morning and so came the bright idea from Steve that all exercise activities should be held outside. While the recruits in training buffed up on their sparring with the Captain, the rest of the avengers worked out as they saw fit.
As usual, Sam took any opportunity possible to annoy Bucky, which brought them together, running laps around the outdoor track.
“When are you gonna man up and ask her out then, Cyborg? Pretty girl ain’t gonna be available forever.”
Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t run ahead of Sam. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. Maybe the pace he kept alongside Wilson allowed him to stare at you so clearly in your tight workout leggings and sports bra as sweat sensually rolled over your skin. Maybe.
“I’m not asking her out, Sam. Drop it.”
Sam huffed out an annoyed breath. “Listen, man. It’s not as if you’ve got nothing going for you. As much as you’re a grumpy shit, you’ve got them blue eyes the chicks love. Gets them all gooey when you give them intense eye contact, y’know?” He reluctantly added, “And they dig the brooding, bad boy, leather jacket vibe.”
Bucky let out a rare smile within the presence of Sam. “You tryna hit on me, Wilson?”
“Look, all I’m saying is you have a chance.” Sam slyly glanced over the field. “And if you don’t quit fuckin’ around, that chance is gonna disappear.”
The smile instantly dropped from Bucky’s face. “What do you mean by that?”
Sam’s signature smirk came back with vengeance. “Your girls lookin’ kinda cute today. So I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you ain’t the only one who’s got their eye on her.”
Naturally, Bucky followed his instinct and let his eyes look over at you. You were a fucking wonder, of course he knew that. But heeding Sam’s ominous warning, Bucky allowed his gaze to venture out, only allowing you to blur into the background for a couple of seconds while he took stock of the other male, and female, recruits.
Low and behold, plenty of other people wantonly stared at you while you completed your circuit, almost salivating over their barely concealed pining. As much as Bucky hated to admit it, the fucker was right. You were the pinnacle of everyone’s attention.
With the way you were bending over, squatting and looking like an angel amidst the perspiration the sun brought on, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could actually blame anyone for it.
That didn’t stop the ugly, green eyed beast within him that wanted to tear everyone’s eyes out for daring to glimpse at you.
It was silly, he knew he had no right to feel any sort of possessive nature for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Still, he couldn’t control the deep rooted urges that whispered the kinds of fun he’d have gouging out eyeballs that looked where they weren't supposed to.
Knowing he had stirred the pot enough, Sam figured it was time to try and hit the final nail in the coffin in order to make his friend move his ass. “Y’know what gives you an advantage though, man?”
Bucky continued to death stare the surrounding agents, while keeping up with his steady jog. “What’s that?”
“Guess who’s making eyes at you right now.”
At breakneck speed, Bucky snapped his head back around to you, only to indeed find you staring at him with a fire in your eyes and your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
A violent shudder ran down his spine and for a moment, the whole world stopped on its axis, allowing Bucky to revel in a daydream brought to life.
That was until his mind snapped him back into the present. The super soldier was majestic on his feet in a fight, graceful yet utterly dangerous out on the field even with the pressure a mission came with.
However to his utter bewilderment, you happened to be the most dangerous being he had ever come across, because in all of his years as a trained, professional assassin, Bucky had never, never, tripped over his own feet.
And so, inevitably, Bucky’s face ungracefully met the asphalt of the outside track with an audible thunk.
A collective of gasps, oo’s, and ah’s, rang around the large group. Bucky could physically feel the coating of red, hot embarrassment climbing up to his now scratched cheeks.
Bucky couldn’t see the look of shame and pity on Sam’s face as he dropped his head into his hands. All he was capable of was fantasizing faking his own death and moving far, far away where no one who witnessed his fall could ever find him.
With a painful, deep groan, Bucky managed to roll himself over. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and allow himself to accept reality yet and so he kept them closed, waiting for the ground to swallow him up or for the beaming sun to slowly incinerate him, melt him into the ground with his shame and dignity.
But instead of either of those, a shadow casted over him, the harsh brightness behind his eyelids dulling down. Slowly, he peeked an eye open, only for mortification to kick him in the gut when he found you standing over him.
“You alright there, Soldier?” Your hands were set on your hips, those deliciously curved grooves of your body that he had shamelessly stared at one too many times during gym sessions.
“Mhm,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly. “Just peachy.”
Even though you’d just seen him eat dirt, in front of hundreds of learning recruits and the rest of the avengers, your smile was kind as you held out your hand. “Need some help?”
Bucky took your offering, sliding his clammy palm into your dry one and hoisted himself up with your grip. He hadn’t needed your help, he was a super soldier with a metal arm; an agility and strength beyond normal human ability. But he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel your soft skin against his.
He couldn’t look you in the eye as he stood up, aware of your gaze glued to him. “Th-Thanks.”
“It’s not a problem,” you said. “Although, you’ve got a few nasty looking cuts on your cheeks.”
Bucky brought his left hand up to his face, hissing when the cool vibranium stung the open wounds. “Ah, it’s nothin’—don't worry about it. Nothing a few hours won’t fix.”
You shook your head fondly. “Well, how about I walk you to the infirmary and we get some ointment on them? It wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.”
Bucky choked on his own spit and snapped his eyes to yours. “W-We?”
Your smile was blinding — so beautiful with an ability to stop time. At least for him anyway. “Yeah, why not? It looks like you could use a hand—y’know, since you’re a little clumsy on your feet today.” The cheeky smirk that followed your words almost sent him to an early grave.
His cheeks blazed. Bucky was sure he looked utterly stupid, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But he couldn’t help the effect you had on him. “I um—I— ha, I guess.”
Your eyes glinted mischievously. “I’ll take that as a yes?”
Not trusting his voice to hold steady, Bucky simply nodded.
“Great,” you approved. “Just one question though, are we going to keep holding hands on the way?”
Looking down to the space between you, Bucky felt his mouth dry when he saw that he hadn’t yet released his hand from yours. “I’m—oh fuck—I’m so sorry.”
Still, he made no move to slacken his grip.
You tightened your lips, and he knew you were willing yourself not to laugh for his sake. Sam would have a fucking field day with this.
Though to his surprise, instead of pulling away like he expected you to, you began pulling him along, hands still interweaved. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, Bucky.”
His name on your lips was akin to a siren singing her song; dragging helpless seamen to their deaths. A thought crossed his mind then, that he didn’t think he would mind so much if he sank to his reckoning, not if your voice was the last thing he ever heard.
“Okay.” Bucky followed you blindly, eyes glued to your conjoined hands and disbelieving of his luck.
You had led the way towards the medbay and found a cozy, private room that the doctors used for small injuries. Bucky sat impatiently on the side of the medical bed, twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting restlessly. Never had he been so close to you, alone.
Bucky internally prayed with all his faith that you couldn’t hear the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. He was sure if he was hooked up to a monitor, the doctors would be thoroughly concerned about his health.
Finally having gathered all the supplies you deemed necessary along with a first aid box, you walked back over to the bed and dumped everything next to him.
“So,” you began, an uneasy conspiratorial tone to your voice that weirdly reminded him of Sam. “Wanna tell me what happened out there?”
“I—,” Bucky sheepishly scratched the back of his neck while his cheeks bloomed crimson red. “I must’ve just tripped over my own feet.”
He tried to shrug off his nonchalance, but he knew by your raised eyebrow you didn’t believe him. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing a big, strong super soldier such as yourself has any trouble finding his footing.”
Before Bucky could muster up any other excuse but the truth, you ripped open the packet of a medical wipe and warned him, “I’m sorry. This is gonna sting.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with bravado.
Bucky wasn’t prepared for the twinkle in your eye as you mumbled under your breath, “I’m sure it isn’t, Sargeant.”
The breath got knocked out of his lungs. Oh did that do things to him.
Suddenly, vivid images of you spread out on his bed wearing nothing but his old army hat while you screamed out his rank ran wild in his mind.
Luckily, you were too preoccupied with cleaning the dried blood of his wound to notice him discreetly palming the bulge in his athletic shorts, trying to hide the effect you had on him.
“Are you certain there is absolutely no other reason as to why I’m playing nurse right now, then?” Your feline grin was sexy and scary. “No possible distractions that led you off path?”
There was no way you could read minds, right? Bucky doubled down on his denial, shaking his head from side to side and letting the length of his hair hide the truth in his eyes.
“I’ll take your word for it then.” You finished up and reached for the healing gel. “I know the serum enhances your ability to repair the cuts, but I’d still like to use this.” Looking into his eyes, you asked, “Only as long as you’re okay with that, of course.”
Time stopped and the two of you were caught in the other’s gaze. It was such a small gesture, one you probably didn’t even realise meant the world to him. But you asked him for permission on something that would affect his autonomy and if Bucky didn’t already have a hundred ways he was falling for you, that would have been the cherry on top.
“Yeah,” he breathed airily. “Yeah, I’m good with it, doll.”
Unseen to him before, you ducked your head and sweeped your hair behind your ear and if Bucky didn’t know any better, he was sure you were shy.
He couldn’t help the large grin he sported. He was always so enamored with you, quick to falter in your presence and become unsure of himself. Right now though, a small bout of bravery returned. “Ready when you are,” he cheekily murmured.
You hastily rushed to compose yourself. Clearing your throat, you squeezed the tube of gel, allowing a small drop of the cool liquid on the tip of your finger and stepped between his legs to gently dab it onto his cuts.
“Okay, you’re all fixed up now.” With a last swipe of his forehead, you smiled. “Don’t worry, Buck. You still look handsome.”
He tugged his plump bottom lip between his teeth. “You think I’m handsome?”
You giggled. “I would be blind if I didn’t.”
Bucky blinked at you slowly, still processing your words and trying to calm the excited bubble rising in his throat.
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, don’t act all coy, Bucky. You must have heard the whispers of the recruits. They stare at you all the time, whispering and giggling to each other.”
With the most confidence he had ever mustered up, he responded, “Truthfully, I’m too busy staring at someone else to notice, doll.”
The shock of his sudden boldness was glaringly obvious on your face — it was you this time who held your mouth open, lost for words.
Bucky’s body screamed at him to tell you that he was in fact head over heels for you. That had he known falling over in front of the full compound would lead him within a hair’s breadth away from you, he’d do it all over again.
But you seemed to recover after a couple of seconds, clearing your throat and making yourself busy to avoid his eyes. “So, I’ve got another question.”
“Oh?” Bucky cocked his head.
“Yeah.” You smiled while placing everything back into the first aid box as you found it. “I’ve been hearing a few rumours around the compound recently.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped with dread.
“You wouldn’t know anything about those, would you?”
“I—” Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Oh,” you hummed. “So it’s not true then? You don’t have a crush on me?”
Fuck.
Panicking, Bucky scoffed, though it came off sounding too pathetic, too breezy. “Me? Have a crush on you? That’s—Ha! Nope. No way. Not at all.”
He watched as you nodded to yourself. Internally, he was begging for the floor to swallow him while he cringed at his own stupidity.
“Well,” you shrugged. “That’s a shame, I guess.”
Bucky’s head shot up, eyes wide and shock written over his features. “E-Excuse me?”
“Oh, it's nothing really.” There was a sparkle in your eye that screamed trouble. “You said you didn’t have a crush on me, so it doesn’t matter.”
Within seconds, Bucky jumped off the bed and leapt towards you, not even noticing how he had grabbed your hands. “Doll, please. You can’t leave a guy hanging like that.”
Playfully rolling your eyes, you dramatically exhaled and decided to put him out of his misery. “Leave you hanging? Damn, Buck. It’s not as if I’ve been waiting patiently for you to ask me out for months or anything like that.”
The air became humid and stuffy and suddenly the clothes attached to Bucky’s body felt too tight and restricting. “You—What now?”
You rolled your lips inwards, trying to smother your laughter. “Bucky, honey,” you gently murmured. “I’ve heard what the others have been gossiping about. I’ve definitely heard Sam telling the team about your crush on me.”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “That fuckin’ punk.”
You squeezed his hands reassuringly and offered him a warm smile when he looked at you. “I’ve just been waiting to hear it from the horse's mouth himself.”
Bucky’s eyes darted between yours, trying to find any hint of decievement. “You’re serious.”
“Mhm,” you whispered. “Deadly.”
It took him a couple of seconds to let the new information sink in. Clearing his throat, Bucky untightened his fierce grip on your hands and hesitantly slid them down to latch onto your waist. “So,” he mumbled. “Say if I asked you out to dinner tonight… You wouldn’t tell me I’m a fool and break my heart into a million pieces?”
Butterflies erupted in Bucky’s stomach at the sensation of your hands sliding over his chest to rest against his neck. “No, Bucky,” you chuckled. “I would tell you that I’m looking forward to our first date, tonight. Nowhere fancy, just casual. Six o’clock sharp.”
Bucky smiled, all beaming and ecstatic. “I wouldn’t dream of being late.”
“Good.” You leaned up onto your tip toes and ghosted your lips over his ear. “See you very soon then, Sargeant.”
Tingles shot down Bucky’s spine and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He fought tooth and nail to crush the moan that rose up his throat and in his internal struggle, he missed how you’d sneakily slipped out of his hold and started to saunter towards the door.
He almost begged you to come back; the thought of having to wait for you until the evening was unbearable. But those pesky butterflies that invaded his stomach came back strong and fierce as his gaze became glued to the sway of your hips and the sweet perfume that lingered in your exit.
“Oh,” you stopped suddenly at the doorway and looked over your shoulder. “One more thing. Don’t go tripping over again, you hear me?” You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Can’t have you falling for me.”
Your damn smirk was intoxicating and Bucky thought himself the luckiest fella alive to be the one taking you out. He licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have a little trouble with that request, Ma’am.”
The clench of your thighs was unmissable. The way your eyes dilated called to him. Bucky had more game than he realised and he kept that new information tucked safely into the corner of his mind for a later date.
You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Your actions told Bucky everything he needed to know and so he wiggled his fingers with a huge grin locked onto his face and watched you longingly as you left his sight.
The minute he couldn’t hear your footsteps any longer, Bucky pumped his fist up into the air and began dancing on the spot.
In his own bubble of happiness, he didn’t hear the footsteps of a new person entering the hallway. Only when an amused clearing of the throat echoed from the doorway did Bucky abruptly stop his dancing and slowly swivel to the intruder.
Sam stood there, all cocky and mirthful with a shit eating grin on his face. “About time you bagged the girl, man. Dont’cha think?”
