alley girl- (40s!bucky) your night on the town takes an ugly turn when your date gets drunk and handsy. luckily for you, a gorgeous stranger is ready to protect you.
mistake number three- (fatws!bucky x exwidow!reader) fighting the flag smashers wouldn't have been a big deal, except sam's metal-armed friend seems torn between pining for you and making your life a living hell.
ONESHOTS:
we work- (avenger!bucky x avenger!reader) he almost confesses. you almost confess. everyone knows.
poison!- (avenger!bucky x avenger!reader) you won't let anything get between your date with bucky- especially not a minor injury. even when it turns out to be...not very minor.
the world's biggest house cat- (boyfriend!bucky x reader) you accidentally turn your super-soldier boyfriend into a needy, head-scratch-addicted monster. he doesn't want to talk about it.
you've got me tripping, stumbling...- (avenger!bucky x shield!reader) bucky barnes is not clumsy. you are not clumsy. yet each time your paths cross, someone ends up bruised, drenched, or catastrophically embarrassed. it's starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like gravity...
cheap shot- (secret relationship avenger!bucky x avenger! reader) bucky has zero problem using your secret relationship as a tactical advantage in laser tag. a dark corner, a stolen kiss, and he's walking away with the kill.
↳ cheaper shot- after two weeks of bucky's smug satisfaction, it's time to get even. and if that means tackling him, lying through your teeth, and letting his overconfidence do the rest? so be it.
study incentives- (boyfriend!bucky) bucky's having a hard time focusing on his books. luckily for him, you're willing to cut him a deal- the sweetest kind.
cookie thief- (christmas!boyfriend!bucky) baking christmas cookies would be a lot easier if bucky would keep his hands off them- and you.
summary: fighting the flag smashers wouldn't have been a big deal, except sam's metal-armed friend seems torn between pining for you and making your life a living hell.
warnings: ANGST, slow burn + pining, violence and injury, language
a/n: my favorite out of anything i've written (so far...). thank you for all the love this has gotten!
pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader (secret relationship)
summary: Bucky has zero problem using your secret relationship as a tactical advantage in laser tag. A dark corner, a stolen kiss, and he's walking away with the kill.
word count: 1.2k
warnings: fluff, bucky is a problem causer
a/n: saw this prompt on pinterest and decided my homework could wait :)
part 2 - masterlist
~
The neon lights of the laser tag arena cast everything in shades of electric blue and purple as you adjusted your vest, the weight of the plastic gun feeling ridiculous in your hands after years of holding actual weapons.
"I can't believe Tony convinced us to do this," Natasha muttered beside you, though there was amusement in her eyes.
"Team bonding!" Tony called out from across the staging area, way too enthusiastic for a man in his forties. "Besides, when was the last time we did something normal? Something that doesn't involve alien invasions or rogue AI?"
You caught Bucky's eye across the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the whole situation. When your gazes met, though, the corner of his mouth twitched: that barely-there smile that was reserved for you and you alone.
Three months. That's how long you'd been keeping this secret, stealing kisses in empty hallways and slipping into each other's rooms long after the compound went quiet. It wasn't that you were ashamed; you just wanted something that was yours before it became public property, before the team's opinions and Tony's commentary could crowd into the space between you.
"Alright, teams!" the teenager running the arena announced with far too much energy. "Blue team: Tony, Natasha, Sam, and Y/N. Red team: Bucky, Steve, Clint, and Wanda."
You glanced at Bucky, who raised an eyebrow at you. Challenge accepted.
"Rules are simple," the kid continued. "Hit the sensors on the chest or back to score. Most points at the end of twenty minutes wins. And please, for the love of god, no magic. I'm not trying to get fired."
The buzzer sounded, and chaos erupted.
You darted into the maze of walls and obstacles, your tactical training kicking in automatically. This might be a game, but years of actual combat had taught you to move through spaces like water, silent and purposeful.
The arena was a labyrinth of black walls adorned with geometric patterns that glowed under the UV lights. Fog machines pumped mist along the floor, and electronic music pounded through speakers, presumably to mask footsteps.
You took out Clint within the first three minutes—he'd been too busy trying to get a vantage point to notice you coming. Wanda was harder, but you managed to catch her while she was engaged with Natasha.
Then you felt it- that prickling awareness at the back of your neck that told you someone was watching.
You spun around, gun raised, but the corridor was empty. Just shadows and neon and that creeping fog.
"Looking for someone?"
The voice came from behind you, low and amused, and before you could turn, a vibranium arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you backward into an alcove you hadn't even noticed. Your back hit the wall- gently, always gently with him- and suddenly Bucky was there, all solid muscle and winter air scent, his body caging yours in the darkness.
"That's cheating," you whispered, but you were already smiling, your free hand finding its way to his tactical vest. "We're on opposite teams."
"Is that so?" His voice dropped lower, and even in the dim light, you could see the wicked gleam in his eyes. "Thought that made this more fun."
"Pretty sure that's not what the rules-"
He kissed you, cutting off your words with the kind of kiss that made your knees weak, the kind that reminded you why keeping this secret was getting harder every day. His flesh hand cupped your jaw while the vibranium one remained at your waist, thumb tracing small circles that sent shivers up your spine.
You melted into him, your own gun hanging forgotten at your side as you gripped his vest, pulling him closer. He tasted like the coffee he'd been drinking before this, warm and familiar and right.
You pulled back first, breathless, your brain trying to remember where you were. "Wait, we can't- someone's gonna see-"
That's when you felt it: the hard press of plastic against the sensor on your chest.
Your eyes flew open just as Bucky pulled the trigger.
Your vest flashed red and vibrated with your elimination. His kill count ticked up.
For a second, you just stared at him, the betrayal hitting you with a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. He'd actually done it. Kissed you senseless just to get an easy shot. The absolute bastard.
"You two-faced piece of-"
"What's that, doll?" His expression was pure innocence, but his eyes gave him away- dark and oh-so pleased with himself.
But he was already pulling away, that infuriating smirk firmly in place as he backed toward the corridor.
"All's fair," he called softly, and then he was gone, disappearing into the maze like the ghost he used to be.
You stood there, eliminated and stunned, your lips still tingling from his kiss and your vest still buzzing with defeat.
"I'm gonna kill him," you muttered, but you were grinning like an idiot.
From somewhere in the arena, you heard Tony's voice echo: "WHO THE HELL JUST GOT Y/L/N? That's my protégé! Show yourself, coward!"
You made your way to the exit, where eliminated players were supposed to wait out the rest of the match. Through the glass, you could see the arena floor, watch the remaining players dart between obstacles.
Bucky moved like liquid shadow, taking out Sam with ruthless efficiency before doubling back to help Steve corner Tony. They won, of course- red team by a landslide, with Bucky's kills leading the scoreboard.
When everyone filed out, sweaty and laughing and arguing about cheap shots, Bucky caught your eye again. This time he didn't hide his smile, and the look he gave you was full of promise.
"Rematch?" Steve asked, oblivious to the tension crackling between you and his best friend.
