Warning- Bucky is a warning, fluff, boobs appreciation.
Bucky Barnes had exactly three sacred things in life, you, his coffee, and his meditation time.
And his meditation time, as he always insisted with the straightest face imaginable, required your boobs.
Not your presence, which is important for him.
Not your voice, which he can listen to nonstop.
Not your scent, though it drives him crazy.
Not your soft hand holding his, he loves when you touch him, especially when you massage him.
Well, it was your boobs.
Always.
Which is why, on a slow, lazy afternoon, Bucky was stretched across the couch with his face buried between your breasts like a man who had found salvation, after wandering the desert for forty years.
His arms were wrapped around your waist, keeping you anchored on beneath him, and every few seconds he nuzzled deeper as if trying to merge into your skin. His stubble scraped deliciously against the softness of your cleavage, his lips ghosting little kisses, little nibbles, little sucking pulls that made you shiver.
“Doll…” he murmured, voice muffled, “don’t stop…”
You continued carding your fingers through his hair, slow strokes that made his lashes flutter. He hummed like a cat against you, squeezing your hips as he inhaled your scent, kissing lazily along the swell of your breasts.
Warm. Heavy. Content.
Bucky Barnes was in heaven.
And nothing. absolutely nothing, was allowed to disturb this sacred ritual.
Which is why the universe decided to cause chaos.
Your phone buzzed on the table, Bucky ignored it and obviously sucking a mark, was his silent way of warning you to ignore it too.
Then his phone rang.
Bucky growled, the sound vibrated against your skin.
Then it rang again.
And he froze, “someone wants to die!” he muttered darkly into your cleavage.
You giggled softly, “Bubba, just check who it is.”
“No.” He squeezed your thighs possessively. “Meditating.”
The phone rang again.
Bucky lifted his head one inch, eyes narrowing murderously at the offending device across the room, which was on the coffee table, then dropped his face right back into your boobs with a frustrated huff.
Then it rang AGAIN.
“Oh for fuck sake!” He grabbed the phone blindly, slapped it on speaker, tossed it on the cushion next to him, and immediately buried himself back between your breasts.
“Buck?” Steve’s voice came through, cheerful, innocent and oblivious.
You bit your lip.
Bucky, however, had reached a level of annoyance few could survive.
His voice came out muffled, low, vibrating against your skin, because he refused to lift his head, “What.”
Steve paused. “you sound weird. Everything okay?”
Bucky groaned into your breasts, “I am meditating, Rogers.”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
Steve, sweet innocent Steve, asked, “Meditating on what?”
Bucky lifted his head, just enough to stare murder at the phone, then slowly, deliberately, nestled himself back against your cleavage and spoke with the most menacing calm, “On. My. Wife’s. Tits.”
You choked on air.
Steve made a sound so strangled it could have been a dying bird. “WHAT???”
“You heard me,” Bucky snapped, kissing one breast, letting his lips drag while he continued speaking. “You interrupted my peace. My quiet. My spiritual center.”
“Bucky!!!”
“I had my face,” he continued, licking a path over your skin, “like this…” as if he could see, then he gave another kiss, wet and slow “right here, minding my business. And you decided to call me!”
Steve was wheezing or probably getting an attack, “You could’ve… just ignored it!”
“I DID ignore it. But it KEPT ringing. And now my concentration is RUINED.”
You felt him pout into your cleavage.
Steve sounded like he wanted to evaporate, definitely having an attack, “I didn’t know you were meditating like that!”
“I meditate like this EVERY DAY at this time,” Bucky said, affronted. “I’ve told you not to call me between two and three.”
“You never said why!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Steve.” Bucky lifted his head, glaring. “Did you need a calendar invite entitled ‘Bucky’s Daily Boob Time’ with a description and pictures?”
You squeaked Bucky!”
He smirked and went right back to kissing you.
“Why can’t you meditate like a normal person?”
“This is normal.”
Steve had gone silent. Possibly catatonic or the attack took him.
“Rogers?” Bucky asked, “You dead?”
“I… I’m still here…” Steve croaked.
“Good. Because I’m not done.!” Bucky squeezed your breast for emphasis while glaring at the phone. “Listen carefully. If you EVER interrupt my meditation again, I swear on everything I love, I will come to your apartment, drag you outside, and staple your phone to the top of the Avengers Tower!”