Instantly, Bucky growled and grabbed the closest apparatus. With a pair of medical scissors, he charged towards Sam, who was quick to wipe the smirk off his face and skid out of the room with a scream.
push his buttons
bucky barnes x fem!reader wordcount: 2.2k warnings: mentions of smutty behaviour. an: oh, a brooding bucky, how I've missed you.
masterlist | inbox
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He’s staring at you—no smile, no smirk. He’s been doing it the entire time you’ve been pretending to ignore him. Because you’re annoying the absolute shit out of him, even if you're not doing a single thing.
Sometimes you do this. Push his buttons.
You used to do it with words, annoying him because it humoured you. Sam repeatedly tells him he’s an easy target, easy to wind up. The silence is worse.
Knowing he can’t leave, this one room is the place the two of you need to be.
A simple task, one he usually does alone, yet somehow, you're here. Even if he asks for you not to be, even if he requests anyone but you. It's still you. You who stares at him when you think he doesn't see; you who keeps crossing and uncrossing your leg, either through nerves or agitation—Bucky can't tell.
Because he's mad himself.
With you. At you. At himself.
The lines are all blurring together in an awful mix he can’t unravel.
Mad that you’re here and not safely back at the new HQ Sam and he built. That you're not stuck behind a desk like he’d wanted. You're here, fuming with him.
"Send her home, Sam." "We need her. She's good, talented. Hell, you even vouched for her." His face must have said it all. "Oh, but of course. How stupid of me. Now you don't want her there because she's your girlfriend." "She's... she's not my girlfriend." "Yeah. And I don't have wings."
He throws a stare. Only it doesn't land, not as you look surprised at something on your phone. You've been on it since the people you were keeping tabs on, left the room next door.
Having grown so used to hearing you, whether teasing, taunting or flirting with him, the silence is deafening. So the fact something has stolen your attention means he suddenly needs, and wants, to know what it is.
Jealous.
That's what his therapist said. He grows attachments and becomes jealous. Something to do with the fact he's never had a chance to have anything solid for years. Constantly worrying it'll be taken away.
His own version of fight or flight, or so she said. It makes him more stubborn, more arrogant, and more difficult.
And, because of that, he can't speak first.
He will not be broken by your silence.
Not when he's been subjected to so much worse.
So, he pretends not to notice. Trying not to show how much you’re bothering him, but he’s assuming you can tell. Because you're clever. Ridiculously intuitive. Emotional. All the things he usually finds tiresome, because he doesn't need a person trying to get him to think about how people feel.
Not when he feels so much, but can't let it out.
He doesn't need another person thinking two steps ahead when he's trying to wrap his head around the step they're already on. Because while you're clever, and great at finding a way out of tough spots, he's always the muscle. The one who will pull you from danger, deflect a bullet, knife or another weapon, because you're not strong.
You just pretend to be.
He assumed it was why you began taunting him a year ago. Picking him as an easy target to wind up, no one else in the new Cap team biting as much as him. Snapping back at you, wishing for silence he never gets. Until your comments, turned flirtatious, and all his hatred melted as quickly as your comments shifted.
Because even with his age, he knows when someone is flirting with him.
"Anyone tell you that you look good for a man almost one hundred and ten?" He'd rolled his eyes, secretly not complaining in the slightest. "Is the handsome man, computing?"
He's just grateful you couldn’t sleep that one night all those months ago. Coming down for coffee, all sleepy, hair all out of shape. A dopey smile and a shuffle of your feet before you slid onto the barstool at the kitchen counter.
It’s then he learnt you were softer, gentler than you showed him in the day. Behind those big eyes and a large smile, you were quite funny. The coffee and that conversation at three in the morning turned him from stoic to smiling.
That night, you’d shuffled back to the doorframe, eyes twinkling and smile a little more playful. ‘Maybe we’d sleep better with one another, Barnes?’ His heart having thumped louder in his ears, more violently in his chest. ‘Can’t be any worse than drinking shitty coffee at all hours of the morning. As friends, of course’.
It proved how smart you were, how cunning. Not that he would ever complain. He knew it wasn’t an accident when you curled up to him, even if you said it was; it wasn’t an accident when his lips found yours like he whispered it was.
Everything else after wasn’t an accident, either. When his fingers snaked into your shorts; the way your teeth left a mark on his neck. The way his body slotted against yours, the way you whimpered his name as he coated his fingers in your want.
"You, Barnes, are something else."
He wore that smirk all day, not even pushing his luck about going to your door the next night, instead of finding you in his sheets already. "I thought of trying to sleep alone, but it seemed more fun to be here." Bucky isn't sure he ever got his t-shirt off quick enough, needing your fingers to touch his sides, pulling him in, digging your nails to the point you leave half-moons in his skin.
And then it became a habit.
Then it bled into the day, him seeking you out to bring you a bottle of water, order food with you. Until he was asked whether you were his girlfriend and he froze.
"What are we?" "Oh." "Oh?" "C'mon, Barnes. You caught me off guard. I didn't really expect this from you." "Because I'm a robot?" "Because you've been through a lot, I didn't want to push. I'm not some cold-hearted bitch, Barnes. It's not like you've had ample amount of time to date with the three billion fights and wars you've had to partake in."
And then, he kissed you. Turning the light off, and sliding out of his clothes as he heard you do the same. He had your back to his chest, hair in a clump in his fist as he slid himself in and out, hearing you chant his name, teasing you for as long as he could handle it.
Wanting it never to end.
Having a feeling once it did, you'd end things. Tell him he's a quick fuck, a friend, or something else which would bruise him more than a bullet or fist ever would.
Instead, when your breathing catches back up with you and he's lying beside you, tracing circles with the index finger on his metal hand. You turn your face, trying to find him in the darkness. 'There's no one else for me, Barnes. Just you,' you had whispered. "Is there for you?"
And he said nothing.
Not even when you dressed and asked him to say something, not even as you yanked open his door, the light illuminating the tears on your cheek.
And he's said nothing since. Nothing outside of mission requirements, anyway.
“You got your wish, I'm being pulled.”
Your voice yanks him out of his thoughts. Eyes locking onto you as you roll your head on your neck, not looking up.
He throws a more intense glare, hoping it'll be enough to force you to meet his gaze. It's all he can do as he tries to stop himself from crossing the small space and dropping to his knees.
Because he's aware he fucked up.
He's aware of that, especially as he watches you stand, you padding around the small place as you retrieve the few things you pulled from your bag. Your head bent, hiding any expression with your hair.
And it's that which pulls him to his feet.
Fingers twitching by his side as he sighs, biting the inside of his mouth as he does so. Unsure what to do next. Only thinking about standing up, and making it right, but not sure how to.
“Gun,“ he says.
Watching you turn on your heels to meet his gaze for the first time in fifteen minutes, eyes narrowing. Unsure what he said, until he holds his hand out, waiting.
Even if he really doesn't want to take it.
Even if he wants to say something else.
Because it would be easy to tell you that you were it. That he was so over the cliff in love with you, he's had a ring in his top drawer. That he had meant to say all of that, he had meant to tell you how he fucking adored you weeks before people made comments around HQ.
But, he hadn't. Because he’s not honest. He can’t be honest. So afraid to have anything with meaning, just in case it comes undone all over again.
Placing your gun in his hand, the coolness of it against his flesh makes him swallow.
"You are a real piece of shit," you whisper, looking down before turning back to your bag. "And an asshole for letting me fall for you when you were going to ignore me the moment it got real."
And it's killing him.
Because you're not wrong. He is an asshole, a piece of shit.
But not for those reasons.
It all builds horribly, sitting on him, squashing him. That every moment outside of the ones he's been sharing with you since that night has been horrendous. It's been awful, lonely, and boring. That even when he's having a bad day, it isn't a terrible day when you're there.
That he wants you to marry him, even if he's ancient, even if he's stubborn and frustrating. Even if you have an issue with listening to him, even if he has to bail you out of things.
Instead of any of that, he rolls his jaw and licks his lips. "I know."
Two words, and the room stills.
He should have guessed it. Anything close to the truth does things to places, it makes room quiet, makes hearts thunder and people freeze. His comment, those two fucking words, doing the same.
"You matter to me."
Turning, you meet his stare, as he breathes in and out.
"But, you know that. You know that because I'm many things but I can't keep shit to myself, even if I can from everyone else," he says, checking the safety before throwing the gun on the bed. "I expected to lose you that night, for you to end it. So, when you didn't, I froze.
"Because, even if I brood, and stew, I also am very much in fucking love with you. So, hate me for being a piece of shit and an asshole, but don't think for a second I don't love you back."
You glare, but it’s softer, your jaw a little less tight and a touch slacker. You don't pull away when he moves closer, placing his hand on your cheek, rubbing a gentle circle against your skin.
“You let me walk out of your door because... what?”
He snorts, running his tongue over his teeth.
He thinks of lying.
Making up something like he'd been warned from hurting you, even if it wasn't a lie but rather something he'd chosen to ignore. He thought of admitting it was because he hasn't been close with someone, like this, since before he was shipped off to war.
But you know that.
Because you know him.
“I... don't know.”
You step closer, face still hard to read, as you glare into his eyes. "Hear me now, James. You ever do that again, and by that I mean let me leave a room thinking something that isn't true, and I'll learn how to remove your arm and shove it so far down your throat your fingers will make friends with your spleen."
Slowly, he smiles. It spreads over his face, meeting his eyes as your head tilts, a twitch occurring at the corners of your lips.
"You understand me?"
Nodding, he wraps a hand around your waist. "Loud and clear."
"Perfect," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "I'll see you when you're back."
Frowning, momentarily forgetting all about you being called away, he reaches for your hand.
"Oh. I'm still needed elsewhere, but it's nice to know you've decided to act your age," you say, with a smirk, pulling your hand from his as you move to the door with your bag. "Enjoy the peace and quiet, Barnes."
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SPILL YOUR GUTS
˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
practice boyfriend! eddie x fem! reader
summary: eddie’s your practice boyfriend. you’re positive he’s upset at you and you’re waiting for him to get mad. however, he has a different response in mind.
cw: references/allusions to past child abuse but extremely vague, references/allusions to bad relationships (also pretty vague), reader acts on a learned response and assumes the worst about Eddie, anxiety
tags/tropes: angst, hurt/comfort (my brand!) sappy sappy romantic idiots, they kiss and figure their mess out at the end
a/n: this came to me in a vision
summary makes this sound smutty but i promise it’s not. this accidentally became disgustingly romantic. read at your own risk :)
࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
You’re positive Eddie’s mad at you.
Okay. Maybe positive is a strong word. But still.
You’ve only been fake/pretend/practice dating Eddie for about two weeks now. He’s the one who approached you with the offer— when you were in the Upside Down together, you’d made an off-hand comment about how you might die without ever having a real boyfriend- not one that mattered, anyway. It’s always kind of been a sore spot for you for a good portion of your life. Growing up, you didn’t really have the best relationship with your dad (Robin likes to call that “The understatement of the year, and we almost died.”) and out of the incredibly small handful of guys you’ve gone out with, none stuck around longer than a month and all ended in such equally, specifically, and uniquely horrific ways, you finally came to the conclusion you had to be fucking something up. What are the chances of all them ended so completely horribly?
After you all had decidedly not died in the Upside Down, Eddie approached you with an offer: pretend date him. You’re popular and well known enough that it’ll help get people off his back about the whole Chrissy/murders thing —even though he’s been absolved of all charges, the people of Hawkins hold grudges— and in exchange, you get a trial run of a relationship that won’t end unless you both agree too— you get to figure out what you’re doing wrong.
You feel bad about it, because even though you spend so much time together, you feel like a nervous wreck. All. The. Time.
You’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop— waiting for him to tell you that you’re too weird, that you’re not considerate enough, that you’re selfish, or that you talk too much.
But he never says any of it. All he ever tells you is the good things. He tells you how sympathetic you are, how kind you are, how good you are at remembering little details that matter. He tells you that you’re a good kisser.
(Yeah. Your first kiss, even after those failed relationships, ended up being with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson. You’re not quite sure you’ll ever forget how you felt when his lips —just a little cracked, but not rough— met yours; when his hair tickled your face and you could faintly smell the cigarette smoke that stubbornly clings to all of his clothes, no matter how many times he washes them. You didn’t tell him he was your first. That’s something you decided you couldn’t bear to share.
You kind of have a feeling he knows anyway, though.)
It all sets you on edge. You’re under no reassurance that you’re perfect. You’re currently questioning if you’re tolerable, from a romantic standpoint.
You know how you are. You’re clinging and you drink up reassurance like a dying man in the desert. You linger in his casual touches like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever feel them. You know you’re a lot. You know. You know that guys in a relationship don’t want ‘a lot’, they want a pretty thing to hang off their arm and laugh at what they say.
But you just… can’t.
You tried, and you tried, and you tried. But you always ended up being too much, or it didn’t work out for some other reason. You want more. You want to feel safe, and happy, and cherished and loved and all those things that only happen in the movies.
The ironic part of all of this is that when you first started setting out terms for your arrangement, Eddie had told you flat out: “This will only work if you are completely and one-hundred percent yourself. You gotta lay it all on me, angel.”
And so you had, and now you regret it because he’s upset about something.
You’d come over to his trailer at his request to ‘hang out’ while he went over DND stuff for his next campaign. Eddie does this a lot— he calls them ‘Neutral Dates’ where you’re not really doing anything in particular- most of the time, you’re both doing seperate things, but still just being in each other’s presence.
It’s nice. The majority of your friend circle consists of everyone involved with the Upside Down and that entire mess. You two are no Steve and Robin (you’re convinced those two have the kind of bond no one can replicate or break. Like the kind of bond stray cats get and then they have to be adopted together) but it’s still nice. To just be with someone.
Even if you feel like you’re walking on eggshells.
It’s not always eggshells. Sometimes, for a a few moments, you forget. You forget it’s all pretend. You forget he’s just a friend helping a friend fulfill a goal. That’s all.
You’ve almost forgotten just now, too— you’re too concerned about what you might’ve done.
He’s not acting angry, per-se, but he’s definitely upset. You tend to pick up on this kind of thing: small changes in someone’s personality or body language. Most of the time it’s not a conscious habit.
Most of the time.
Right now, he’s run his hands through his hair about a million times. It’s become a frizzy mess behind him, and when you’d made an offhand joke about it —an attempt to lighten the mood— all he’d done was scowl. Not at you, really, but the message was there. You’d snapped your jaw shut so fast you’re pretty sure he heard your teeth click.