"Definitely," you said, holding Bucky's gaze. "I've got a score to settle."
Natasha glanced between the two of you, one eyebrow raised, but she said nothing. Just a knowing smirk that suggested your secret might not be quite as secret as you'd thought.
Later that night, when Bucky slipped into your room the way he always did, you were waiting.
"That was dirty," you said from where you sat on the bed.
He closed the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed. "Tactical advantage."
"You kissed me to distract me so you could shoot me. For the enemy team."
"Worked, didn't it?"
You stood up, crossing to him slowly. "You know what this means, right?"
His eyes tracked your movement, darkening with interest. "What's that?"
"Next time, I'm not going to go easy on you." You pressed a finger to his chest, right where the sensor had been. "And I always get even."
He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Looking forward to it, doll."
And when he kissed you again, there were no laser guns, no teams, no scores to settle except the ones you whispered against each other's skin in the darkness- the good kind of secrets, the kind worth keeping just a little while longer.
summary: You accidentally turn your super-soldier boyfriend into a needy, head-scratch-addicted monster. He doesn't want to talk about it.
word count: ~990
warnings: fluff, bucky being whiny
---
You were always on the hunt for new things to tease your boyfriend about. On a Friday evening, your favorite one quite literally fell into your lap.
It was movie night- you had your ankles crossed on the coffee table, taking up one (1) respectable couch cushion. Bucky stretched across the other two, head in your lap like the world's biggest house cat.
Somewhere on their journey toward the popcorn bowl, your fingers got lost in his hair. It wasn’t a fancy head massage- just rhythmic carding, over and over.
You stifled a giggle at the tiny sigh that left his mouth.
When the jumpscare hit, you flinched, and your fingers flew to your mouth. Which also meant they abruptly left (in Bucky’s opinion) their rightful spot in his hair. You decided to test him- tucking your hand behind your own head, out of reach.
He stiffened- slightly. Blinked. Cast an expectant glance your way. Then another.
It was too dark for him to see the smirk twisting your lips.
Four days later, you struck again. Worse, this time. You’d ducked out of the house earlier that afternoon to “run some errands.”
When you walked in the door, Bucky noticed immediately- your nails were done.
They were shiny. Oval-shaped. Slightly longer than usual.
Your fingertips brushed the back of his hand while handing him a grocery bag, and he swore he got chills right there.
Through dinner, he watched: you brushing a hand through your hair, running a finger over the curve of your glass, readjusting your necklace.
Your nails gleamed in the kitchen light. All he could think about was how damn good they’d feel in his hair, running line after line over his skin.
He offered to wash the dishes, which was normal- except this time, he added the one piece of rationale you needed to justify your hypothesis:
“So you don’t mess up your nails.”
Satisfied, you settled yourself on the couch to wait.
Ten minutes passed before you heard the click of the dishwasher closing, and then he appeared in the doorway. Silent.
Silence meant he wanted something that he didn’t want to ask for. Like you running your nails across his scalp.
You made a point not to look at him, biting back a smile at the way he hovered. He approached the couch, half a beat too slow, then swerved- parking himself on the floor, right in front of you.
“Buck,” you started. “Whatcha doin on the floor?”
He tilted his head back, wide blue eyes meeting yours.
“Nothing. It’s just…comfortable.”
“Uh huh.”
His gaze flickered- just for a millisecond- to your hand, inches from his head.
“I like your nails, by the way. They’re very…shiny.”
You bit, finally placing a hand on top of his head. His posture softened instantly.
“You do?” you mused, far too entertained.
You dragged your fingers through his hair and he practically slumped backwards into you.
“Mhm,” he murmured. The idea that something so simple could make your super soldier of a boyfriend melt like butter drew a giggle from your chest.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he ordered, though his words ran together like molasses. “‘S not funny.”
“You’re basically purring.”
He tried to say something defensive, but it came out as a sleepy mumble. You stayed like that for a few minutes, lazily combing through his soft hair. His eyes had slipped closed- not just that, his posture had entirely shifted towards you. Like a tree grown against the wind.
Then: “I’m gonna go get a drink.”
He let out a soft hum, clearly unaware of what you just said. You extracted your fingers from his hair and his eyes snapped open. He looked up at you like a kicked puppy.
“Where are you going?”
“To get water,” you actively tried- and failed- to keep the giggles out of your voice. “I told you, Buck.”
A comic book pout eclipsed his face.
“Something wrong?” you asked sweetly.
He shot you a look. You know exactly what you’re doing. His gaze followed you all the way to the kitchen and back, even though it meant he had to twist his head like an owl. When you settled yourself behind him again, he reached back and caught your wrist, placing your hand directly on top of his head.
“James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Hm?”
“Are you begging?”
A tiny jolt ran through him. “No! I just- it feels nice,” he sputtered. “and you’re good at it.”
He didn’t need to turn to see the wicked grin on your face.
“Okay,” he conceded, relaxing back into the cushions. “Maybe a little. Because you’re mean.”
You pulled your hand off his head. “Say that again.”
He turned his gaze up to you, flashing a dazed smile. “Say what again?”
You slid your fingers back into his hair and it pulled a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan from his throat.
“That’s what I thought.”
Over the next week, he developed what you’d mentally branded The Look™: forlorn, needy puppy dog eyes. It was ridiculous. Every time you sat down, he positioned himself within arm’s length- closer if possible. Then he’d flash The Look™, like an abandoned cat in an alleyway, and you’d comb your fingers through his hair. He melted instantly, every time.
Movie night again, and- no surprises here- his head was in your lap.
“Sam would never let this go if he found out,” you offered casually.
“Sam wishes,” came Bucky’s muffled reply.
You raised a brow. “Sam wishes what?”
“That he got head scratches,” Bucky said, utterly unashamed.
You cackled. “You are unreal.”
He tipped his head back, just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”
Before you could answer, he nudged your hand pointedly back into his hair.
You gave in with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve created a monster.”
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes already closing. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
summary: Bucky's having a hard time focusing on his books. Luckily for him, you're willing to cut him a deal- the sweetest kind.
warnings: a little dorm room makeout
word count: 2.1k
a/n: in honor of exam season ending
---
You're three units deep into your psychology textbook when you feel it—warm lips pressing against the curve of your neck.
"Bucky," you warn, not looking up from your notes. "I'm studying."
"Mmm, I know," he murmurs against your skin, his arms sliding around your waist from behind. "Just missed you."
"You saw me an hour ago."
"An hour too long."
Despite yourself, you smile. You're curled up in Bucky's dorm room, textbooks and notes spread across his desk while he's supposed to be studying on his bed. Supposed to be.
His lips trail up to that spot behind your ear, and your pen falters mid-sentence. "Buck—"
"Take a break," he says, voice low and persuasive. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "You've been at this forever."
"It's been forty-five minutes."
"Like I said. Forever." He spins your chair around, and before you can protest, he's leaning down, capturing your lips with his. It's slow and sweet and entirely unfair because Bucky Barnes knows exactly how to kiss you until your brain goes fuzzy.