You snorted, “Bubba…”
“I’m sorry Doll, but am I being unreasonable?” he asked dramatically, head still buried in your cleavage. “Am I not allowed to protect the sanctity of our holy ritual? Am I not allowed to worship in peace?”
Steve whimpered, “Bucky, please stop talking.”
“No. You’re gonna hear all of it since you ruined my session.” He kissed the curve of your breast again, slow and sinful. “Do you know what I was doing before you called?”
Steve screamed, “NO, AND I DON’T WANT TO…”
“I was right between her tits!”
“BUCKY!!!”
“Hands roaming everywhere, mouth all over her…”
“OH MY GOD!”
“And you destroyed the vibe.”
“END THE CALL, END THE CALL!!!”
You reached for the phone, laughing uncontrollably, but Bucky grabbed your wrist.
“Don’t you dare…” he said darkly. “He needs to learn.”
Steve was begging for mercy, “Please. PLEASE. I get it. I’ll never…never again…just stop!”
Bucky smirked wickedly, leaned in, and sucked your nipple hard.
You gasped.
Steve shrieked and hung up as fast as possible.
Silence.
You stared at Bucky, he stared back, smug, proud, horny, and absolutely unapologetic.
“Bubba…” You tried to hold in a laugh. “You traumatized Steve.”
“Good.” He pulled you closer, hands sliding up your back. “He interrupted my meditation. There must be consequences.”
You kissed his forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”
He nestled right back into your cleavage like it was his custom-made pillow. “I believe in maintaining spiritual balance, Doll.”
“And that balance involves?”
“Your boobs!” he said instantly. “Always your boobs.”
You chuckled, stroking his hair. “So your mind is at peace now?”
He tipped his head back, blue eyes gleaming with sinful affection. “Not yet.”
Before you could ask what he meant, he fixed your position on the couch, lowering himself between your thighs, face nuzzling your chest again, but now with intent.
“Bucky…” you breathed.
“Shh…” he whispered, lips trailing down your sternum. “Meditation continues.”
You laughed breathlessly, “You’re impossible.”
He grinned against your skin, “I’m your problem. Forever.”
“I happily accept.”
And Bucky Barnes resumed worshipping you, thoroughly, slowly, passionately, determined to reclaim every second Steve had stolen from him.
The late afternoon sun poured in through the living room windows, bathing everything in a warm golden glow.
You were in the kitchen finishing up some tea when you saw him, your husband, the ever handsome pain in your neck, because you can't say out loud about the soreness between your legs, sitting at the dining table, hunched over a few mission reports Sam had requested.
Semi-retired didn’t mean fully retired, after all.
Bucky was in sweatpants and a black tee, reading glasses perched on his nose, not that he’d admit they were necessary, scribbling things down with a pen as his hair kept falling into his eyes.
He blinked. Huffed. Blew at it. Ignored it.
Not once he asked for help.
You stifled a laugh watching him struggle, too stubborn to tie it back, too proud to ask for help.
And you weren’t the only one watching.
Natalia, perched cross-legged on the floor with her dollies, squinted up at her daddy like he was a particularly silly version of Prince Charming. She stood quietly, brushing her own hair back and murmured something to herself.
Then she got up, tiptoed to the kitchen, and reached for the little bowl you kept by the counter, her treasure stash of colorful hair clips.
You raised an eyebrow, but she smiled sweetly.
“Emergency!” she whispered like it was classified Avengers business. “Daddy looks blind.”
You couldn’t help but laugh as she grabbed her small brush and trotted off with purpose, bowl in hand.
“Daddy…” she said, standing beside him.
Bucky didn’t even look up, “Hey, baby.”
“You look like you can’t see.”
That made him pause.
He looked up and blinked as a pink butterfly clip hit the table.
Natalia held up her brush and clips proudly. “I’ll fix it.”
Bucky chuckled, setting his pen down and pushing his chair back just a little. “Alright, boss. Do your worst.”
She climbed onto the chair arm and carefully started brushing his hair, Bucky's hand instinctively went behind her back, to make sure she does not fall.
You leaned against the doorway, heart melting at the sight. Your tough, grumpy soldier, now surrounded by glittery clips and a daughter with her tongue peeking out in concentration as she pinned his hair out of his face.