After that he’d frustratedly made tea for the both of you, which consisted of opening the cupboards faster than he usually did, closing them slightly louder than he usually does, and drumming his fingers impatiently on the stove-top while he waited for the kettle to boil.
All of this you observed from the corner of your eye while ‘reading’ on the couch.
And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when you’d finally mustered up the courage to speak again, a little joke about a part in the book you were reading, all he’d said was a flat:
“That’s great, babe.”
You’re starting to get antsy. Nervous. Maybe you should go? Unless he gets upset at you leaving. That would be bad. But he’s clearly upset with you being here, so maybe you should go.
While you’re debating the pros and cons of leaving, you try to remain as still and silent as possible. No need to upset him anymore by moving too much or being too loud.
You flip a page in the book you’re no longer reading (he might notice you’re not paying attention to it anymore) and decide to test the waters again.
“The author just spelled restaurant wrong. That’s the third spelling mistake I’ve caught in this book.”
“Hmm.”
Okay. So that was worse. Talking to him is out of the question, then. It must be something you did, to warrant this kind of reaction.
You wrack your brain, trying to think of anything you could’ve done in recent hours to make him upset, but you can’t think of anything.
You glance slightly to the right— not far enough that he’ll see you looking at him, but far enough to get a better look at him in your peripheral. He’s glaring down at his campaign notebook. Shit, he looks so angry.
Unbidden, tears begin to well in your eyes and you try to shift, trying to angle yourself away from him enough that he can’t see the tears in your eyes.
But your hand shifts, knocking into his leg.
Fuck. “Sorry!”
You yank you arm back as if burned, jolting back on the couch so you’re in no danger of touching him. “I’m sorry!”
He sits up, immediately snapping to attention at the desperation coloring your voice. “Woah woah, hey. Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
You take a steadying breath. “Did I do something wrong?”
He blinks blankly at you. Oh shit, you’re supposed to know that you’ve done something wrong.
“I mean,” You hurry to correct, “I know I— Can you tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it?”
Understanding floods his features and you brace yourself, ready for the reprimand.
“Can I touch you?”
Now it’s your turn to stare with confusion. You nod once, briefly thinking about how weird it is to ask for permission first.
He sits up on the couch, facing you with his legs crossed, the couch springs squeaking loudly at his movement. You resist the urge to wince. He reaches out with a slow hand, taking the hand that’s still clenched, held away from him and up near your chest.
He stares down at your hand, holding it with his left hand and tracing delicate shapes on it with his right. His ringed fingers drag lines around your knuckles and veins, lingering occasionally over the odd, old scar.
“How long did you think I was upset with you?”
Your heart is racing, muscles tensed and ready to bolt. “Um. A few hours? Maybe?”
You’re hyper-aware of the grip he has on your hand, and how quickly and easy it could become crushing.
It doesn’t.
“Bug,” He says slowly after a moment. At first he used to use pet names as a joke— it was something you’d laugh at, between the two of you, since the relationship wasn’t real.
But recently, he’s been saying them with a different inflection in his tone. A little less teasing, a lot more fond.
“Have you spent the past few hours afraid that I was mad at you?”
He sounds… sad. Which is confusing. It doesn’t— he was. He was.
“But you were,” You say, suddenly unsure about anything and everything. “You were upset.”
“I was upset because I couldn’t work this part of the campaign out, and i’m dramatic. I was never mad at you, honey. I was never mad at you.”
You frown, gears turning in your head. “When I made that joke about your hair, you glared at me. And then when I tried to talk to you, you were upset. You didn’t want to talk.”
“I was jokingly glaring at you, I’m so sorry you thought I was serious. I wasn’t, I promise. I didn’t mean to be dismissive, I was really focusing on writing.”
You’re both silent for a moment. A beat too long. You want to squirm in the unwelcome space the silence has created.
“What did you think I was going to do?”
That is a loaded question.
“I don’t know,” You pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I don’t— I don’t know. That’s the problem. You don’t yell at me, or get angry, or tell me when i’ve made you upset. I don’t know what you’ll do.”
He makes a wounded noise in his throat.
“I know you get angry,” You bulldoze on, “I’ve seen it. You’re so… loud, in everything you do. I know you get angry. But you never get that same kind of loud angry at me and I don’t know what to do because that means that I upset you and you don’t tell me about it and then I don’t know how to fix it. I have to fix it, Eddie.”
His eyes, deep and brown, search your face. He reaches up a hand, painfully slow, to cup your face. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you tip your head to the side, leaning into the job.
“I’m gonna tell you something, Bug. Are you listening?” He waits for you to hum in confirmation before continuing. “You’re not responsible for my moods. Or anyone else’s for that matter. That’s not your job. You don’t have to fix it.”
He reaches his second hand up to cup the other side of your face. “You know why I don’t get angry at you? Not all loud and dramatic like that? Because I’ve seen how you react when people do. And I never, ever want to be the reason you get that look in your eye. I never want to make you afraid. I never want you to believe, with proof and confidence, that I’ve grown sick of you.”
You open your eyes, eyes darting across the planes of his face. Searching for even the smallest hint, the smallest giveaway that he might be lying.
You can’t find any. In its place, you find eyes, shining with pure determination. You find lips parted ever so slightly, a sad-sort of smile being etched into being. You find two hands on your face, thumbs delicately sweeping across the skin of your under-eye, of your cheekbone. Smoothing away the steady tears that had begun falling, wiping away the hot trails they leave on your face.
And you realize all at once that love isn’t like the movies. It isn’t picture-perfect kisses. It isn’t ball gowns and dresses and kisses in the rain. It isn’t like the love you thought you were supposed to have: empty and hollow; a life of hanging off of arms and praying your next slip-up didn’t cost you your relationship.
It was this.
It was just being. Just being and knowing the other person is there for just that— for you. It was not raising your voice. It was carrying extra hair-ties. It was making two cups of coffee. It was steeping tea for an extra couple of minutes, just the way he liked it. It was playing your favorite music in the car, and looking over at each other during the bridge, belting the lyrics with the same, toothy-smile. So full and so happy you just keep screaming the lyrics, because you’re filled with so much you don’t know where to put it all.
Your tears begin to fall in earnest now. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but for a different reason now. You’re struck with the need to convey all of this to him— to tell him you understand, you know, you feel the same.
“These hair ties,” You shove your wrist up to his eye-line. “They’re for you. Because you always forget your own. And— and I steep the tea for a few extra minutes, because you like your tea strong, and you didn’t just find that tape in your van, I bought it ‘cause I know you lost the old one in the Upside Down, ‘cause it felt out of your pocket.”
You’re babbling, nearly choking on your tears and your words, rushing them all out of your mouth in an aching wish to be understood, in this very moment.
“I know,” He says, voice a little hysteric and eyes a little too bright. His lip wobbles. He presses your face tighter in his hands. “I know. I know. I see you. I see you.”
You stay like that for a little while. At some point, your hands find his wrists, and then you’re just two fools, smiling like idiots with tears streaming down your faces, staring into each others eyes.
Eventually, Eddie clears his throat. “The next time you think I’m upset at you, you tell me, okay? You can ask. You can ask me and I pinky promise I won’t get mad.”
You giggle wetly. “Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear,” He says, taking his left hand away from your face to hold up his pinky. You intertwine yours and his together, the both of you laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
He gets quiet for a moment; removes his hands from your face and instead clasps, your hands together, resting in your lap.
“You know why I never tell you when you’re being a bad practice girlfriend?” He says, his voice low and soft.
“How come?”
He smiles, full and good. “Because you’re not. You’re so sweet and kind and loving. And if you’d let me, I’d really like to kiss you right now.”
You furrow your brows. “The real kind? The I-love-you kind?”
Your face flushes over the words ‘I love you.’
“I’ve always kissed you for real,” He says, words laden with fondness. “Ever since the day we met and you slapped the shit out of me for being stupid. I’ve been hopelessly obsessed ever since. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice.”
You suck in a breath. “So all of this— the, the dates and the hanging out and the kissing— that’s all been real?”
“Every last bit.”
“Then in that case,” You say, squeezing his hands. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”
He leans in, slotting your lips together and everything just clicks. Like this is where you’re meant to be. Maybe it’s puppy love. Maybe it’s not.
All you know is that Eddie Munson is kissing you for real, and he always has been. You couldn’t ask for anything better.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
The Love Triangle from Hell - Series Masterlist
Steve Harrington x F!Reader / Eddie Munson x F!Reader
Synopsis: Nancy is with Jonathan; Steve is still in love with Nancy; You're in love with Steve; Eddie's in love with you; Robin just wanted to have a movie night but everyone is making it weird.
Warnings: messy messy feelings; unrequited love; cursing; arguments; crying; angst angst angsty angst; drinking; Robin literally just trying to live her life but her friends are all idiots
This series with be 18+ in later chapters MINORS DNI
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR (18+)
PART FIVE
BONUS CONTENT:
Electric Touch
Supposed Distraction
Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader
Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.
Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”
Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”
Word Count: 7.6k
Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart
Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
You always knock four times.
It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.
The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.
“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”
You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”
Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”
“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.
But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.
It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.
You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.
You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!
He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.
You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.
But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.
Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.
The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.
Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.
Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.
You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.
Honestly, you didn’t argue.
There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.
After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.
You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.
Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.
“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.
“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”
One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”
Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.
“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.
You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.
“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”
Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.
“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”
You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.
But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.
“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.
Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”
You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.
You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”
Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.
“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”
“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”
You would love to face-palm yourself right now.
Why would you even say that?
There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.
God, you are terrible at this.
Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.
Panic rises.
“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”
You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.
A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.
“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.
You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”
You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.
“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”
You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.
Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.
Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.
You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.
He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.
“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.
Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”
You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.
Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”
You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”
His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.
“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”
Your pulse spikes. Bastard.
With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.
Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.
“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.
Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.
“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”
There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.
He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.
You swallow.
“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.
Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.
“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”
Your stomach drops.
Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.
You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”
Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.
His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.
“You,” he says simply.
You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.
For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.
You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.
He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.
“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.
“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”
“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.
You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”
“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.
It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.
But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.
Your spine goes rigid.
Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.
Another thud.
Yeah, so, that was that.
You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.
Y: What are you guys doing out there?
The reply comes almost immediately.
S: Just keep Barnes inside.
You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.
Bucky is already standing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.
Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”
Something clenches in your gut.
Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.
But that is not what is happening out there.
You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”
Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”
But you don’t let him finish.
You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.
Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.
Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.
Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”
“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”
Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”
“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.
They both exchange a glance.
You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”
“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”
“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”
“That’s not-”
“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”
Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”
Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.
You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.
Bucky is exactly where you left him.
Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.
He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.
You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.
“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.
It does not work.
Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.
“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”
You try to press down the lump in your throat.
“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.
He cocks his head slightly.
Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.
You are so screwed.
You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.
“It’s nothing, Bucky.”
Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.
Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.
Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.
The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.
His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”
Shit.
Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.
You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”
“You sure?” He almost laughs.
“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?
“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.
Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.
A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.
And guilt hits you.
How do you get out of this?
But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.
“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.
Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.
You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?
Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.
“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”
You just stare at him.
Your heart is hammering.
What the hell are you doing?
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.
But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.
Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.
This is getting way too serious.
Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.
You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.
But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.
No time like the present.
Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.
Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?
His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”
Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.
“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”
“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.
Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.
How do you even start this?
You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.
“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”
Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”
You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”
Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”
“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”
His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”
“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”
Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.
“Look at me, please.”
You try, but it’s hard.
It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.
But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.
He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.
His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.
“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”
Your heart plummets like a stone.
“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”
God, why does he have to be so good?
His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.
You don’t want to cry.
You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.
Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”
You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”
Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.
“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”
He’s right.
“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”
You could lie. Again.
You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.
You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.
You could tell him the truth about the party.
Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.
Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.
You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”
His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.
And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.
You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.
His head dips in a nod for you to go on.
You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”
But then something catches your attention.
The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.
Painstakingly slow.
You stiffen.
Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.
You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.
Steve and Sam.
They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.
Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.
They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.
You don’t think about anything.
Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.
Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.
He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.
His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.
Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.
But you just made this worse.
And you are still holding his face between your hands.
Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.
Your pulse is a drum against your throat.
You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.
But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.
He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.
He watches you. You watch him back.
“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.
You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.
But Bucky still doesn’t move.
His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.
He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.
And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.
There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.
But there is movement in your peripheral.
Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.
And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.
Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.
The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.
The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.
Your brain short-circuits.
Like completely.
Totally.
Lacking any sense.
Not only do you pull his face back.
You pull it in.
“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.
Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.
Another bump.
You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.
Bucky freezes.
And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.
Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.
But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.
You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.
For a full few seconds, nothing happens.
But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.
You don’t pull away.
Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.
You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.
But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.
They are gone now.
Bucky still isn’t moving.
He’s not breathing.
He’s not reacting.
And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.
Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.
This isn’t just a cover-up.
Your lips are still on Bucky’s.
Your hands are still gripping his face.
And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.
Then the tension snaps.
Bucky exhales against you.
It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.
His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.
But you don’t pull back.
You don’t want to pull back.
And that’s when he melts.
He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.
Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.
He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.
But then something changes.
Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.
And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.
He pulls you in.
His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.
The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.
His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.
He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.
You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.
The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.
And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.
Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.
A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.
He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.
You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.
His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.
Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.
But maybe you already have.
Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.
He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.
This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.
But hell, it’s not.
It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.
When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.
Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.
His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.
You open your eyes.
His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.
A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.
Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.
It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.
“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.
You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.
“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.
“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”
His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.
Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.
His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.
It’s everything.
You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.
There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.
“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.
His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.
Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.
You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”
Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.
“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.
Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”
You blink at him.
Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.
“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”
Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.
Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.
His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.
Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.
“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”
- Zankhana
Sleeper
Summary : When Bucky falls in love with the antihero he’s sleeping with, he offers her a place in the Thunderbolts*.
Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x antihero!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Violence, death, sex (a prominent theme but not graphic), cursing. Borderline obsessive behaviour. Congressman Barnes as per the Thunderbolts teaser. Batman/Catwoman-like dynamic. (Let me know if I miss anything.)
Word count : 6.5k
Note : This fic was genuinely written because of the van scene in the Thunderbolts trailer. That’s it. That’s how down bad I am for Thunderbolts Bucky. Reader is an antihero called ‘Sleeper.’ The Thunderbolts are referred to as ‘the team.’ The reader and Bucky first met a little bit before FATWS. I also have a cap! Sam fic coming out soon because my god. I am drooling over these two. Enjoy!
Bucky first heard of your existence in whispers.
He had heard your codename in hushed tones when he got off the ice in Wakanda, after Shuri helped rid his brain of the trigger words that haunted him.