When he pulls back, there's a satisfied smirk on his face. You narrow your eyes at him.
"You're impossible."
"You love it," he counters, stealing another quick kiss.
"I love passing my exams," you shoot back, turning your chair back to your notes. "Which is what I'm trying to do."
Bucky groans dramatically, flopping onto his bed. "This is torture."
"It's called studying."
"Same thing."
You manage another ten minutes—highlighting key terms, writing out definitions—before he's back. This time he doesn't even pretend to be subtle about it. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing kisses along your shoulder, up your neck, across your jaw.
"Bucky Barnes, I swear to—" But your threat dies as he finds that spot that makes you shiver, and he knows it, the smug bastard.
"What was that, doll?" he asks innocently, though you can hear the grin in his voice.
You spin around in your chair, fixing him with your best stern look. It's significantly less effective when he's looking at you like that—all tousled dark hair and blue eyes and that smile that got you into this mess in the first place.
"You have this test tomorrow too," you point out. "And I don't see you studying."
Bucky shrugs, unrepentant. "I'll be fine."
"Will you?"
"Probably not, but studying sucks," he says, reaching for you again. "This is way better."
You catch his hands before they can distract you further, an idea forming. "What if we make it not suck?"
He raises an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"A game," you say, pulling your chair closer and grabbing his psychology textbook from where it's been abandoned on his bed. "For every problem you get right, you get a reward."
"What kind of reward?" There's a spark of interest in his eyes now.
You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back. "A kiss."
His eyes darken. "And if I get it really right?"
"Then maybe..." you trail your fingers down his chest, "two minutes of whatever you want."
Bucky's grin is immediate and wolfish. "Deal. Give me that book."
You laugh at his sudden enthusiasm, settling onto his bed beside him with both your textbooks and notes. "Okay, first question. What's the difference between classical and operant conditioning?"
He actually thinks about it, brow furrowing in concentration. "Classical is... Pavlov's dogs. Automatic responses to stimuli. Operant is consequences—reinforcement and punishment."
"Look at you!" You lean over and kiss him, sweet and quick. "Correct."
"That's it?" he complains. "That was barely anything."
"That was a basic question. Next one." You flip through your notes. "Explain the four stages of cognitive development according to Piaget."
Bucky's quiet for a moment, actually studying the chapter. You hide your smile behind your textbook. Your brilliant plan is working.
"Okay," he says finally. "Sensorimotor—birth to two, learning through senses. Preoperational—two to seven, language develops but thinking is still egocentric. Concrete operational—seven to eleven, logical thinking about concrete events. Formal operational—twelve and up, abstract reasoning."
"That's..." you check your notes, "actually perfect."
"So that's worth at least two minutes, right?" He's already setting the textbook aside, reaching for you.
You laugh but let him pull you into his lap. "Two minutes. Starting now."
His lips are on yours immediately, one hand cupping your face while the other slides into your hair. It's deeper than before, hungrier, and you let yourself sink into it. His hand tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss further, and then he breaks away just enough to breathe, "God, you're so gorgeous," before capturing your lips again with even more intensity. The words are rough, almost desperate, and they send heat racing through you as he pulls you impossibly closer.
When you finally pull away, both breathless, you glance at your phone. "Time's up."
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. "That went way too fast."
"Then you better get the next one right." You slide off his lap, ignoring his protests, and grab your textbook. "Next question. What's the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation? And give me an example of each."
You watch as he actually reads the chapter, lips moving slightly as he processes the information. It's unfairly cute.
"Intrinsic motivation comes from within—you do something because you enjoy it or find it satisfying," he says. "Like... playing basketball because you love the game. Extrinsic is external rewards. Like studying psychology because you'll get a kiss from your gorgeous girlfriend."
"Smooth," you say, but you're smiling as you lean in to kiss him. "And correct."
"Just correct? I thought the example was pretty creative."
"Fine. It was creative." You kiss him again, longer this time, and feel him smile against your lips.
This pattern continues—you quiz him, he actually tries, and slowly but surely, Bucky starts retaining information. Between questions, he steals touches—fingers trailing down your arm, hand resting on your thigh, forehead pressed to yours as he thinks through an answer.
"Okay, this one's worth at least five minutes," he declares after explaining the entire structure of a neuron without looking at his notes once.
"That wasn't the deal—"
"New deal," he says, pulling you back into his lap. "That was way harder than the other questions."
You laugh but don't resist as he kisses you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you the same way he just memorized dendrites and axons. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you forget to keep track of time.
When you finally resurface, your lips are swollen and Bucky looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"That was definitely more than five minutes," you say, slightly dazed.
"You weren't exactly complaining," he points out, not wrong.
"Next question," you say, trying to regain some semblance of control. "And this is a hard one. Explain the difference between PTSD, acute stress disorder, and adjustment disorder."
Bucky goes still for a moment, and you mentally kick yourself. His grip on you loosens slightly.
"Buck, we can skip—"
"No," he says quietly. "No, I got this." He takes a breath. "Acute stress disorder happens within a month of a traumatic event, lasts up to a month. PTSD is the same symptoms but lasting longer than a month. Adjustment disorder is... it's a response to a stressful event but not necessarily traumatic. The reaction is out of proportion to the stressor."
His voice is steady, clinical, but you can see something shadowed in his eyes. You know Bucky's story—the car accident freshman year, the trauma to his left arm, the nightmares he still sometimes has.
"That's right," you say softly, framing his face with your hands. "That's exactly right."
You kiss him, gentle and sweet, trying to pour everything you feel into it. When you pull back, his eyes are clearer.
"You know what helps with PTSD?" he asks, a hint of his usual playfulness returning.
"Evidence-based therapy?"
"Well, yeah, but also this." He kisses you again, and you let him, let the textbooks slide forgotten to the floor.
Several minutes later, when you're both lying on his bed, his arm around you and your head on his chest, he speaks again.
"Thanks for this. The study game thing. I actually... I think I might not completely bomb this test tomorrow."
"You were never going to bomb it. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for."
"Says the psych major who's basically manipulating me with positive reinforcement."
You prop yourself up to look at him. "Is it working?"
"Oh yeah," he says, pulling you down for another kiss. "Definitely working."
You study like that for another hour—questions and answers interspersed with kisses and touches and Bucky's terrible jokes about Freud. By the time you're both yawning, you've made it through three chapters and Bucky's retention rate is surprisingly high.
"Last question," you say, fighting to keep your eyes open. "And if you get this right, you get whatever you want."
"Whatever I want?" His eyes light up.
"Within reason."
"You're no fun." But he's smiling. "Okay, hit me."
"What's the best method for long-term memory retention?"
"Distributed practice," he answers immediately. "Spacing out study sessions over time instead of cramming. Which is what we should probably do again before the final."
"Look at you, already planning our next study date."
"Well, yeah. The incentive program is very effective." He pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck. "So what do I win?"