A few minutes later, his hair was parted and neatly clipped back with an assortment of bows, butterflies, and one tiny watermelon.
“There!” Natalia announced. “Now you can see your boring papers.”
Bucky laughed, pulling her into his lap. “You’re the best, y’know that?”
“I know!” she said smugly, then giggled when you walked over and kissed both of them on their cheeks.
“Much better…” you said, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Now my handsome soldier doesn’t look like a golden retriever in denial.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, doll. I can still bench press you.”
“Sure you can…” you winked, giving him another kiss before walking away. “But only after our daughter finishes her makeover.”
The rest of the evening was filled with sparkly clips, stolen kisses, and a very stylish Bucky Barnes pretending he wasn’t completely in love with being his daughter’s canvas.
WARNING: Smut, infidelity, drug use references, violence, death, toxic partners. Reader and Bucky are toxic. This fic is inspired by “Back to black” by Amy Winehouse.
“A toxic partner is an expert at disguising their poison as love, making it difficult to escape their clutches.” Lily Anderson.
But damn you didn’t want to escape him, because you were as toxic as him and as addicted as him.
The scent in the apartment always gave him away before you even saw him. It was a sophisticated, dangerous blend that spoke of old money and new blood. Expensive Italian leather from his bespoke jackets, the faint metallic tang of gun oil that never truly left his skin, and the rich, complex aroma of aged rye whiskey. It was the scent of danger, of power, and of everything you had told yourself you would run from but never quite could.
You heard the keys in the lock of your Lower East Side brownstone, a sound that usually made your heart skip, but tonight, it felt like a heavy stone settling in your stomach.
He didn’t knock, he didn't need to. He owned this place, the same way he seemed to own pieces of you that you’d rather keep locked away, but he had the keys to it.
Bucky Barnes crossed the threshold, and the air in the room instantly thickened, seemingly magnetized by his volatile presence.
He looked impeccable, as he always did, even coming straight from whatever clandestine meeting of the Zemo family council he’d just presided over. A crisp black suit, tailored to perfection, hugging his broad, muscular frame, a dark grey silk tie, slightly loosened now, his knuckles still white as he unbuttoned his overcoat.
There was a faint bruise already blooming on his left cheekbone, a visible souvenir of the night’s work. He didn’t mention it, and you knew better than to ask.
“Doll…” he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the quiet apartment. A name only for you and no one else.
He didn’t ask if you were awake, or if you minded the late hour. Bucky Barnes didn't ask, he simply was.
You were sitting in an armchair, legs crossed in a seductive way, reading, but you hadn't turned a page in over an hour.
You watched him drop his coat and move toward the sideboard, moving with a practiced, predatory grace. He poured himself a glass of rye, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal. He downed it in one smooth motion before turning to look at you, his eyes, that piercing, icy blue that always seemed to see too much, fixing on yours.
“I need you to listen.” he said, finally moving to sit on the edge of the coffee table, far closer to you than safety should allow.
Your stomach clenched. You knew this tone. This was the ‘I'm about to do something you'll hate, but I need you to understand I had no choice’ tone.
“You're engaged.” you said flatly, stating the fact that had been a dull ache in your chest for months now. Yeah you had received the news long time ago from his right-hand man Steve.
Bucky sighed, the sound sharp and frustrated. He ran a hand through his dark hair, slicking it back. “It’s a strategic alliance, Doll. You know how this works. The Mourino family... it cements the truce. Don needs stability. I’m next in line, and that means I do what’s expected.”
“And Dolores aka 'Dot' is expected…” you finished for him, the name tasting like ash on your tongue. Dot was everything you weren’t, Mafia royalty, quiet, compliant, a beautiful ornament for a powerful man's arm. And she was safe. Safe and simple.
Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “It’s not like that. It’s business.”
“And what are we, Bucky?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are we business? Am I just... entertainment? A distraction before you go home to her?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, you saw real pain in those blue eyes. He leaned closer, the scent of him overwhelming you now. He placed his glass down and took your face in both of his large, calloused hands. His touch was electric, a familiar shock that you were helpless against.