Several of the Dora Milaje had crossed paths with you in Ivory Coast, and they had told everyone in the palace about how terrifyingly efficient—and violent— you had been. They said you finished the job before they even got there.
Your codename was nothing but silent rumours by those on the fringes of the intelligence community. They called you ‘Sleeper’— it wasn't a name you chose for yourself, but you have chosen to embrace the fear that people associated with it.
You were an antihero, a vigilante who left rivers of blood in your wake.
Four years ago, you started tracking down the same corrupt officials and Hydra remnants that Bucky was trying to arrest.
The difference: Bucky set out to turn them in, you had your heart set on killing them, fast and efficient, as you always have been.
The first time you crossed paths with the former Winter Soldier, it was in a crumbling KGB safehouse in Eastern Europe. Bucky had taken down most of the guards, ready to haul the high-ranking operative to a jail cell in DC where he can await his trial. He was tired, the strain of therapy and sleepless nights holding him down, but this mission kept him focused.
But when he reached the operative’s office, the target was already slumped over his desk, cold and lifeless.
"Guess I beat you to it, soldier," you said, voice laced with a confidence that made his stomach twist. You let him process the sight of you—fitted black suit, gloved hands, and a smirk that told him you were not only dangerous, but damn well aware of it. A mask obscured your eyes, but even with half of your face covered, he could see how smug you looked.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” he said, voice low.
“Good thing I wasn’t asking for you permission.” You tilted your head, the ghost of a laugh in your voice. You were watching him, sizing him up with those sharp eyes that felt like they could through see every part of him he tried to keep hidden.
“Sergeant James Barnes, right?” You said his name with a familiarity that sent a jolt through him. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Never thought I’d actually run into you, though. Lucky night for me.”
He narrowed his eyes, not trusting this mysterious stranger, though he couldn’t deny he was intrigued. “And you are…?”
“I have no name to claim for myself,” you shrugged, leaning back against the wall, “but people call me Sleeper.” You let the name linger, knowing he’d recognize it.
His memory reeled back to Ayo and the Dora Milaje, who had warned him of you: ruthless, volatile. A ghost who disappeared without a trace, always a step ahead. He’d just never expected Sleeper to be… so easy on the eyes.
“I didn’t ask for your help.” He repeated with no conviction. He narrowed his eyes at the body. “Especially not like this.”
You shrugged, pushing off the wall and strolling over. “Relax, soldier,” your gaze met his, “I only go after the ones who deserve it. Just because I do it my way doesn’t mean I’m the villain here.”
“Still doesn’t make it right,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of curiosity underneath his stormy blue eyes.
“Then stop me,” you challenged softly, leaning close enough to feel his breath. “If you can.”
His breath hitched ever so slightly.
You grinned, a spark of intrigue lighting up in your gaze. “I’ll be waiting, James.”
And before he could respond, you were gone.
He knew he should’ve stopped you— but some part of him was glad he hadn’t.
As you disappeared, he felt something he hadn’t in a long, long time: excitement.
—
From that day on, Bucky couldn’t get you out of his head.
At first, it was frustrating. You were hard to track, ruthless—and yet there was a sickening righteous principle to your actions that he couldn’t deny.
As the weeks went by, something else rooted in his brain when he thought of you. Fascination.
His mind often wandered about you during his quiet, sleepless nights, wondering who you were beneath the mask, beneath the mystery and the whispers.
Sam noticed, of course. He'd raise an eyebrow whenever Bucky lingered too long over case files where you'd been mentioned. He’d nudge if he seemed overly eager to volunteer for missions that involved your typical targets.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll show,” Sam teased once, nudging Bucky. “She’s dangerous, though. Is that your type?”
Bucky scoffed, but he knew Sam was right. And maybe that danger was part of what kept him intrigued.
—
The next time you crossed paths, it was in a dark alleyway, both of you dripping with sweat and breathing heavily after taking down an underground fighting ring.
“You know,” he’d said, “killing them doesn’t make it justice.”
“You think turning them in is enough?” Your voice had cut through the air like a knife, but there was no malice behind it. You wanted him to understand your line of thinking, wanted him to know. “People like them are everywhere. They’ll get out. They’ll come back.”
“So you think you get to decide whether they live or die?” he challenged, jaw tight.
“No,” you said, readjusting your mask. “But I do it anyway.” There was a flicker of sadness in your gaze that he noticed, even if you tried to hide it.
What had happened to you? He thought to himself. What have you been through?
In that moment, he noticed the pain behind your eyes, the kind of pain he knew intimately. You weren’t just someone who killed for vengeance; you must have had your reasons. You must have carried scars that ran deep, maybe deeper than his.
—
From that point on, Bucky made it a habit to look for you on every mission. It was like an unspoken game, this cat-and-mouse chase. Every time he saw you, the tension between you grew.
Sometimes, he’d get there first, managing to intercept before you could execute the target. Other times, you’d arrive at the same time. He’d try to talk you out of it, to make you see things his way, but you’d laugh him off, the kind of laugh that hinted at more than your fair share of heartache.
And sometimes, you’d tease him, push boundaries he wasn’t sure he should cross.
“You like this, don’t you, James?” You’d whisper it low, close enough for him to catch your scent, a faint hint of gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The chase. Getting to play the hero while I get my hands dirty.”
He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t.
—
Bucky grew obsessed, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Every encounter left him more and more drawn to you. He’d search for files on you for days on end without sleep, but all he found were reports with no concrete evidence. He found himself looking for excuses to track your movements, hoping he’d be there to stop you but not quite sure he wanted to succeed.
One night, after another close call, you leaned into him as he pushed you up against the wall. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the electricity charged in the space between you. You looked up at him, the smallest hint of vulnerability peeking through your mask.
“Why do you keep doing this, James?” you asked, voice softer this time. “You can’t save me.”
“Maybe not,” he replied, frowning as his eyes looked down to the edge of your lips, “but I can try.”
That night, he wondered just how long he could keep up this dance before one of you finally gave in.
—
One night, while you were on a caper in Prague, everything changed for the two of you.
The mission had been bloody, chaotic, and a little too close to mayhem for Bucky’s liking. You had taken down an entire network of arms dealers, setting fire to one of their last remaining munitions blocks and leaving it to burn.
Bucky had arrived too late, frantically trying to contain the chaos you’d left in your wake, alerting local authorities, making sure the flames didn’t spread to a nearby market.
When he caught up to you, adrenaline ran hot through his veins.
He'd followed you through winding streets and up dark staircases, up to the hotel you were holed up in. He followed you into your room, locking you both in.
His voice was tight, anger simmering beneath. “You’re careless.” His blue eyes were striking underneath the european moonlight, “you could’ve taken out half the neighbourhood, and for what?”
“I got the job done, James.” You shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “It’s not pretty, but it works.”
He stepped closer, and you held his gaze, “You know, I’d turn you in if you weren’t so…” he paused, his voice faltering, as if the words were lodged in his throat, “Weren’t so…”
Your pulse quickened. “If I weren’t so what?” You snapped, daring him to finish, to admit what had been hanging between you two since the day you met.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you into a fierce, bruising kiss.
You didn’t hesitate—you kissed him back with just as much fire, your hands tangling in his hair.
Bucky’s hands found your waist, fingers digging in with enough pressure to leave marks. He pushed you back until your shoulders hit the wall, lips moving down your jaw, then hot against your neck. His breaths were ragged, matching your own, and he was holding you as if letting go would mean losing control entirely.
You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips as his mouth found a sensitive spot on the dip in your collarbone, his hands roaming possessively over your back, down your sides.
You pulled him back to your mouth, desperately needing that connection.
When you finally broke apart for air, his forehead rested against yours. You untied your mask and threw it across the room.
Fuck. he thought as his eyes widened, taking in your full facial features for the first time. You were even more beautiful than I imagined you to be.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself, I’m done for.
He was ready to throw you in jail cell. Instead, he ended up in your bed.
That night, in the dim light of your cheap hotel room, clothes were shed in hurried, frustrated movements, and all that pent-up tension finally found its release.
That first time had been desperate, raw. Both of you were driven by the need to let go, to feel something other than the weight of the cold blooded kills and the darkness you both carried.
Ever since then, every time you crossed paths, it was the same: adrenaline-fueled clashes and heated conversations about morality turned into hotel room rendezvous, hands grasping, lips colliding, both of you seeking the kind of solace you could only ever find in each other.
—
You’d never admitted it out loud, but Bucky had an effect on you. When he was around, you found yourself hesitating just that split second longer before slicing your target’s arteries and leaving them to bleed.
You didn’t feel the need to wipe out every enemy anymore, and his disapproval of your methods had started haunting you in ways you’d never expected. Maybe that was why you’d started allowing him to find you more often, taking on jobs you knew he’d be there for.
It was a dangerous game, but you kept playing it. He was obsessed with finding you, and you weren’t about to stop him.
He’d learned to read you better, your patterns, the places you tended to show up. By the time you landed in some city on the opposite end of the globe, he’d be there like clockwork, showing up right before you finished a job, confronting you before you could disappear into the night.
But the nights you spent together were… different.
You never asked about each other’s pasts; you kept it in the here and now, keeping him at a safe distance even as you let him pull you under the covers time and again.
Every time he asked your real name, you’d smile and brush him off, deflecting his curiosity with a kiss or a teasing answer. He didn’t press, but you could see the questions in the way his brow furrowed, could feel the affection in the way he lingered in the mornings after, with a soft smile in his eyes that made your heart beat faster.
Each time, he told himself it was just catharsis, just a release of frustration for both of you, nothing more. But that excuse had worn thin over the years, and Bucky knew it as well as you did.
He knew it wasn’t one sided either. He wasn’t blind to the way you’d look at him as he drifted to sleep next to you. Once, he caught a flicker of something vulnerable in your eyes before you put the walls back up.
And God, was he drawn to you, to the side of you that fought so fiercely, that showed just enough vulnerability to keep him coming back. He was so fucking desperate to understand you better, to see more of the person underneath the mask.
—
One night, after a mission in Manila, you’d both ended up in a small, worn-down cheap hotel room overlooking the city lights. You were leaning against the headrest of the bed, a hint of sweat clinging to your skin, breathing still unsteady as you came down from the high you gave each other.
He watched you, his gaze lingering on the barely-perceptible rise and fall of your chest.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. There was a tremor in your tone, a flicker of something vulnerable that he wasn’t sure you meant for him to hear.
“Like what?” he asked, nuzzling closer to you. His now long hair was tied back in a low bun, your hair tie holding it together because he didn't have one of his own.
“Like you want something from me that I’m too broken to give,” you said, refusing to meet his eyes. But he reached for you, tipping your chin up until you had no choice but to look at him, and there it was—that flicker of affection he knew ran just as deep in you as it did in him.
“Maybe I want it anyway,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet intensity. “You ever think of that?”
“This is just a release, James.” Your gaze softened for just a second, long enough for him to catch it before you shook your head, pulling yourself from his grasp. “It’s just something we both need.”
Even as you said it, you weren't convinced. He reached for you again, pulling you close, and kissed you because that was the only thing you’d let him do.
You melted into him once more, you found yourself wondering just how much longer you could keep him at arm’s length.
—
The shift in Bucky’s life had been as dramatic as it was unexpected. You’d never pegged him for politics—neither had he, to be fair—but here he was, representing his district, looking sharp in a suit that cost more than the last few hotels you’d met in combined.
He’s upgraded. Freshly elected, polished up, all suited and respectable as a congressman, fighting for reform from a marble office by day and for justice in dark alleys by night.
But tonight, with that half-smile he only gets with you, he’s still the same— still carrying that simmering tension in his lips, his hair tousled from a long night of pursuing you through the shadows.
After a mission that had you both knee-deep in an abandoned bunker hunting a rogue assassin, you found yourself together once again. Only this time, the hotel he’d booked was far from cheap.
He brought you to a five-star suite. The bed was massive, the sheets soft, and the view from the window sprawled out over the city skyline, a stark contrast to the dingy rooms you’d gotten used to.
Now, lying beside him in the rumpled silk sheets, you watched him catch his breath. You moved off of his lap to lay next to him, euphoric from the guilty pleasure you both indulged in.
“You know, the second someone finds out Congressman Barnes has a relationship with a violent vigilante, you’re out of office.”
He looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Relationship?”
Fuck. He caught you slipping up. He caught you thinking about a relationship with him.
“Casual sex is still a relationship, James.” You shrugged, trying to save face. You turned to him, with a lazy, unconvinced smile, “Strings attached or not, it counts.”
He shifted, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched your wall break, even if only one brick at a time. “Casual,” His fingers traced idle patterns along your bare shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Unless you’re pretending you don’t want it anymore.” You paused, leaning closer, “Or maybe you just like that I could ruin everything. That I could say one word to the press, post one picture online and your reputation is finished. You’d be back to square one.”
He chuckled, his fingers grazing down your arm. It was terrifying, how comfortable he’d become with you. “I trust that you wouldn’t,” he said softly, voice laced with that steady confidence, like he knows you better than you know yourself.
His declaration hung in the air, and you felt guilt striking in your chest.
This wasn’t supposed to be part of this arrangement. Trust was for partners, for couples, for people who wanted things that lasted.
You shook it off, leaning back, a little smirk tugging at your lips as you lifted a brow. “You’re right. I do have a soft spot for you, Congressman Barnes,” you added, the title rolling off your tongue with a touch of sarcasm, “Consider it my gift to democracy.”
He laughed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. His hand drifted down to catch yours, holding it in a way that felt too natural, too comfortable for what you were supposed to be.
You both knew, despite the banter and the invisible boundaries, this thing between you was already past casual. It was the reason he keeps showing up where you showed up, the reason you’re letting him into your life in ways you never let anyone before. You were both just too stubborn to say it.
He pulled you closer, pressing his lips to yours in a way that feels almost… affectionate. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it, forgetting the consequences, the danger, the fact that this man might just unravel you completely and you would have no say in it whatsoever.
When you pulled back, his fingers trailed over your bare waist. “Maybe it’s more than just a soft spot,” he suggested, his voice barely above a whisper.
You raised an eyebrow, heart beating out of your chest. “Let’s not get sentimental, James,” you brushed, letting your fingers graze his jaw as you murmured, “You’ve got an image to protect, after all.”
He lets out a sigh that’s part laughter, part frustration. He knew you were deflecting. “Right,” he said, brushing his lips against yours again.