"You tell me."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Stay. Tonight. Just sleep, I mean. I study better when you're here."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "That's what you want?"
"That's what I want," he confirms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "We can make out more tomorrow after we ace this test."
You laugh, snuggling closer. "Deal."
As you drift off in Bucky's arms, textbooks scattered around you and his steady heartbeat under your ear, you think that maybe studying doesn't suck so much after all.
~
You're not sure how long you've been asleep when you stir slightly, consciousness hovering in that hazy space between dreaming and waking. You can feel Bucky's presence beside you, his warmth, but something feels different.
Through half-closed eyes, you realize he's awake. Propped up on one elbow, he's just... looking at you. The lamp on his desk is still on, casting soft shadows across his face, and there's an expression there that makes your breath catch even in your drowsy state.
Wonder. Tenderness. Something that looks a lot like love.
His fingers ghost across your cheek, so gentle you barely feel it. He traces the curve of your nose, the arch of your eyebrow, like he's an artist studying his favorite masterpiece. You watch him through your lashes, staying still, not wanting to break whatever spell this is.
"God, I'm so gone for you," he whispers, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "What did I do to deserve you?"
Your heart swells so big you think it might burst. You let your eyes flutter open fully, and he startles slightly, caught.
"Buck?"
"Sorry," he says softly, not looking sorry at all. "Didn't mean to wake you. I just... couldn't sleep."
"Why not?" you murmur, reaching up to touch his face.
He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Too busy being grateful you're here. That you put up with me. That you turned my terrible study habits into something that actually worked because you're brilliant and patient and—" He stops himself, laughing quietly. "And I should let you sleep."
You tug him down beside you, curling into his chest. "Stay with me."
"Always," he promises, wrapping his arms around you. "Always, doll."
This time when you drift off, you feel his lips press against your forehead, and his whispered "I love you" follows you into dreams.
~
The next morning, you both show up to your psychology exam. Bucky catches your eye across the lecture hall and winks.
Later, when you compare scores, he's only three points behind you.
"Told you the incentive program works," he says smugly.
"We're doing this for every exam," you decide.
"Doll, I will never argue with that plan."
He kisses you right there in the hallway, and you think that college just got a whole lot more interesting.
✴︎ "You behave so much better when I have my hands on you."
pairing: 40s!bucky x nurse!reader
warnings: sexual tension, wound tending (not detailed), whipped!bucky, teasing, flustered!bucky, i kinda wanna expand on these two in the future...
word count: 470 (okay so... i dont know what happened.)
a/n: day 12 of the January Jumble Scribbles hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles !!!
i cant get that gif of him at the premiere out of my head. YOU KNOW THE GIF. THAT ONE. so this is kinda inspired by that ONE SINGULAR GIF CUS HUH??? im getting flustered thinking ab it...
event masterlist || navigation
He sat so obediently atop the squeaky hinges of the cot, boyish smile on his face as he let you work on his bicep. Blue eyes fixed on your face as you work him over, barely even wincing as you pull the fabric over his wound in tight pinches, too enamoured by the way a crease appears between your eyebrows and how you purse your lips together in concentration.
He shuffles atop the scratchy cotton, looking around the walls, humming. “I, uh…" he clears his throat, "I wanted to apologise for the commotion… back there.”
The scoff you expel was automatic, a humoured smile lit up your face, yet you still payed him no mind. Too focused on dabbing, wrapping, knotting and snipping at the gauze.
You both know he isn’t sorry.
“Yeah well,” you murmur, “apologise to Nathanial. Kicked out the poor fella for what? A paper cut?”
The tease fuzzies his chest, chuckling under his breath all the while he bows his head to the side in an attempt to hide his blushing cheeks, but you quickly peek at the pinkening apples of his cheeks. “You know you kick your legs like a schoolgirl when you’re flustered.”
He tuts, teeth bared in a grin, “C’mon doll, you’re too pretty to be such a tease.”
You hum, finally fully looking into his eyes. You almost flinch at how big they are, the ring of blue swallowed by his pupils, you could see your own reflection. “Hm… Pretty warranted with the fact you refused the help of the other perfectly capable nurses—“
Hypnotised by the vastness of his stare, you fail to move away in time, feeling Bucky’s warm palms slip around your waist, mouth pulled in a smile that told you he's holding a playful quip on the tip of his tongue.
“Sweetheart, I cant help it, you have this—this grip on me. S’like you got a magic touch, got me all wrapped around your goddamn finger,” his voice lowers into a soft growl, whispering the words as he manoeuvres you between his legs. “There’s something special about you. Put some kinda spell on me.”
Your hands find his shoulders, letting the cotton tingle on your palms before inching your fingers into his hair, relishing his sharp inhale and half lidded gaze as you trail.
“Well… You do behave so much better when I have my hands on you, Sarge,” as you tangle in his locks, his hands palm the meat of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. But duty calls, and theres no way the two of you are safe in some scroungy tent.
Bucky whines at the loss of your heat as you back away, tidying your supplies for the next possible soldier. “Come back tomorrow for a checkup, and this time ask for me politely.”
Synopsis: Bucky Barnes was falling in love with the pretty waitress at the diner.
pairing: bucky barnes x waitress!reader
words: 4.4k
contains: fluff, touched starved bucky barnes, emotionally stunted bucky barnes, mutual pining, post-fatws, sam being a menace, use of y/n, descriptive detail of shirtless and sweaty bucky (be warned!).
author's note: this is my first fic i'm posting so please be kind!
taglist
You always felt Bucky’s presence moments before he walked into the diner. A quiet hush would fall over the customers and the other waitresses’ would check their appearance in whatever reflective surface they could find. And sure enough, seconds later, the bell would ring and a six foot, handsome super soldier would walk in.
You weren't sure why he kept coming back here. The coffee was terrible and you weren't entirely sure that the diner met food health and safety standards. But he came here every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday at exactly 10:15pm.
And today was Friday and it was 10:14pm. You pretended not to notice the way the customers sat by the windows had fallen quiet. How Vanessa was already reapplying her lipstick while glancing at a serving spoon. You pretended that your heart didn't beat a little quicker the moment that you heard that bell ring.
Bucky Barnes paid no attention to the other customers. He was used to people staring by now. Used to them whispering. He used to hate it. Eight months ago, he would have walked straight back out the diner and not looked back. Hell, he wouldn't have even left his apartment to begin with. But he was trying to adjust to the modern world and having a routine that actively placed him in a busy diner on a Friday night was helping.
Despite Vanessa batting her lashes and putting on a fresh coat of MAC ruby woo lipstick, Bucky chooses to sit in your area. He makes it look like an accident. Like he wanted to be closer to the radio, despite the fact he hated modern music.
He picks up a menu. Pretends to look at it. You bite back a smile as you pass by him to drop off an order to the kitchen.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you tell him. He grunts, eyes on the sandwich options, his mind on how socially acceptable it would be to throw the radio at the wall. Maybe crush it with his vibranium hand.
When you do return to him, he looks up instantly. You knew it was his enhanced senses from the super soldier serum but still, it made your face flush. Five months he had been coming here and you thought you would be used to it. You weren’t.
"Hey stranger," you say as you pull out your pen and notepad from your apron pocket, "thinking of branching out and trying a BLT?"
Bucky doesn't laugh but his face does shift for a moment.
"Nah, I think I'll have the usual," he says finally, putting the menu down. Bucky's usual was a black coffee. No milk, no sugar, no creamer and certainly no fancy syrup.
"Are you sure?" You ask, though you're already reaching towards the coffee pot (which you may have made fresh only five minutes prior) and grabbing him a mug.
Bucky looks over at someone drinking a latte a few stools down from him and frowns.
"Positive."
You may not know why Bucky kept coming back to this shitty diner but to the other customers, to your colleagues, it was pretty obvious. Bucky was falling for the pretty waitress who was currently pouring him a mug of coffee.
"Have you thought of asking her out?"
"No Sam, I haven't."
"What about asking for her number?"
"No, Sam."
"Have you asked if she's single?"
"No."
"Man, do you want to die alone?"
Bucky makes sure to smack the punching bag a little harder at that.
He didn't know why he had decided to tell Sam Wilson, of all people, about you. But he certainly didn't have a lot of people to seek advice from. Not after Steve had left him. He was still trying not to be angry about that.
Sam looks over at Bucky, exasperated as the super soldier continuously hits the punching bag that hung in the middle of the gym. Even with the bag full of heavy sand, Sam could hear how even the sturdy hook Shuri had fitted was struggling due to the power behind Bucky's punches.
"Okay Buckaroo—let's not take our anger out on the punching bag," Sam says gently and Bucky finally takes a few steps back, his bare chest heaving. Sweat glistening off his hardened muscles. Vibranium arm whirring as he tries to relax. But it's difficult when he's so wound up.
He couldn't help it. If it was the 40s, he would have no problem asking you out. Would have done it the first time he had stumbled into the diner after a rough mission. But it wasn't the 40s anymore and Bucky was not the same charming and easy going guy. He had been through too much. Seen too much. Been the (unwilling) cause of so much harm that the thought of you—someone who he imagined had never so much as hurt a fly—getting close to him? Well, he just didn't believe he was worthy as such a thing as your time, let alone anything more.
"Come on, Barnes," Sam says encouragingly. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Bucky looks at Sam, a grumpy expression on his face because honestly? Bucky had a lot of answers to that question. To him, he couldn't imagine a world where asking you out ended in anything but disaster.
"She could say no," Bucky states finally. "And then laugh in my face."
"Dude, she's not going to do that. First of all, you're kind of terrifying so she will not laugh at you."
Bucky looks at Sam with an expression that plainly told him to shut up. Sam raises his hands in surrender.
"Alright—I'll stop teasing," Sam declares. "But seriously man, ask her out. I want you to be happy—”
"—I am happy," Bucky interjects, hoping he sounds convincing. Forcing a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes.
"Finally learning how to use DoorDash does not count as being happy," Sam quips.
Bucky looks at Sam for a long, long moment. He knew Sam meant it. Knew Sam genuinely did want him to be happy. To have some semblance of a normal life. Bucky just—he felt like a fish out of water here.
"Just ask her," Sam says finally, understanding Bucky's silence meaning that this particular conversation being over. "Before someone else does."
Bucky stiffens at that and looks over at his begrudging friend with a clenched jaw. He had considered that. Hell, you could be married with three children for all he knew (though he had made note of your lack of a wedding ring).
"Maybe," Bucky mutters, turning back to the punching bag and raising his fists.
"What's her name?" Sam asks. "This elusive waitress?"
"(y/n)."
When he says your name, he can't help but smile. Sam Wilson can't help but notice.
"Pretty name," Sam notes.
"Yeah. Pretty."
It was a Tuesday at 8:55pm when Captain American walked into the diner.
Thankfully, Tuesday's were pretty quiet but even so, Sam Wilson was immediately inundated with people asking for selfies, for autographs, for his number.
People were not afraid to approach him like they were Bucky Barnes, apparently. And Sam, well, he's more than happy to entertain.
You watch, in the middle of wiping down a table that a group of teenagers had managed to spill not one but two milkshakes on, as this man single-handedly handles a crowd of admirers like it was nothing. Like he did this on the daily. Perhaps he did.
Your boss and a few other waitresses handle the crowd, asking that customers return to their tables so that 'Cap can enjoy his hearty meal in peace'. You almost laugh at your boss’ words. He had never treated Bucky with such care and attention. And a hearty meal? That was a stretch. You return your attention back to the messy table, frowning in disgust as you note the smears of mustard the teens had left on the tabletop. You were just about to go and grab some extra cleaning products when someone taps your shoulder.
You turn and—come face to face with Captain America.
You blink. Stunned. Should you bow? Curtsey? Pledge allegiance to the flag? You weren't sure.
Before you could do anything however, Sam smiles at you like you were old friends.
"(y/n), right?" He asks and you nod numbly as he extends his hand to you. "I'm Sam. Bucky's friend."
"Oh," you exclaim, taking Sam's hand and shaking it. "Yeah. Bucky. Right. I know Bucky."
Sam smiles at that. You're still shaking his hand. He doesn't pull away until you do.
"Are you—are you here to meet Bucky?" You ask. "Because he's not usually here until after ten—"
"No," Sam cuts across you with a shake of his head. "I'm here to see you."
"Me?" You ask, still in a state of astonishment. When Sam nods, you're just even more bewildered but you don't have time to question it when you catch your boss' eye over Sam's shoulder. Clearly, your boss wasn't going to let you just talk to the most famous person who had ever walked into this diner. "Sure—um, yeah. We can talk," you say as you gesture to the half cleaned table (your boss makes a noise as though fatally wounded) but Sam doesn't mind. Just sits down. Doesn't even make a face at the mustard smear. "I'll just—clean that up."
"Great," Sam replies kindly with an easy smile. "Take your time. I'm in no rush".
You practically race to the cleaning cupboard. What the actual fuck was going on? Why was Captain American here in, quite possibly, the worst diner in New York City asking to talk to you? You imagined it had something to do with Bucky. That had to be it. You couldn't imagine any other reason why Sam Wilson would be wanting to talk to you. You were a law abiding without even a blemish on your record.
You grab the supplies you needed before your boss could follow you in the closet and scold you for letting Captain America sit at such a dirty table. You return to said table barely thirty seconds later, Sam now perusing a menu and chatting easily to Vanessa.
"—so, is Thor still in the gang?" She asks in that flirty tone of hers, twirling her red, silky hair around her finger as she leans back against the table like she had all the time in the world and didn't have customers waiting on her (which she absolutely did). "Does he have a phone—"
"Hey Ness. Sorry but I gotta clean the table," you tell her, not missing the small huff of frustration as she stands up straight. She walks away but not before casting you an envious look over her shoulder. Without a word, you clean the table as Sam watches you over his menu.