“You and your image,” you chuckled, “Out there, shaking hands and making speeches about justice while you sneak off to hotel rooms with someone like me.”
He grinned, not a trace of shame in his expression as he turned his gaze back to you. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line. Even if it takes…” His voice lowered, dropping into that deep, teasing tone that made your stomach knot. “…a hands-on approach.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re the last person who’d ever get me in line, James.” You leaned closer, though you didn't believe a single word you said.
There was a long silence for a while. He eventually reached out, brushing a lock of hair back from your face, his thumb tracing over your cheek.
“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.”
As the city lights cast a faint glow over the room, you lay there in silence, limbs tangled together in a way that felt a little less no strings attached every time.
—
The next time you meet, you were on a late-night operation on the dark outskirts of the city. You’ve tracked down a group of mercenaries. They’re as ruthless as they were careless, leaving a trail of devastation across the criminal underworld. But tonight, their recklessness will end with you.
You moved through in silence, precise, methodical. One by one, you took them down, not killing, but incapacitating them. Your fists were quick, your strikes precise. It’s what you’ve done for years, a grim pattern of efficiency that never required a second blow. Just as you reached the man who hired them with your knife drawn—a local crime lord—you felt his presence before you saw him.
“Think twice, Sleeper,” Bucky said from behind you.
You froze, heart pounding as you stood over the crime lord begging for mercy. It would be so easy to end this now, but with Bucky watching, you hesitated.
You lowered the knife.
Instead of killing him, you tied him up alongside the other mercenaries, ignoring the questions in their fearful eyes. Bucky made a call, alerting local authorities to pick up the mess you’ve left behind.
“What now?” you asked, walking away from the carnage. You were expecting the usual pattern: another hotel room, a brief reprieve from the violence, nothing more.
But he surprised you, lacing his hand in between your fingers, warm and secure.
He had never, ever, showed affection outside closed doors.
“Come with me.”
—
You didn’t expect Bucky to take you back to his place, but soon you were standing outside a sleek high-rise in the heart of the city. You followed him up to his penthouse apartment. It’s almost disorienting— the polished floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You found yourself standing in the quiet entryway of his home. The walls were painted in light, earthy tones, and the furniture was clean, modern, yet warm.
You glanced around, taking in the small details that hinted at Bucky's life beyond the missions. There were bookshelves lined with novels and memoirs, some old and looked like first editions, others barely touched. A few black-and-white photographs decorated the walls—New York City at dusk, a forest path, a beach sunset. It was an oddly peaceful place for a man like him. Certainly too peaceful for someone as broken as you.
“This is risky, James,” you said, looking up at him as he closed the door behind him “Showing me where you live.”
“No, it's not,” he replied, his conviction absolute. “I trust you.”
There it was again. That word. Trust. The thing you never quite knew what to do with, especially coming from him.
You studied the way his favourite leather jacket was tossed on a chair, a half-read book by the couch. It felt like stepping across an invisible line. You set your mask down on the table before he grabbed your waist and pulled you close.
“This feels like crossing a boundary, James,” you admitted. You knew he should pull back, give you a chance to retreat. But you didn't want him to.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he cupped your face as he tilted your chin up gently. “What boundary?” he asked.
He knew that there were nothing separating you two. Not anymore.
The space between you vanished as his lips met yours. You kissed him back, losing yourself in the process of tasting him. His hands slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer. Kissing him felt like falling— like surrender.
You made your way to his bedroom, bodies tangled together, a blur of heated whispers and gasping breaths. Clothes fell away, discarded like old skin. The way he looked at you, it was like he was memorising every inch of you.
In that moment, you realised: the boundary had never been there. Not for him. Maybe not for you either.
—
The room was quiet as you lay tangled up in Bucky’s sheets. The duvet smelled like him, unlike the neutral, sterile scent of the usual hotel sheets.
You’d never admit it, but it was intoxicating.
The satisfied pulsing in your body had put a hazy filter over everything.
Bucky smiled softly, kissing your forehead before reaching to his bedside drawer, pulling out a small glass box, placing it gently on your palm.
"Here," he murmured, almost shyly. He opened the box to reveal a hair tie inside.
Oh. You recognised it. The ends were a bit frayed, the colour faded.
It was the hair tie you’d given him in Manila, a lifetime ago, a little piece of you that he’d tucked away in a corner of his home
You blinked, caught off guard. "You still have that?"
He shrugged, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. Was he… embarrassed? "I thought it was... worth keeping."
"Careful, James,” you couldn't help but tease him, nuzzling closer into his arms. “Keep this up and you might just start falling in love with me."
You felt his breath hitch.
He looked up, finally. Nervously.
Instead of denying it, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, warm whisper. "Would that be so bad?"
His fingers brushed against yours, sending a shiver through your spine. Your heart fluttered irregularly, your head spinning in a daze as you tried to keep your thoughts down.
No.
You couldn’t let him see that he was getting to you like this, so you did what you always did: you deflected, grinning forcefully and rolling your eyes.
"Yeah, right," you said, brushing off the moment. As much as it broke your heart to deny the truth, you were doing it for his sake and yours. "I'm not that easy to love, James."
He chuckled softly, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin as he pulled you closer, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Maybe that's why I do."
You shifted away from him, wrapping yourself in the sheets as if they could shield you from what he was offering — and from the ache in his gaze.
"We can’t…" you said, voice barely above a whisper. "We can’t do this."
Bucky's eyes darkened, but he would be alright. He expected this from you.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire for you and something else… there was something bigger.
"I need to tell you something," he said quietly. “I have… a team.”
That caught you off guard.
Bucky? On a team? He’d always seemed like a lone wolf, just like you.
“There’s a couple of former Widows, who you’d get along with. Two other super soldiers. And someone who can… phase. Quantum experiment gone wrong.” He paused, “We’re trying to make something real here. And it’s missing someone.” His fingers trailed down your forearm, eventually clasping your palm in his, “It’s missing you.”
He pushed a strand of hair behind your ears, trailing your jawline delicately with his metal hand, “I need you.”
The invitation went unanswered for a moment. You swallowed, caught off-guard by how badly he seemed to want this, how he wanted you to be part of it.
“I work alone, James,” you said, brushing off the offer with a small, bitter smile. “You know that.”
“But why not?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Why won’t you let someone else in for once?”
The frustration in his tone was raw, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of pain flash across his face from this rejection.
“This is your chance to do something good the right way,” he pressed, and there was a quiet urgency in his voice. “No more hunting down bad guys with no direction. No more living like you’ve got nothing left to lose.”
His words sank in, and your walls felt shakier than ever. The idea of leaving the past behind, of actually building something… you hadn’t let yourself imagine it in years.
“Just think about it,” he said softly, placing his forehead on yours. “You don't have to decide now. Just… consider it.”
You gave a noncommittal shrug, but the truth was that his offer echoed in your mind, louder than you wanted to admit. He smiled at your dismissiveness, recognizing the crack in your armour. He didn’t push further.
You realised that for the first time in a long time, you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to say no.
—
The next time you saw Bucky was in the middle of a mission neither of you had wanted.
Just a week had passed since you’d spent the night in his apartment. Since then, you had told yourself you shouldn’t return. You couldn’t. You were getting too close, feeling too much.
It was getting dangerous.
But then Bucky had reached out to you, voice tight and desperate, the kind of desperation that stripped away all his pride. It was a vulnerability even you hadn't seen from him before. His team was in over their heads, he’d said. He needed you.
You’d agreed to help, but you’d been careful to remind him that this was a one-time thing. One mission, and that was it.
But then everything went wrong.
It happened so fast, you barely understood how everything had gone wrong.
You were with Bucky, fighting side-by-side, the two of you moving as if connected by some invisible thread.
You had taken a blow, separating you from everyone else. You tried standing up but fuck! The impact had shattered your ankle, sending a searing pain through your leg. Your nerves were on fire in a way they had never been before.
You couldn't move.
You couldn't get up. Couldn’t run.
And then the ground shifted, an explosion roared from behind, and the next thing you knew, a van was thrown across the road, hurtling straight toward you.
For a single, frozen heartbeat, you realised this was it.
It was over.
You saw the faces of bystanders staring from the sidewalk, their eyes wide, too horrified to look away. You let go of the cold steel of your knife still gripped in your hand. The acrid taste of smoke on your tongue intensified. And the truck—a wall of twisted metal hurtling closer, closer, impossibly fast.
You’d spent so many years brushing so close to death that you always thought you’d be ready.
But now, all you felt was regret.
Regret that this was how you’d die: in the middle of a cold, empty street, surrounded by strangers who would never remember you, never know who you were or what you’d done.
Alone.
You thought of Bucky in those last seconds—his quiet smiles, the way he’d look at you like he could see through every wall you put up, the silent crutch he’d offered without expecting anything in return. Bucky, who’d trusted you, who’d somehow cared for you even after everything you’d done.
For the first time, you felt regret for every life you’d taken, every person you’d left to die in your wake.
Your life had been nothing but survival and bloodshed. You had told yourself it was necessary, that it was the only way. But here, now, with your own death inches away, it all felt hollow.
You’d given up hope, abandoned the idea of redemption long ago—because you were too broken.
And yet, with Bucky, something had changed. He had looked at you and somehow seen past it all. He’d made you feel as if maybe, just maybe, you were something more than the ghost you’d become. Maybe, instead of running, you could have found a way to fight for something real, something that mattered.
Maybe you could have been someone better.
You would never know now.
The world narrowed, and you braced yourself for the inevitable, hoping it would be quick and painless. Your fingers tightened, clinging to the memory of him in those last, precious seconds as you waited to feel the impact—
But it never came.
Instead, there was a rush of air, a deafening crash, and then—silence. You blinked, dazed, your heart still hammering, and when you looked up, Bucky was standing there, his metal arm outstretched, braced against the van that he’d deflected away.
He turned to face you, his expression raw, worry carved deep into his features as he scanned you, checking for injuries. For a moment, he just stared, his breathing uneven, as if he’d been the one facing certain death.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice panicked.
You tried to answer, but the words tangled, caught in your throat. You managed a nod, barely able to process what had just happened.
“Shit,” he kneeled next to you, “Is your ankle broken, can you walk?”
You stared at him, trembling as he tore a part of his shirt and wrapped it around your injury for support.
Bucky had saved you. He had thrown himself in front of a hurtling vehicle without a moment of hesitation, as if your life were worth that sacrifice.
He had saved you.
You were alive because of him.
Alive, when you’d already accepted that you were going to die alone.
No one had ever done that for you. No one had ever saved you—not like this, not without asking anything in return. Hell, you never thought that you deserved to be saved.
“You’re okay, Sleeper,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was reassuring himself as much as you. “I’m here.”
His words settled into the cracks that had broken open inside you, filling them in ways you hadn’t thought possible. You hadn’t realised how empty you’d felt until now, how long you’d carried the weight of loneliness, of believing that this life—this endless, solitary fight—was all you deserved.
Bucky made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be alone. That maybe, even after all you’d done, there was a place for you outside the shadows.
“Don’t call me that,” your voice trembled, “I don’t want you to call me Sleeper anymore.”
Bucky stopped for a second, confused. “What do you want me to call you, then?”
You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Something inside you broke, raw and vulnerable, and the name you’d hidden for years slipped from your lips before you even realised it. Your real name—your last, fragile piece of self you’d kept locked away, hoping one day you’d be able to reclaim it.
It felt right with Bucky, like you could trust him with it, like you could let yourself be seen.
Bucky’s eyes widened, his face softening as he repeated it, almost reverent, like he wanted to remember how it felt to say it.
Hearing him say your name, like a prayer, like it was sacred, like it mattered— tore down whatever walls you had left. He’d given you something you didn’t know you could have: the feeling of belonging to yourself again. The feeling of belonging to the world again.
Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers shaking. He moved, pulling you closer. His touch was grounding, steady—a lifeline that anchored you to the moment, to this fragile reality where you didn’t have to be alone anymore.
You pressed your lips to his, but this kiss was different— it wasn't casual or sexual as it has always been. This time, it was gentle, carrying something other than desire, something precious and fragile.
Something worth nurturing.
When you finally pulled away, he looked at you lovingly.
“I’ll join you,” you said, the words coming from some deep part of you that had been waiting for someone to give you this chance, this choice.
Now you realised that this choice was yours all along. All you had to do was take it.
And you did, because maybe, instead of running from yourself, you could find a way to make things right. Maybe you could fight for something greater than yourself.
For the first time, wrapped in Bucky’s embrace, you believed that maybe you could be someone worth saving.
—
A month later, you were all gathered around a small campfire, tucked away in a quiet corner of nowhere.
The night was cool, the fire warm, and laughter bubbled up from the group as you shared bits and pieces of each other's lives.
“Team bonding,” John had said.
John passed around a nearly empty bag of marshmallows, Alexei poked at the fire, and Yelena and Ava exchanged eye rolls at everyone else’s antics, though they leaned closer together under the same blanket.
Eventually, the conversation drifted, as it often did, to you and Bucky.
“So… how did the Winter Soldier and Sleeper even meet?” Yelena asked, raising an eyebrow as she threw another marshmallow into her mouth.
The moniker you had adopted still twisted in your stomach every time you heard it, but it had lost its edge. This time, you felt in control. Like you owned it.
"I have theories,” Alexei nodded, crossing his arms, “but I have to know."
You shared a look with Bucky, a small smile creeping on both your faces. “There was a Hydra agent we were both after.” you began, biting back a frown. “And… well, I was angrier back then.”
He placed his arm on yours, a comforting gesture.
“You wanted him alive,” you said. “I had… different ideas.”
“After that—” Bucky wrapped his arm around your shoulders. “—She was all I could think about. I kept showing up wherever she was, trying to figure her out.”
“So basically,” John said, trying to hold back a laugh, “Bucky is a bit of a stalker.”
“A stalker?” Bucky echoed incredulously, “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dedicated.’”
“No, no,” Ava interjected, “you followed her everywhere did you not? ‘Stalker’ is the right word, Barnes.”
“Fine,” he admitted jokingly, “But what can I say? It was love at first sight.”
Yelena gagged theatrically and John clutched his stomach in a fit of laughter.
Alexei just chuckled and muttered something about “American romance.” Ava made a face, disgusted but secretly amused.
You couldn’t help but laugh along with them, leaning against Bucky’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. You could see him out of the corner of your eye, looking down at you with a quiet smile.
In some way, this still felt too good to be real.
For the first time, you realized you’d found exactly what you’d been missing all along. A home. Maybe even the closest thing you’ve ever had to a family.