"So, how long has Robo-cop been coming here?" Sam questions.
"Who?"
"Barnes. Bucky. That moron with the metal arm."
"Oh," you say, spraying some disinfectant before giving the table a final wipe down. "Um, he's been coming here for about... five months?"
"Five months?" Sam repeats in an incredulous tone. "Three days a week for five months?"
You nod. You glance back briefly at your boss who was still watching you from behind the counter.
"Are you going to order something or are you just here to talk to me? Because—I have a feeling my boss might burst into flames if I don't do my job."
Sam laughs easily, head thrown back and the sound bursting out of him.
"Hell no," Sam chortles. "Bucky told me this place is one health visit away from being bulldozed down. But—just to get your boss off your back, I'll have—whatever the most expensive thing is on the menu."
And so, Sam ends up with a surf and turf and you sat in the booth across from him. Your boss finally off your back.
"Do you know why I'm here?" Sam asks you, hesitantly poking at the severely overcooked steak. "Besides from having a death wish. Apparently."
You fiddle with the corner of a napkin nervously. Bottom lip between your teeth. Eyes darting towards the clock. Subconsciously checking the time because it was a Tuesday and it was 9:25pm. Bucky would be here in less than an hour.
"Is it to do with Bucky?" You offer, eyes flickering up to meet Sam's. He smiles.
"Bingo."
You can't help it. You flush. Because the thought of Bucky? Well, it made your heart beat a little faster. Your stomach feels as though it was doing a loop-de-loop on a damn rollercoaster.
"You like him," Sam says then. Not a question, but a statement. One which you don't deny.
"He—he's nice," you murmur finally. Looking down at that incredibly interesting napkin in your hand.
"Just nice?"
"He—he's polite too," you add. "And—he always tips really well and—and he's a good listener—"
"—god, you're perfect for him," Sam chuckles. "You know, he's just as in denial. If not worse."
"About—?"
"He likes you," Sam states, as though he was stating a simple, undisputed fact. "Like—really likes you."
You blink. Your face feels hot and you swear you momentarily forget how to breathe properly.
"And judging by the fact you're not running for the hills, I'm going to guess that you like him too," Sam observes quietly.
You look up at Sam then and after a few moments, you nod.
"He—you just don't meet a lot of guys like him," you declare finally.
Sam laughs again, "because he's like a hundred and seven years old."
You laugh at that—you can't help it.
"He told me you had a great laugh too."
"He did?" You ask, trying not to sound hopeful. Trying not to sound flustered.
"Yeah—he threatened to put my body in a blender if I ever repeated it but, I figured if telling you means that Mr Cyborg gets a chance of happiness then hell, I'll take the risk."
Sam leaves twenty minutes later with a takeaway box full of inedible steak and seafood after leaving a generous tip and your mind reeling. Because Bucky liked you. He liked you enough to tell Sam about. Liked you enough that Sam was teasing him.
You still couldn't quite believe it.
And so, when 10:15pm came, you waited with bated breath. But the other customers didn't quite. The bell above the door didn't ring.
For the first time in five months, Bucky Barnes didn't show up to the diner on a Tuesday night.
In fact, Bucky didn't show up all week. And the next.
You felt his absence. You hated that you still looked up when the bell rang, even if it was the middle of the day. You hated that you had even checked latest news stories about him just to check that he was okay. And you hated that you had spent time on your hair and makeup before your shift just in case. After that conversation with Sam, you were sure that the next time you saw Bucky would have been...well, you weren't entirely sure but you had felt hopeful. Excited, even.
And now, you wondered if you would ever see him again.
It had been two Fridays since Bucky had last been at the diner and you finished your shift around 2am—since you were covering Vanessa (who had conveniently fallen ill on the day she was meant to be doing the late shift). You felt the cold before you even left the diner—the air nipping at any bit of exposed skin it could find. You pulled on a hat, scarf, gloves and your biggest coat but your teeth still chattered as you locked up the diner.
Thankfully, you only lived a few blocks away and so you didn’t have far to walk.
What you didn’t account for however was how dark it would be. Most of the streetlights were off and so, you started to walk with the metal of your house keys between your knuckles.
“I can walk you back.”
You nearly scream.
Your key clatters onto the asphalt.
You scramble to pick it up so you could punch the guy who—
“Hey, it—it’s just me. I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t meant to scare you.”
You look up then, still kneeling on the frozen concrete with your hand clamped around your house key as you see—Bucky.
You hadn’t forgot how handsome he was but it still took you by surprise. Made you feel a little breathless. Made you forget how to speak.
You don’t say anything. You just look at him. Trying to work out if he was really there or if this was some sort of hallucination you were having.
Bucky, of course, doesn’t take your silence too well.
“I’m—fuck—” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You—you don’t have to talk to me. I just—I need you safe.”
Your breath hitches. You slowly stand up straight, ignoring just how cold your knees were now. Key feeling like ice against your palm.
“I’ll even walk like five feet behind you,” Bucky continues, “whatever you want if that—”
“No,” you say quickly with a shake of your head. “That’s—that’s not I want. You—you can walk with me.”
Bucky barely reacts. He just nods. Lets you lead the way.
Despite it being two in the morning, the city was alive with noise as you and Bucky walked. Him keeping a cautious distance from you and you looking down at your shoes.
You wanted to ask him where he had been the past two weeks. You wanted to ask why he was hanging around the diner at two in the morning. Most of all, you wanted to know why. Why he had stopped coming to the diner in the first place. Was he busy? Did Sam get food poisoning and die from the damn surf and turf? Did—
"You look like you're thinking really hard," Bucky comments and it's then you realise that he had been watching you. The thought makes your face grow hot.
"I—yeah," you mumble quietly. "I'm just—I haven't seen you in like...two weeks and all of a sudden, you're outside the diner at two in the morning? I'm—yeah, I'm confused."
Bucky tightens his jaw. He clenches and unclenches his fists. Like he’s holding back. Like he wants to say or do something but isn’t quite sure how to.
“I—look—I was by the diner at this time because I—I wanted to come in, okay but—but I didn’t know what to say to you so I—I was waiting for you to finish because I figured maybe when I was stood in front of you the words would just…come to me.”
“But—you didn’t finish at your usual time,” he continues sheepishly, because he was admittedly embarrassed by how long he had waited for you. Self awareness was creeping in and he was realising how insane he looked.
“I was covering for Vanessa,” you explain quickly as you watch his face for a few moments, trying to read and understand every expression. “She called in sick.”
He can’t help it. Bucky laughs at that.
“Oh. I find that hard to believe.”
You laugh, the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Listen, (y/n),” Bucky says in a tone that makes you stop walking to look at him fully. He mirrors you, standing a few steps away from you and somehow taking your breath away by doing nothing at all, “I—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—I’m a hundred and seven years old for god sake. I don’t get a lot of things—like phones, online dating, hell bubble tea—fucking wireless hoovers. I don’t—I feel like I don’t belong here.”
Your shoulders sag a little, your expression softening because you didn't get it—of course you didn't. You would never experience what Bucky had and you certainly couldn't imagine adjusting to modern life while doing so. You open your mouth to try and reassure him, but he's already talking again. And the words that next come out of his mouth? Floor you.
“But when I met you? Fuck. I realised that I maybe could.”
You blink. Swallow. Try to remember how to breathe.
"R-really?" You ask him tentatively, your eyes flickering up to meet his deep blue ones.
Bucky nods, hands shoved in his pockets as he holds himself back from doing something reckless. He didn't know what he was doing. He hadn't been this attracted to someone since the 40s and fuck, he wanted to touch you. Wanted to see if your skin was smooth. Wanted to see how it felt to pull you in his arms and—
He shoved those thoughts aside. Not the time or the place.
"Yeah. Really," he says finally. "I—I don't what I'm doing but—what I do know is—I look forward to the days I get to see you. And I—talking to you makes every sip of that god awful coffee worth it."
You let out a laugh at that, unable to stop yourself. You see the corners of Bucky's lips twitch.
"It is terrible," you accept with a soft smile. "There's better diners out there, you know?"
"Yeah but—you're not at those diners," he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours. Your breath hitches. Everything around you slows. It just feels like you, Bucky and the cold.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets. Flexes his fingers. Wordlessly holds out his flesh hand. You take it without hesitation. It's warm and envelopes yours easily.
"Still okay if I walk you home?" He asks gently, his eyes gentle. His thumb brushing over the skin of your hand like fire.
"Yeah," you say softly, "it's okay."
The walk is quiet, aside the buzz of the city. And despite the cold, his hand in yours felt like a damn personal heater. You assumed it was the serum, perhaps it made him run warm. It would explain why he wasn't shivering from the bitter cold right now like you were. You wanted to ask about it but didn't want to overstep. One day perhaps he would tell you.
When you eventually arrive at your apartment block, Bucky's eyes are already scanning your building. Looking for anything that could jeopardise your safety. You catch him doing so and try not to smile.
"There's a security guard job going if you're interested," you say teasingly.
For a moment, you know he is tempted.
"No," he says finally, looking back at you. "Below my pay grade, that."
That made you laugh and when you laughed at something he said? Bucky felt lighter. Like the dark chasm in his chest after all he had been through wasn't so heavy. And your hand in his? He felt something softer, warmer there.
"Thank you for walking me back," you thank him quietly. "You didn't have to."
Bucky shakes his head, a look you couldn't quite read on his face. Like maybe he felt a little sorry for you that modern men seemed to treat women with so little respect and human decency that being walked home was something you felt like you had to thank him for.
"My ma raised me to always walk a woman home," he says simply.
You smile a little at that. It was the first time he had talked about his mother in front of you. You didn't press him for anymore. He appreciated that. One day, maybe.
"I want—" he begins, stopping as he looks at you, almost like he was finding strength in your eyes to continue. "—I want to take you out on Saturday."
You start to smile and fuck, he swear he's never seen something as beautiful as you. Not the cherry blossoms in spring, not the national parks in Canada or the great barrier reef. Just you. You, you, you.
"Okay," you say softly. "Saturday it—”
"—Actually, no," Bucky interjects with a shake of his head. "I can't wait. Tomorrow. I want to take you out. Tomorrow."
You look up at him, heart hammering in your chest as you nod. "Tomorrow."
He almost smiles. Almost.
He releases your hand. You feel the cold instantly or perhaps it was the lack of his warmth. Whatever it was, you missed his touch already.
"I'll be here for seven," he tells you, lifting his hand to gently—ever so gently—swipe his thumb across your cold cheek. The subtle touch was enough and too much at the same time. "Now get inside and warm up."
You nod as he pulls his hand away. His touch leaving your face burning. He was so gentle. Touching you like you were something precious. Something sacred.
"Goodnight, (y/n)."
"Night, Bucky."
Bucky takes a few steps back and you watch him as he turns around. Walking away from you as you think of tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
And though tomorrow—technically today since it was two in the morning—was not that far away. You couldn't wait.
"Bucky!" You call after him.
He turns around—seeing you running towards him, slipping a little on the frozen ground.
"Hey, be careful! You don't want to—"
But before he could scold you for risking breaking your neck, you're grabbing him by the front of his leather jacket, tugging him down and pressing your lips to his.
Bucky Barnes freezes. His brain short circuits. He wonders if he was imagining things.
But when his hands automatically find your waist, he realises that this was real. That he wasn't imagining things. That you were really kissing him. And so, he kisses you back. Presses his lips back against yours softly. So softly. He hadn't kissed someone since—well, he really didn't want to think about that right now. Just pulled you closer to him and tried to memorise the way you tasted.
It's him who pulls away first—because he knew if he kissed you for a second longer, it would become embarrassing for him (because a woman hadn't touched him in a long, long time).
"Couldn't wait?" he murmurs, ducking his head down to meet your eyes.
"Something like that," you reply with a faint smile.
And Bucky? Well, Bucky was just thankful that he had stumbled into your diner because it led him to the pretty waitress who kissed him like he was worth something. And that? That made the terrible coffees and borderline inedible food worth it. So damn worth it.
so this is going to be stuck in my head for the unforseeable future WHY ISN'T HE REAL?? WHY DON'T I WAITRESS A TRASHY DINER??? life is a prison bro. anyways i DEVOURED this READ IT EVERYONE
some slightly uncomfortable headcanons I have about the Thunderbolts at the beginning of them living together (because we all know the first few months of these people in one place are far from being all fun and games)
Bucky is haunted by the fact that Sentry can so easily remove his metal arm just like that. Has nightmares about it, too.
He has late-night conversations with Yelena (and sometimes John) about what they should do in case The Void comes out again. The talks eventually go nowhere since they're all deeply aware of the fact that they really can't do ANYTHING against him. Best thing they can do? Prevent it from happening. (they also don't know how to do that, though, outside of making Bob feel comfortable AT ALL TIMES).
Yelena resents these convos because she feels like Bucky's treating Bob more like a threat than a person. BUT a part of her understands WHY they need to talk about it, though.
Mel can't look Bob in the eye because she's very much aware that she actually used a kill switch on him. And that the reason she got a raise from Val was basically for *killing* Bob. She has no intentions of sharing this info with the team, though.
Ava has no problem stealing items from anyone, even in public. It's an issue with boundaries, not necessarily that she's a klepto. It got so bad that anytime one of them loses something, they automatically assume Ava took it (and yeah, sometimes she did).
Alexei lives like a fucking slob, even at the Watchtower. His room stinks like fuck and no one gets within 10 meters of it (fortunately he lives at the very top of the tower so they don't have to).
John gets NO respect from the team on the field until their very first official mission had them blindsided, and it was only his tactical leadership that got them through it alive. Only then did they go "Shit, maybe there IS a reason he was Cap, even if it only lasted 2 seconds"
Yelena is a VERY mean drunk. Fortunately, she has a VERY high tolerance and is actively trying to work through her drinking problem. But when she relapses, the others (except Alexei) know better than to deal with her.