A place where you belonged.
And you knew, looking at all of them—especially at Bucky—that this was just the beginning.
-end
this made me audibly scream 🫢
whiplash - e.m.
eddie munson x fem reader
warnings: teeny tiny violence, reader has a panic attack, eddie is the sweetest, eddie and reader are in college
a/n: this is absolutely inspired by my first experience being shoved into a mosh pit at an avenged sevenfold concert when i was a wee teen. i hope you enjoy xx.
also shout out to my love @xxbimbobunnyxx for helping me with the title and some of the dialogue, and my bby @undead-supernova for beta reading for me. ILY BOTH SO MUCH 💕
hot, sweaty bodies were pressed against you at all angles, nearly suffocating you. at this point you couldn’t even see the band playing on the stage, a sea of taller bodies now blocking your view.
when your best friend asked you to attend a metallica concert with her you didn’t exactly know what to expect.
but this definitely wasn’t it.
the small venue was packed, the air filled with the smell of sweat, marijuana and cigarettes. your choice of a leather jacket felt incredibly stupid as it was now tied around your waist due to the growing heat surrounding you.
your palms felt clammy as they clutched onto the hem of your friend’s shirt. the constant moving of the crowd seems to pull her farther and farther away from you. until the swirling pit of metalheads swallowed you both whole, losing sight of her head of blonde hair instantly.
your panicked shouts of her name were drowned out by the screech of an electric guitar— your body now being shoved around to the chants of ‘pounding out aggression.’ the song eerily fitting as you see a ringed fist connecting with another man’s jaw.
your heart is beating in your ears, that familiar feeling of panic washing over you as you continue to be shoved around like a rag doll amongst the group of men. until you somehow landed on top of someone… who had been knocked to the ground moments before you.
before you have time to react a large hand quickly wraps around your forearm, yanking you up and out of the dizzying circle of death. you all but let the stranger carry you through the crowd. the male shoving past throngs of people until you’ve safely reached the back of the bar.
you barely register his voice as you lean against the brick wall, chest rising and falling at an embarrassingly fast rate. your eyes squeeze shut as you attempt to get your breathing under control. those same hands that pulled you out now resting carefully on your shoulders, helping to ground you.
“hey sweetheart, you alright?”
his face finally comes into focus as you blink your eyes open, your heart now beating against your ribs for a completely different reason.
he was painstakingly gorgeous, full lips lifting up into a soft, dimpled smile. “there she is— hey man can i get some water?”
he slaps his hand on the bar top, the clear liquid sloshing out as a glass is slid over to him. his chunky rings clinking against the side as he grips it, now holding it up to your lips. “it’ll help, trust me.” you gladly take the glass from him, gulping down the lukewarm tap water.
“thank you…” you mumble, setting the now empty glass back on the bar and wiping the corners of your mouth. mentally forcing yourself to stay put, despite the bigger part of you wanting to run out of the bar from sheer embarrassment.
“are you here by yourself?” he asks, as you shake your head in reply before resting it against the brick wall behind you. the brunette seems to be studying you as you take in some slow but shaky deep breaths. letting yourself do the same as your heart begins to return to a normal rhythm.
even in the muted light you can see his dark curls were damp with perspiration, bangs sticking to his forehead. no doubt from being in the middle of that pit for quite a while. his cut off band tee showing off an extensive collection of tattoos. that soft smile morphs into a small smirk, as you realize you’ve been gawking at him.
calming breaths long forgotten.
“you can g-go back out there… w-wouldn’t want to keep you from the show.” you fumble over your words, now finding the sticky floor and your beat up sneakers far more interesting than the gorgeous metalhead before you.
the male chuckles, casually resting his shoulder against the wall next to you. his hot breath fanning over your cheek as he leans closer, “not a chance sweetheart. until we find your friends, you’re stuck with me.”
you glance back up at him, surprise crossing your features. knowing most people would gladly leave you behind in the shadows, especially considering the band that’s owning the stage. that sentiment alone makes the butterflies raging your insides flutter even faster. the chaos of the crowd is now forgotten as he grins sweetly down at you.
“i’m eddie by the way.”
the music has seemingly gotten louder since the two of you left the crowd, now having to shout your name back in reply despite the lack of space between you. his smile only widens as you turn to face him fully, crossing your arms over your chest. “and what is a fair maiden like yourself doing in a place like this?”
you can’t stop the giggle from leaving your lips as he gestures dramatically around the dingy bar before his dark eyes are back on you. “oh no reason at all… just needed a study break.” he can tell from the ride the lightning t-shirt adorning your frame that you’re teasing him, but he plays along anyway.
“so you stumble into a random metal concert, only to get caught in a circle of death? that’s quite the break sweetheart.” he nudges your foot with his own, earning another giggle from you. “something like that, yeah.”
he hums in response, running a hand through his unruly curls. “duly noted— i’ll have to take study breaks like that more often,” the two of you quickly fall into easy conversation, no longer paying attention to the concert goers surrounding you.
despite having only met him less than half an hour ago, you both seem quite comfortable with each other. any embarrassment from your small panic attack now a fleeting memory as he tosses his head back with laughter. the sound warming you from the inside, out.
“gotta say i’m a little shocked, first show and you’re already hitting the pits like a pro.” he jokes, leaning in a little closer to you. the scent of his spicy cologne washes over you, making your head spin, “practically took that guy out by sitting on him.”
you groan in embarrassment, playfully shoving his shoulder as he laughs again.
“i’ll have you know i’m quite fond of the music… just not the…” you gesture towards the sea of bodies that are jumping, shoving and headbanging to for whom the bell tolls. “moshing?” he finishes for you, as you nod sheepishly.
before he has a chance to say anything else, a loud squeal fills your ears as a body slams into you at full force. nearly knocking you over in the process, “there you are babes! i’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
earlier you would’ve been relieved to hear your best friend’s voice, but now you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. hoping your emotions aren’t written across your face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. she’s a little too preoccupied with staring at the male leaning next to you.
“now who is this?” her tone is overly playful, wiggling her eyebrows at you suggestively. before she can embarrass you further, you elbow her in the ribs. effectively stopping anything else from leaving her mouth besides a little huff.
“eddie munson, certified mosh pit rescuer at your service ladies.”
he does a little half bow, causing both of you to break into a fit of giggles. “wow… a modern day knight in shining armor huh?” she teases but seems impressed nonetheless, “wish i had a hot guy to pull me out of there, i basically had to army crawl my way out.”
even in the shitty bar lighting you can see his cheeks are tinted pink from her compliment, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “it was nothing really, just happy to help.” he shrugs before pushing himself off the wall, sliding his hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans.
“modest too? where did you find him?” she gushes, gently bumping her hip into yours. “and does he have a brother?” she whispers that part to you, ignoring the way you roll your eyes at her.
“well i see you’re in good hands now sweetheart, i hope you enjoy the rest of the show.” as he turns to leave you feel your friend shove you forward, giving you a look that screams, ‘are you insane? don’t let him get away!’
“eddie wait!” you shout, gently tugging on the male’s wrist before he gets too far. that dimple making another appearance as he turns back to you, “miss me already?” eddie teases, fully enjoying the flustered look that crosses your features.
“i uh, i-i’d really like to thank my knight in shining armor properly… maybe over coffee?” you nervously chew on your lower lip, praying that you didn’t read this entire interaction wrong.
but seeing his face light up squashes any doubt, watching as he grabs a pen off the bar. holding the cap between his teeth as he takes your hand, scribbling his phone number onto your palm with a satisfied grin.
“looking forward to it sweetheart.”
he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before disappearing into the rowdy crowd.
tagging some moots who seemed interested 💛
@babygorewhore @hellfirenacht @thepurplelovewitch @impmunson @voyeurmunson @madelynraemunson @take-everything-you-can @corrodedcorpses @serasvictoria @munsonhoneybaby @splendiferous-bitch @eddiesxangel @taintedcigs
all dividers made by yours truly 💕
It’s impossible to ignore you. (Eddie Munson x Reader)
Next.
Summary: Chrissy and Eddie seem to become close after a drug deal. The feelings you kept locked up suddenly start overflowing and you become afraid of losing your best friend. You fail to realize Chrissy was helping him gain the courage to admit his feelings to you.
Warnings: Slow burn friends to lovers. Angst. Unrequited feelings (but not really). So much miscommunication/misunderstanding. Reader being an anxious mess and an over thinker. Both Eddie and reader being oblivious dumbasses.
A/N: I said I was bringing angst to the Eddie fandom and here I am. Im deciding to make this 3 parts instead of two because I wrote so much already. And I love dragging the way they are idiots. Comments and messages are so welcomed! Yell at me! Thank you for all the support (:
Word count: 7k or something
You were confident in your friendship with Eddie. The friendship was build on so much trust and years of learning each other’s quirks and habits. Confiding in each other with secrets that you wouldn’t tell another soul and insecurities that ate away at your thoughts during the night.
You both were practically each other halves. Yin and Yang. Others may have found it kinda annoying, the way you both were practically attached at hip. But no one could deny how much you complimented each other.
Many would go as far to say you were platonic soulmates, which you happily accepted at first. Until the platonic aspect begin to leave a bitter taste in your mouth. A taste you desperately ignored and whatever thoughts followed was pushed to the back of your mind because you were not going down that worm hole.
Because you were his best friend. You were the first one to force him into a friendship when he first moved to Hawkin’s, running away from his parent’s home to his uncle’s, with a toothy smile on your baby face.
You were the one to compliment his drawings he hid at first of his dnd characters and learned the game to hear him excitedly talk about it at any chance. The one to force him to tell you who had formed the bruise on his eye. The one who then proceeded to hold their packaged popsicle against it until it melted.
And he was yours. He was the one to tell you that it was okay to be sensitive despite your parents harsh words. Eddie was the one to hold you after scary nightmares when he had convinced you to watch a scary movie you definitely had no reason to watch, only to tease you once there was no more fear in your system.
He was the one that held your textbooks even if he complained the whole time between classes. Eddie was the one to make a whole show of embarrassing himself in order to make you feel comfortable. He was the only one who understood your anxious rambling at random subjects that were in your mind on that particular day.
So yeah. You were content and happy with your place in Eddie’s life as best friends. Even if your developed crush was always something you beat down every day. Because as long he was in your life, you didn’t care if platonic was forever stamped on your relationship.
You were each other’s first choices. Always. So when he had mentioned one lunch period that Chrissy was meeting up with him for a deal, you only felt surprised that the school’s cheerleading Queen was going to buy drugs. A bit amused that she was meeting with her boyfriend’s worst enemy, the “Freak” of Hawkins.
You didn’t put much thought into it until you watched him and Chrissy seem to have a prolonged eye contact moment after said deal, in your last class together that same day. The blush in his cheeks when he looked away being the final realization that oh, maybe you really weren’t okay with it at all.
“How did the deal go?” You asked a little later, over the milkshake that was being shared at the small diner that was both your favorites. With the campaign Eddie had planned for that night, it was decided to hang around town before heading back to school.
“It went fine.” He answers after taking a long sip of the strawberry shake, emptying the glass.
You groaned, “Eddie, you hog!”
He smiles innocently as you tilt the glass to stare at the loss. “Oops.”
The pout on your face was immediately knocked down when he grabs the cherry he saved for himself and places it on your napkin. You accept the trade off as he continues. “She didn’t buy anything anyway. At least not for now.”
You hum as you grab the cherry he gave you, popping it in your mouth. “How come? It took a while so figured she did buy something in the end.”
He seems to fiddle with one of his rings anxiously. “We talked a bit,” that blush was back on cheeks, “Guess it took longer than expected. But I didn’t have what she needed, so she’s coming back to my trailer after hellfire tonight.”
“Talk about what?” You ask a bit too quickly, wiping your fingers on your napkin.
“Just..stuff.” He shrugs and pushes the empty glass to the end of the table. Eddie grabs the forgotten menu, even though you both know it by heart. “Hey, you want another milkshake? Or should we ask for a cheesecake?”
Oh. The cherry tasted dull in your mouth but you chewed it regardless, ignoring the small tug on your chest at the change of demeanor. It was so small yet you noticed it. He seemed uncomfortable at the topic, as though he didn’t want to breach it.
You were quiet for a moment before realizing he was looking at you questionably, so you smiled. “Trying to get me sick so I’ll miss hellfire, and not embarrass you huh?”
“Ohhh, those are fighting words sweetheart,” he narrows his eyes and his tone darkens. “I’m not one to back down. You’ll going to wish I wasn’t dungeon master.”
The implication on his “small talk” had you reeling as he drove you both back to the highschool. What exactly did they talk about then? And why did Eddie seem embarrass? As though whatever was shared between them in the woods wasn’t something he wanted to share with you.
Eddie didn’t have to share everything with you. But he always did. So seeing him dismiss the topic so quickly, it was different.
He always would tell you about the potheads that would regard him like some god, or the way the preppy kids acted like he would curse them if they were in his space for too long.
It wasn’t a big deal. Really. But Chrissy knocking on the door to the room Hellfire had taken place in that night, calling Eddie’s name had you feeling small suddenly. You, Gareth, and Eddie had been putting all the chairs back after the exciting game Erica had concluded with her lucky roll, when she walked in hesitantly.
Eddie jumped up from jamming his stuff in his backpack to greet her.
“Sorry, it ran a little longer than usual.” He states. “But we could head out now. You got your stuff, bug ?” Eddie looks towards you where you were zipping up your backpack. The idea of being in the same van as them together had you feeling uneasy suddenly.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to see any interaction that would make your anxious thoughts worse. Your eyes shift towards Gareth and your mouth spoke before you could think, “oh I can’t. Gareth had invited me for pizza tonight.”
“I did?” Gareth head jerks up from where he was, hand on the door knob ready to leave the room.
“He did?” Eddie sharply accuses at the same time, turning towards Garth who was staring between you both with wide eyes. His mouth hanging open, looking at you confused. You stared wide eyed back at him and nod quickly, pushing yourself towards the brunette.
“Ha! yeah he did, I totally forgot to tell you Eddie!” You shove Gareth a little too hard out into the hallway, out of sight before he could protest and expose your lie. Pretending like you didn’t hear the sound of him slamming against a locker.
“He only invited you?” Eddie voice was a bit tight, he pauses and coughs, “I mean, why not invite the rest of us?”
You felt bad realizing that your get away was going to make Eddie excluded. “Well, I mean, you have to take Chrissy right?”