Bucky, John, and Yelena have learned that they NEED to verbally assign which of them gets to lead the others in missions, because they all tend to issue orders (that Ava and Alexei follow, sometimes without question).
When she's at her wits' end with the team, Ava comforts herself by thinking about how easy it would be to reach into their body and yank an organ out. OBVIOUSLY SHE'S NEVER GOING TO DO THIS.
Bob is aware that the team sometimes walk eggshells around him. When he asks Yelena about it, he gets annoyed with her because she has a tendency to downplay it (in an effort not to offend him).
They're all afraid of touching Bob's skin because it might cause them to revisit a shame room.
summary: Baking Christmas cookies would be a lot easier if Bucky would keep his hands off them- and you.
word count: 1.2k
warnings: none!
__
The scent of fresh sugar cookies is intoxicating, dancing through every space in your house. You’ve been at it for over an hour, punching out shapes and lining up endless trays, humming along to Michael Bublé.
One of Bucky’s ugliest sweaters hangs over your frame, paired with black leggings for the ultimate fashion statement. The kitchen floor is slightly sticky from all the sugar in the air.
Right on time, you hear the front door click, the rhythmic shuffle of him taking his boots off. Like a cartoon character floating through the air on a scent cloud, he drifts into the kitchen. His arm, heavy and warm snakes around your waist. You feel the deep vibrations of him speaking.
“Whatcha makin’, baby?”
“Christmas cookies,” you relax against him. “Wanna help?”
“I can be your taste tester,” he offers. You elbow him lightly.
Though he claims to be “helping”, your boyfriend mostly just lingers, watching you bustle around with piping bags and steaming trays. And yes, he steals cookies galore. You let him.
First tactic:
He slips behind you, twining an arm around your midsection, and then points over by the dining table.
“Look! What is that?” he asks theatrically, slipping a freshly-iced cookie off your plate while your head is turned. He shoves the entire cookie in his mouth at once.
“I don’t see anything,” you reply, feigning ignorance.
“That’s so weird,” he mumbles through a mouthful. “Could’ve sworn-“
“Uh huh.”
Second tactic:
He pretends to go “play with Alpine” in the living room, but he watches. And he waits.
And the second you’re busy adjusting the oven, he silently dashes into the kitchen, snatches an entire plate of cookies off the counter, and sprints away. He collapses onto the couch like he’s finished a marathon. Victory has never tasted so sweet.
Until you appear in front of the couch moments later, raising an accusatory eyebrow. With reluctance, he surrenders the half-eaten plate.
He kicks it up a notch for tactic three:
You’re focused, lip clamped between your teeth and eyes adorably squinted as you ice a snowflake-shaped cookie. You don’t even realize Bucky’s behind you until you feel the hot drag of his lips against your exposed neck. You yelp, squeezing a misshapen blob of frosting onto the snowflake cookie.
“Bucky!” you scold, but your heart’s not in it. His mouth has made a pilgrimage from your neck to the hollow of your shoulder, and you have to admit: he’s good.
Not good enough, though- you see his hand briefly scan the countertop, swiping the very cookie you’d been icing before he interrupted.
You let him keep the cookie- it’s ruined anyways- and practically chase him out of the kitchen. He’s laughing. You’re trying not to.
All through Christmas Eve dinner (Chinese food- a tradition you’d started together two years ago), you eye him suspiciously. He bites after two minutes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like…what?”
“Like I might- I don’t know- set the kitchen on fire?”
You hum, twirling your noodles. “Something about thieves, I guess.”
“Thief?” he laughs incredulously, and it puts a smirk on your face.
“Yeah,” you lean over, snatching an egg roll off his plate and crunching into it before he can protest. “Thief.”
“Well, now you’re just being a hypocrite,” he smiles. “And it’s not my fault those cookies taste so good. It’s yours.”
After a moment, you concede. “Fine. But no more stealing them. We have to give some to the neighbors.”
“You mean the neighbors who hit our mailbox?”
“Bucky.”
You stand up and make a move to clear your takeout boxes, but he beats you to it, telling you to go get your coat on so you can go see the neighbors.
You’re too trusting, taking at least fifteen minutes to freshen up. When you stride back into the kitchen, your jaw drops open in comic disbelief.
Bucky is eating one of the plates you assembled. He catches your eye, sheepish but not at all sorry.
“You can’t do that. You can’t eat all of my sugar cookies.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, crumbs dotting his lips.
“Yeah,” you cross your arms, stalking towards him with a predatory grin. “Wanna know what happens now?”
The half-eaten snowman cookie in his clutches pauses its journey to his mouth. His eyebrows raise in mock fear.
“What happens, sweetheart?”
You’re in front of him now, almost toe to toe. He’s forced to look down at you, take in the slightly malicious smirk on your face. In a walking motion, your fingers crawl up his chest to his jaw, gently gripping his chin. You tilt his face down, and his whole body shifts forward.
Not breaking eye contact once, you brush a smear of icing from the corner of his lips, dragging more than necessary. Breath leaves his lips in tiny, fragile quantities, like exhaling too hard might break the spell you’ve cast on him. He lilts forward, practically melting down into you. The bitten cookie hangs by his side, forgotten. His eyes are half-lidded, lazily tracing your mouth.
“What happens now is,” you pause, sliding your other hand down his shoulder to fist in his collar. His lips are an inch from yours- you can feel him resisting the urge to devour you. “You get to do all the dishes.”
All at once you release him, leaving cold spots where your hands just burned. He nearly stumbles forward into you, face a portrait of dismay. You lean against the opposite counter, relishing the feeling of victory.
A moment of silence passes. Then:
“You’re evil.”
“Oh, baby,” you laugh. “How’s it feel to lose at your own game?”
“You’re malicious.”
He’s walking towards you now, eventually caging you against the counter.
“I’m telling Santa,” you murmur seriously. “You’re getting coal.”
His hands slide to your waist, lifting you to the countertop in one fluid motion. You’re looking down at him now.
“Well, that makes two of us, doll.”
His eyes are glued to your mouth again, and before you can stop yourself you’re raking your hands into his hair, forcing his head back to meet yours. The feel of his lips against yours is searing, like molten lava. His mouth tastes like stolen sugar. For a moment, you drown in it, and then you remember.
You break the kiss.
“You’re trying to get out of doing the dishes, Barnes.”
Your statement leaves no room for objection. His head falls forward, forehead meeting your collarbone.
“Guilty.”
Gently, you push him off of you, hopping down from the countertop. You pat his chest supportively. “The faster you finish those dishes, the faster we can get back to business.”
“Business, is it?” He flicks the faucet on.
“Well, you seemed to be taking it awfully seriously.”
He just sighs as you settle yourself patiently on the couch, Alpine curling into your lap. As you predicted, he makes quick work of the dishes. You feel the couch dip next to you, and then you’re being pulled against him.
You never make it to the neighbors’. And business, as promised, is wonderful.