Eddie blinks like he forgot she was there. “Well yeah but-“
“So it’s fine! He’ll take me home, don’t worry Eddie.”
“Right..” he mumbles, noticing Chrissy smiling at him before perking up, “You better bring me a slice yeah? Or else you’ll walking to school in the morning.”
You roll your eyes, nodding before he could try to mess with your hair and push yourself to leave them alone in the room.
You tried not to watch them leave the school together as you sat in Gareth’s car, recognizing the ugly emotion that washed over you in waves.
—
A part of you secretly hoped that would be the end of it. That Chrissy would buy whatever drug she needed, realize it isn’t her thing and they didn’t need to interact anymore. It wasn’t because you were jealous, something you repeated in the mirror a hundred times the night before, but for a normal reason.
Chrissy had a boyfriend. Jason who despised your best friend, so it wouldn’t be good for Eddie too continue to deal with her. She was just acting out, and that would be it. That’s all, right? No more ugly emotions.
“—and then he got mad because someone mentioned Chrissy.” Lucas explains during lunch as you kept glancing towards the double doors for Eddie’s late presence. “He cancelled practice for this week. It was stupid.”
“Didn’t you hear? .” Dustin chimes in with a mouth full of pudding. You would have scolded him for it if it weren’t for his next words, “He got dumped.”
“What?” You tore your gaze away from the doors, “Chrissy and Jason broke up?”
“Yeah. Apparently she asked for a break.”
“And how do you know this Dustin?” Luke leans forward from the end of the table to stare at his best friend.
“I know everything.” He smiles sweetly raising his eyebrows which forces Mike to snort with a small yeah sure which he takes offense to. “At least it was face to face, unlike El’s break up letter.”
“Why would mention that dude ?” Mike hurt voice drowns out while you stare at Eddie’s empty seat.
That sinking feeling in your stomach was back.
Eddie had arrived eventually, a hand grasped onto Gareth’s shoulder who seemed a bit tense to whatever Eddie was chatting away about. He looked really happy , a bump on his step as he made way towards the table and plopped down on his seat next to you. His smile so big that deep down you had a feeling that Chrissy had to do with it.
Of course. Who are you to completely stop that? She was single and just a few minutes during a deal had made Eddie head over heels for her.
One of your mozzarella sticks disappeared off your tray before he places his elbows on the table and tears it in half. “Hey, do you think Steve is working today ?”
You pushed away your thoughts once more. Eying the cheesy string between the two pieces before shrugging. “Uh no? I think Robin mentioned closing alone tonight. Something about Steve calling out for a date.”
“Ah, King Steve in action once again,” he rolls his eyes before popping one piece in his mouth, “Still good for me, I was going to stop by and didn’t want him to be on my ass for late fees.”
“Eddie you really need to stop losing the dvds,” you scold, grabbing your juice and handing it to him once you notice him eying it. “At this point we’ll be banned.”
“Hey, we both can’t get banned-“
“I also have late fees because of you begging Robin to use it under my name the last time.”
“It’s not my fault she’s so easy to convince ” He grins, “anyway, that’s good to hear, I was hoping to see her to rent a couple movies after school.”
“For what?” You ask, looking down at your tray. “Planning for a movie night?”
“Mhmm,” he hums happily, looking at you expectedly. “For a special girl.”
God, you felt pathetic for the way your smile was wiped off your lips. Your eyes stayed glued to your tray, your right hand coming up to scratch your neck in an attempt to hide your expression. “Oh cool…”
He was planning a movie date. Was it for Chrissy? It had to be, why else would he say it like that. The lunch food was beginning to disagree with your stomach. You pushed the tray away softly before looking up at him once you fought off a frown.
There was a frown tugging on his lips though, watching you carefully. He seemed, hesitant to say anything at first which made you feel worse. Is it really noticeable how uncomfortable you were ? You were ruining the good mood he was in.
“You okay?” He finally asks softly. One of hands reaching out under to table and brushing against yours. You force a smile once more, nodding before making show of holding your stomach.
“Sorry, I have a really bad stomach ache.” you laugh pathetically, “I think I need to go straight home after school” Instead of accompanying you to picking out whatever movie you have planned for Chrissy.
Eddie seems dejected but he nods. “Do you want me to take you to the nurse? I can carry you bridal style.” He attempts to joke but you only shake your head.
“No it’s fine.” The bell rings and you stand up a bit too fast for someone who was complaining about a stomach ache, “I’ll just get though it.”
You barely give him time to respond as you grab your tray ,”I’ll see you after class.”
—
He drove you straight home after school, the van mostly quiet for most of the ride as you allow yourself to go over your thoughts once again. Eddie tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing over you every so often before finally deciding to reach into his compartment and take out a cassette tape.
A few seconds later, your favorite band was playing through his speakers and you smiled. Eddie’s singing voice bringing you out of your funk for a few minutes as he sung along to the chorus, head banging despite it not matching the beat. Your laugh filling the van along with the music when he accidentally swerves the van after he looked away a little too long to sing to you.
For now, you’ll let yourself forget about whatever Eddie and Chrissy had going on.
-
It didn’t last long. Because as a week went by and Eddie began missing some lunches, and even a class period, you find out through Dustin that he caught Eddie meeting up with Chrissy.
Now it was clear they at least had a friendship going on. It really wasn’t your place to say anything.
Special girl. It rang in your head when you noticed Eddie keep glancing towards where she sat across the cafeteria. At first you ignored it, convincing yourself for a short time it was okay. But Eddie began to act different. Whenever you both would talk and joke, you would catch him glancing towards Chrissy. It hurt to see him so distracted while even with you, so you began to speak less and less.
Chrissy was special. Chrissy, the girl who everyone loved at Hawkins for her looks and skills in cheerleading. The blonde not only was really pretty and was the ideal image of what a perfect girl is, she also was really sweet. So you couldn’t even be mad at Eddie for his choice.
Anyone would want to date her and they would be considered lucky. So really, you should be happy for your best friend. Even if you felt annoyed from waiting after school, 20 minutes and most of the parking lot empty save the kids attending detention, and you see them both exit the building together.
They seem to be in deep discussion about something, before Chrissy placed her hand on his shoulder, saying something that had Eddie attention completely on her. You looked away from the sight, gripping onto your textbook on your lap.
A minute later he was standing next to you with an apologetic expression. “Shit, I’m really sorry bug. Ms. O’Donnell had me staying after to make up for being late to class.”
You smile tightly, because that’s all you been doing since this started, faking your smiles. “Right.” You get up from your seat on the bench and brush past him towards his van. He follows close behind, tugging on your backpack to signal to let him carry it but you ignore him, brushing his hand off and pulling it against your shoulder.
Eddie frowns at that and doesn’t unlock the door when you pull on the handle. “I said I was sorry y/n.” He whines, pouting and trying to wrap his arms around you but you pull away once again.
“Yeah I heard Eddie,” you sigh as you look at him, your annoyance growing at the confused look in his face. It pushed you to speak again before thinking clearly.
Word vomit. You had learned that phrase from Robin. “I guess you and Chrissy were both late huh?”
Eddie blinks taken back, looking towards where Chrissy had walked off to meet up with other cheerleaders. “Oh- that.” He clears his throat and rubs at his neck. “No, I bumped into her right after O’Donnell let me off.”
“Talked for a bit too?” Shut up. Why do you keep talking?! You screamed in your head.
“I just had something quick to ask her.” You looked at him raising an eyebrow, waiting and hoping that he would finally tell you what they had going on. But again, Eddie blushes, not looking at you and you realized he rather keep it from you then tell you. “It was stupid, like uh, about homework. ”
You felt done with the conversation, nodding and pulled on the handle again. “Cool, can you open the door now?”
“Come onnn y/n, don’t be like that-“
“Eddie you had me waiting in this heat“ you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at him. “I just want to go home and take off these sweaty clothes. Please.”
Eddie pauses and seems to think before suddenly dropping on his knees. You gasp and step back as he puts his hands together and shakes his head.
“I’m ashamed of myself. I am y/n. I failed you, something I can never forgive myself for.” He begins, shaking his head dramatically. You drop your bag and pull on his arm trying to make him stop.
“Eddie seriously!”
A few lingering students were staring. “Please. I’ll do anything for your forgiveness your highness. I’ll buy you some donuts, or even that horrible Tears for Fears album you dare call music.”
“You ass-“
“I’ll shave my head!” He whines dramatically, “just for you to look at me again.”
“Oh god” you laugh, unable to stop a real smile to appear and succeed in pulling him to his feet again. “Please don’t. I don’t think I’ll survive another buzz cut.”
Eddie smiles dusting off his knees and bending down to grab your bag, throwing over his shoulder. “So?”
“I forgive you,” you roll your eyes, watching him sigh relieved and hold his chest. He unlocks the door this time and lets you climb in.
“Cant even let me be mad for more than 5 minutes.” you mumbled when he throws both your belongings to the back and gets in. He starts the car, pointing at your seatbelt in warning, waiting to hear it click in place before driving out of the school’s parking lot. “Maybe I wanted to ignore you the whole car ride”
“I don’t think I could survive that” he teases, but there was truth in it. He looks towards you, his gaze softening. “You sure you’re not mad anymore?”
“Yeah, it’s fine Eddie.” Your smile was small as you look out the window. You really weren’t mad. His antics was enough for you to brush off your jealousy. Eddie was your best friend. You shouldn’t be acting this way anyway. You just needed time to get your feelings in check.
It doesn’t seem like Eddie is convinced because he sighs. You turn to look at him.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That” He waves his hand over you before looking at the road. “I don’t know. Off. You smile but it doesn’t even seem..” he struggles before snapping his fingers. “It’s not you.”
Shit. He’s noticing. You rub the side of your face and shake your head. “Really Eddie, it’s nothing.”
“Is it? You seemed off all week.” You flinch at that, wanting to sink into the seat. He really was noticing, will he eventually connect two and two together? What if he figures out your feelings that you hid for so long.
No you couldn’t let that happen.
“I haven’t been feeling my best Eds” You make sure to keep your voice steady, trying to be believable. “I guess, I just been stressed. With the way things are changing..”
That part was true.
“What do you mean?”
“With finals coming up, and graduation just two months away.” You play with the end of your hair ignoring his gaze. “I guess it finally just got to me. You know me and my anxiety.”
You smile pathetically and Eddie slumps back in his seat. “Why didn’t you talk to me about it before ?”
“You seemed..distracted..” That also was true. Really you were giving half truths so you didn’t feel too horrible for lying to him. “But really, I’ll get over it.”
Eddie reaches out and grabs your hand, shaking his head. “Distracted? What do you mean?”
“It’s nothing.” Eddie sighs but lets it pass.
“Don’t be hiding that shit from me anymore. Alright? You know I hate when you get into your head. Talk to me, okay?”
You nod, squeezing his hand back and play with his rings, pushing back your feelings. “Okay. Promise.”
—
The next few days were better. Sure, you saw him talking to Chrissy once between classes. But after Eddie had forced you to sleepover his trailer that day you half confessed in his van, and watched movies with you all night and made you hot chocolate, you felt safe to say it didn’t hurt that much.
You can accept it. You were still an important part in his life and he in yours. You shouldn’t be so selfish to wish for more. It was okay.
You were studying for your math quiz when your bedroom phone rang. You quickly scribbled down an answer before you forgot it, and reached over to the nightstand next to your bed.
“Hello?”
“Hey bug.”
You smile and lay back on your pillow, grabbing the base of the phone to place on the bed while you twirled the cord between your finger. “Don’t tell me you want me to give you the answers? Did you even try to solve one of the problems.”
“No I just..” he pauses. You mirror that by freezing with the cord around your finger. “Wanted to talk. Wanted to talk to you, you know?”
There wasn’t a blush on your cheeks at the gentleness in the way he said you. You change your position the bed to lay on your stomach, frowning. “Eddie? Is something wrong?”
He stays quiet. You can hear one of the records you gave him softly playing in the background.
“You know you can talk to me.” Please talk to me. Don’t push me aside. “Remember what you told me, last week, that we don’t hide anything.”
“Yeah, yeah you’re right.” He sighs and there’s some shuffling on his side. “This is just..really hard to say. It’s..different than what we usually talk about.”
Uneasiness swirls in your stomach. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t reply right away so you backtrack. “I mean that shouldn’t matter. We told each other so much already, I’m sure this isn’t much different Eds.”
“You won’t..freak, right? No matter what.”
Your throat tightens. That tightening feeling appears in your chest. You clear your throat in fear that your voice will break. “Y-yeah, I won’t. Try me.”
“Okay..” He coughs then sighs. “Okay. Okay, so..” he struggles before finally speaking. “There’s someone that I really like.”
You thought you were prepared. Part of you was relieved that after keeping it from you for so long, he finally confided in you. That should be good, right? Your worries that he didn’t have that trust in you evaporated, all that anxiety was proven wrong. Yet, the other part of you that you thought was going to fine and under control, broke.
“Oh wow,” you let out breathlessly, “You were scared to tell me that?” You push the back of your hand against one of your eyes once you feel the tears building. “Why are you worried about that.”
“Y/N- it’s, it’s just...” He whispers, “I been too stupid to realize my feelings and I’ve been wanting to ask her out for a few weeks now. But I can never figure out how she feels about me..”
His voice was shaky. “I’m terrified she won’t feel the same way if I tell her. Because y-“ he coughs, “she’s so amazing and perfect, and I guess I’m really scared you know? What if I’m not enough? I wouldn’t blame her for thinking so.”
Your heart hurts not only knowing he’s referencing to Chrissy but knowing that he didn’t feel good enough. How could he even think like that? Eddie was someone you looked up too. His ways of drawing attention towards him with his dramatic speeches and overall personality was admirable. So hearing him sound so small, dejected at the idea had you pushing your own hurt aside.
“Eddie. Anyone would be lucky to have you. This girl, god she would be so fucking lucky to have you as her boyfriend.” You stare at your ceiling, hand gripping the phone tightly. “You’re so much more than good enough. You’re sweet and funny, and, and I know she will be the happiest girl with you. Anyone would.”
I would. The voice whispers in the back of your head.
“You really think that?” Eddie asks, in awe. You nod forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course, Eddie. You’re the most amazing person I know.” Eddie stays silent. You notice how fast your heart was beating.
“Thank you bug,” you swore you thought you heard a sniffle. “I..that made me feel better. You don’t understand how much.”
You both stay silent. You were waiting for him to drop that it was Chrissy. Go into more details about her but he continues to not talk. So you decide to rip the bandaid yourself.
“So, when are you asking the special girl?” You force your voice to sound excited, shutting your eyes tight. “I better not have gave that speech for nothing.”
“Actually, I was thinking about doing it tonight.” he trails off. You felt like you were going to vomit.
“Good! I-I hope it goes great, Ed. I’m rooting for you, and..I know she’ll say yes.” Your hands began to shake. It felt harder to breath. You thought you were able to handle it but no, you feel yourself falling apart.
You needed to end the call before he hears you break down.
“Y/N..I wanted- I was going to ask you-“ You cut him off once you feel a single tear slip down the corner of your face. A few more tears follow as you shake your head.
“Eddie I-I’m sorry I need to go.” You slam the phone shut and pull your pillow over your face. Hoping it’s enough to pause your tears but it didn’t. A sob is muffled by it instead.
You weren’t going to be okay after all.
—
You spend the rest of the night staring blankly at your homework before deciding you were not accomplishing anything but staining the sheet with a few escaped tears. You turned off all the lights and tried to sleep, trying to come up with an excuse as to why you hung up. You didn’t think clearly.
You could say you felt sick again and had to throw up, or that your heart was ripped out of your chest and you felt like you were dying.
The former was better. At least it was believable and didn’t need anymore questions.
You left the following morning earlier than usual. Deciding to take the bus that you seen Max always hop on. Eddie had tried giving her a ride before but she only quietly rejected it and often left earlier than you both did.
You sat next to her on the bus, headphones blaring Kate Bush voice. She glanced at you, raising an eyebrow.
“You look like shit.” Her headphones were pushed down to wrap around her neck.
“Thanks.” You reply, crossing your arms over your stomach and turning your head towards her smiling softly. “And you look amazing like always Max.”
She shrugs, turning her nose away as she glanced out the window towards the trailer park that was disappearing from sight. “Did you and Eddie fight?”
“No.” You feel sick again at the mention of his name. “I wanted to go early and didn’t want to wake him up. He’s grumpy when I do.”
“Righht..” she turns towards you again. “Eddie definitely is anything but grumpy with you.” She makes a disgusted expression before pulling her headphones back on top of her head. The volume increasing this time.
Well damn. You were hoping the younger girl would make more of a conversations with you. Maybe you should try a little harder with her the way you had with the other freshman, but push that for another day. You allow to swallow in self pity the rest of the bus ride.
The rest of the morning was a blur. Eddie had looked for you when he arrived a few minutes before school started, nearly disrupting your first class when he pushed the door open a second before the bell rung. Eyes set on where you sat in the back but was quickly yelled at by your math teacher.
“Eddie Munson! This is not where you’re suppose to be-“
“I need to see y/n,-“
“You can see her later. Out! Now!”
You hid your face behind your notebook, guilt eating at you as you could feel him staring at you before he was escorted out.
Your plan was to avoid him that morning, needing just a little bit more time. Then prepare to see him at lunch and hear all about what occurred with his confession the night before. You were going to sit there, at the lunch table, apologize for hanging up and ditching that morning, then make it up by listening to him talk about how Chrissy accepted his confession. And you will smile through it all, and support him.
You could do that.
But when you walked out your history class for lunch, and Eddie was waiting right across the hallway, your mind blanked.
“Seriously. What the fuck y/n.” He began, pushing himself away from where he was leaning against the locker. You began to walk down the hallway. “Jesus Christ! Really? Where are you going?”
“Eddie I have to meet up..” you think quickly, “with Nancy! Yeah, Nancy wants my opinion on some shots she took of the basketball game.”
“Nancy Wheeler? Mikes sister?” He questions, walking beside you and matching your fast pace. “Since when were you two friends?”
“She’s friends with Robin. So that makes us acquaintances” you reply, staring ahead.
He throws his hands up in the air and scoffs. “Okay. Okay fine. Are you just not going to tell me why you hung up on me yesterday? And ignored my calls after?” He grabs your arm and stops your walking. “Or even why I went to your trailer for your mom to tell me you had left early to school? What’s up with that?”
“Had to talk to my teacher about my final grades, and I knew coming early was the best option.” It was such a shitty and not well thought out lie. “Didn’t want to wake you up, especially after last night.”
Eddie’s grip loosens and his expression falters. The anger flowing into something you couldn’t recognize. He pulls away and stuffs his hands into his leather jacket. “Last night..” he sounds sad, “are..are you even going to ask about that?”
“About what?” You don’t look at him. You weren’t ready yet.
“About what we talked about.” Eddie says desperately. “Come on y/n. I told you it was something I was afraid to talk about, and you go hang up on before I could even..” he stops and rubs his face.
“I wasn’t feeling well. Ha , it’s weird. It just hit me, I thought I was going to throw up-“
“Bullshit.” He hisses, pointing his finger at you. “That’s such bullshit.” You step back surprised by his outburst. He looked outright angry.
“Eddie-“
“You keep saying all these lies. I’m not an idiot. And then you go and ignore me all morning. What the fuck did I do? Did I..did I do something?” He asks.
“No Eddie, you didn’t.”
“Then why are you acting like this right now? Christ, I don’t understand !” He yells, throwing his hand out.
“Let’s talk about it later, yeah?” You stammer, feeling overwhelmed.It wasn’t suppose to go this way. You had it all planned out and now it’s getting out of control.
“Why later? Why not now?”
“I just don’t want to right now, okay?” You pull away, seeing your escape and make way to the bathroom. Eddie following close behind. “I’m still not feeling well. So, just..we can talk about it after school.”
“I don’t fucking get this. Why are you acting like this.?”
You push yourself into the bathroom. Slamming the door shut before he could even think to follow you in. “Eddie please ! I’ll meet you in the cafeteria, okay?”
“I thought you were meeting with Nancy.” He states from the other side of the door. “See I knew you were fucking lying.”
You don’t say anything else. Back pressed against the door as you wait.
“Y/N please..” you hear him beg quietly, “I really can’t handle this from you. Not right now. Especially after last night..”
You frown at this. What does he mean by that?
“I need you.” His voice was small. You wanted to open the door and slam against his chest, hugging him the way you always do when you both were suffering from bad thoughts.
But this was so much different. All your ugly insecurities and jealousy powers through any rationality right now.
So you say nothing. Despite the confusion at his statement. You hear Eddie sharp intake of a breathe once he realizes this before you hear his knuckles tap on the wall, a quiet “fuck this”, then his footsteps receding.
—
You stayed in the bathroom all lunch. Pathetically allowing your thoughts to overflow and beating yourself up for not being able to act normal. Your mind was reeling, not allowing you to focus on your other classes.
School ended and you walked out to see that Eddie’s van was gone. You didn’t even know if he had stayed in school after he walked away from the bathroom.
You sat next to Max again. She didn’t say anything at first, until the bus was halfway to your destination. It seemed like your own silent treatment had annoyed her enough to rip the headphones from her ears.
“I can literally feel your sadness rub off on me and it’s annoying.” She narrows her eyes at you. You sigh and tilt your head at her.
“That’s not even possible.” You mumble, not hiding the sadness in your voice. She takes note of this and finally resigns.
“Okay. Just tell me what’s going on with you and Eddie.”
“Nothings going on.”
“Dustin was complaining to me about how he hadn’t made it to lunch despite needing to go over the last campaign. And you’re here, unfortunately . So..” she shakes her head, “it’s pretty clear.”
You groan and slam your head back onto the bus seat. “Okay fine. I’ve just..” you pause and play with your fingers. “He and Chrissy has a thing..”
“Chrissy Cunningham??”
“Yeah I know.” You laugh, “these past few weeks, they been hanging and he has been acting weird. And..I guess he likes her.”
“Oh okay. This makes so much more sense.” She states, sitting up. “You’re jealous.”
“Yeah.” You finally admit. “Really jealous. But I can’t do anything. Because who am I to do so? We’re best friends and I’m acting like a fucking jerk.”
“He asked Chrissy out yesterday,” you continue, “he called me before hand and was telling me about his feelings for her and how he planned to tell her. And I..freaked out and hung up. Then avoided him today. And I know he’s mad but I just can’t face it Max. I don’t want to hear about their relationship because it hurts. So much.”
Max usual nonchalant front faded into a concerned expression. She listened to you.
“He said he needed me and god, he wouldn’t do this to me if I were crushing on some other person. He would be happy and would be excited to hear me talk about it because he doesn’t like me the way I like him..I really am a horrible friend. Aren’t I?”
You felt pathetically for ranting to a 15 year old but when Max simply shook her head and said, “No. it’s okay to feel hurt by this.” You felt a bit relieved before she continued. “But maybe you should talk to him about it. I don’t know, you’ll get used to it. Don’t break a friendship over it, he’ll understand.”
“I don’t think I can tell him though..”
“Then don’t, idiot. But you can’t ignore him forever. I’m sure he’s really confused by all of it and doesn’t know what to do. He’s stupid that way.”
You snort.
“And it probably is hurting him. I can see the way he cares about you.” She says honestly, furrowing her eyebrows like a thought crossed her mind but she doesn’t mention it.
You nod, feeling a bit embarrassed but better. She was right. It’ll take time to get over this hurt but you can’t allow for it to ruin what you and Eddie had. Eddie’s reaction was clear enough for you to see you were being selfish.
It didn’t matter if it hurt. You couldn’t allow it to overshadow what you and Eddie already build.
“Thanks Max.”
“Whatever.”
You walked her to her trailer once the bus driver drops you both off, hugging her and enjoying the way she smiled shyly before she pushed you away and ran in her trailer.
Eddie’s van was parked in front of his trailer. So you had no other option but to take your time walking across the dirt trail and step up to the door.
I need you.
You knock on the door, the small pattern that only you and Eddie knew coming as second nature, and waited.
The door opened and Wayne appeared.
“Oh hey kid.” He says, glancing inside the trailer for a moment before looking back at you. “I’m guessing you and Eddie fought?”
“Was it that obvious?” You grimace, tugging on the sleeve of your sweater.
“Just a little. No other person can get Eddie to be slamming that door shut and blasting his music like you.” He says with humor, stepping back and opening the door wider for you to enter. You ignore the small comment and follow him inside. “But I’m glad you’re here. I really need to get some sleep so if you could..”
You nod quickly, giving a small apology before walking towards his room. The vibration of the heavy guitar solo could be felt in the hallway. The beat thrashing against your eardrums when you push the door open.
Eddie was sitting up with his back pressed against the metal bars that made up the headboard of his bed. Guitar in hand as his fingers moved effortlessly against the strings. Eyes shut as he had his head tilted towards the ceiling. You wait to see if he’ll notice that the door opened but he continued playing.
You build up the courage to speak. “Eddie.”
You didn’t think he would be able to hear you but the song came to a stop, eyes snapping open as he turns his head over to you.
“Y/N?” He puts the guitar down. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you. And your uncle let me in.” You explain, moving towards his bed and sitting on the edge. “He probably would have left me out there if it wasn’t for him wanting to get some sleep.”
“You know he would let you in no matter what.”
“I know.”
He watches you, fingers twirling one of the rings in circles in his other hand. Sadness evident in his eyes, uncertainty mixed with it as he switched his gaze from between your eyes. Waiting.
“Look Eddie, I’m really sorry”
“You been saying that.” He replies.
“No but..” you stand up and rub your hands against your thighs. “I’ve been such an ass.” You hold your finger up before he could say anything, “and I’ve been acting like a shitty friend. And I know you’re confused and have asked me to be honest, but..”
You look at some of his posters. “I am honest about my anxiety being part of the problem. I’ve been struggling right now, dealing with feelings I don’t want to.” You swallow, pushing on. “And I guess I’m just afraid. Of stupid stuff that doesn’t matter and shouldn’t have. And I took it out on you and that’s not right.”
“So, it wasn’t because of me? I thought I was doing something wrong this whole time.” Eddie watches you pace back and forth.
Yes.
“No.” You bite your lip and hug yourself.
“Then what was it?” He frowns, “I mean. Why didn’t you just come to me? You promised. I told you to talk to me about it all.”
“I know Eddie. I know. Really. It was just all me and my overthinking. And I’m really really sorry and-“
“Bug, I understand.”
“No , I’ve been horrible!” You frown and plop down on the bed beside him, covering your face. “I’m really truly sorry. I promise you I’ll stop being ..how I am.”
“I like the way you are. Christ y/n.” He pushes your hands away from your face and forces you to sit up, grabbing your shoulders. “I wasn’t mad at you because of that, I was just mad that you been pushing me away. I was mad not knowing whether I..I was the reason.”
“It wasn’t you Eddie. I promise.”
He nods, shoulder sagging from relief before he grins. “You know, it’s weird not having you ranting into my ear 24/7 about what’s bothering you. I hate when you get all quiet.”
You watch him, pouting and he pushes at your cheek. His hand cupping your cheek and you ignore the warmth is spreads across your chest. “I’m sorry for screaming at you earlier and not being there after school. That was not cool.”
“No, I deserved it.” You glance down and play with the chain attached to his pants. “I wasn’t listening to you about last night.”
Eddie tenses. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“No we can!” You’re able to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest. The pit in your stomach wasn’t that big either. It felt somewhat okay. “What else were you going tell me? How did it go?”
“Nothing happened. I never got to ask.” He wasn’t looking at you.
You falter, confused. “What? I thought..”
Eddie clears his throat and stands up, grabbing his guitar and hanging it up in its place in front of his mirror. “Yeah, I totally chickened out. It doesn’t matter now.”
“It..it doesn’t?” You asked, feeling even more stupid now. No wonder he was so angry at you for ignoring him. He needed more support, encouragement and you weren’t there to give it. “Shit, Eddie. I really am sorry for hanging up.”
“It’s fine, really.“ He taps his fingers on his chin, still not looking at you. “Besides..I have a better idea.”
“Uh..” you begs to ask before Eddie suddenly bends down and grabs your waist and throws you over your shoulder as you scream in surprise. “-the fuck!”
“We are going to celebrate us surviving our first real fight!” He grins, conversation forgotten as he attempts to grab his denim vest and wallet with out dropping you. Your wiggling makes it hard but he manages to do it.
“And how are we going to that?” You giggle, relieved at the familiarly of your dynamic with Eddie. It was feeling okay again.
“We are going to get a milkshake.” He smiles and proceeds to carry you out of his room on his shoulder. A small bang echoing from your head hitting the door frame and your groan following it. “..And painkillers.”
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
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r, 25, a collection of fics I enjoyed - 18+ I follow from @spookysaturn
207 posts