“You're everything…” he murmured, his breath hot against your face. “You’re the one who keeps me sane. You’re the one who knows who I really am, not what the family needs me to be. Dot... she’s a contract. You’re...” He choked on the word, as if saying it out loud would be too dangerous.
But you weren't looking for safety, and you weren't looking for his silent confessions to save you. You were just as poisoned by this life as he was, and if he was going to walk back to her, you were going to make sure he took the ghost of your touch with him.
Your hand moved with a predatory stillness, sliding down the expensive fabric of his trousers until your fingers curled around the heavy, rigid length of his cock. You squeezed, your nails grazing the base through the cloth, and watched the way his eyes blown wide, his breath hitching in a jagged, pathetic sound of surrender. He reacted instantly, his hips twitching toward your hand in a reflexive, hungry surge.
“Does Dot know you well, like I do, James?” you whispered, your voice a sharp blade wrapped in velvet. You began to stroke him, a slow, possessive rhythm that forced him to look at you, to see the cold fire in your eyes. “Does she know how you like to be held? Does she know how much blood you have to wash off before you can sleep? Does she know how to keep you fed?”
You leaned in until your lips were brushing his ear, your hand tightening its grip, demanding every ounce of his attention. You knew exactly what you were doing, reminding him that while she might have the contract, you had the man. You were testing the limits of his sexual appetite, knowing he was a man of dark, bottomless hungers that a girl like Dot couldn't even fathom, let alone satisfy.
“Will she be enough for you when the lights go out?” you taunted, your thumb dragging over the head of his cock, feeling the damp heat already seeping through. “Or will you be thinking of me every time you close your eyes and try to touch her?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, a low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest. He didn't answer with words; he couldn't. The meaning behind your question was a direct hit, a reminder that he was a creature of habit and heat, and his safe bet was a starving man’s meal compared to the feast you offered.
But he didn’t need to say it. His actions did the talking. He didn’t leave any room for regret that night, or any time to question. He kissed you, hard and demanding, crushing his lips against yours. It wasn't gentle; it was desperate. It was the kiss of a man trying to outrun a future he’d already agreed to.
You met his desperation with your own. For months, this dance had been your reality. The stolen moments, the whispered promises that you both knew were impossible, the inevitable pain that followed every goodbye. You had told yourself, so many times, that you were strong enough to walk away. That you would keep your head high and your tears dry. That you could get on without your guy, as the old songs said.
But you were weak. You were a 'tiny penny rolling up the walls inside' the hollow reality of your own life, always inevitably falling back to him. Your track was troubled, your odds were stacked, and every time you tried to step into the light, you found yourself stumbling back to black.
Tonight was no different. He didn't ask you to stay, but his hands did. He was an addict, and you were the blow, the puff, the high that he couldn’t resist, even as the walls of his commitment to Dot were being built around him. You two only ever said goodbye with words. Your heart had died a hundred times, but your body always betrayed you. He would always go back to her, and you would always go back to him. You would always go back to black.
He kissed your neck, his lips grazing the pulse point there. Your head fell back, and you let out a ragged breath. You hated yourself for wanting this, for needing him this much, for accepting the crumbs of affection he threw you. But when his hand slid up your leg, finding the softness of your inner thigh, your body didn't care about your mind's regrets. Your body only cared about his heat, his strength, his scent.
He didn’t even undress you fully. He hiked up your skirt and tugged at your panties, the silk ripping softly. He didn't wait. He unzipped his flies, and you felt his hard length press against you. You gasped as he entered you, raw and demanding.
It wasn't lovemaking, it was a reclaiming. It was him staking his claim on the only thing that felt real to him in a world of political maneuvering and blood.
“You are mine!”
“Prove it!”
He thrust into you hard, the coffee table groaning under your combined weight. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. You bit down on his lip to keep from screaming, a metallic taste of blood mingling with the rye.
You didn't want him to leave. You didn't want him to ever go back to her. But you both knew this was just a temporary reprieve.
You matched his frantic pace, lost in the sensation, in the pure animalistic need. You could feel his release building, a low groan escaping him. You were almost there yourself, the world narrowing down to just his body and your own. You scratched him hard, left dark visible hickeys on him.
And for a man about to get married, he didn’t care.
“Doll…” he gasped into your ear, his voice rough with pleasure.
“Bucky…” you whispered, or maybe you cried it out. You didn't know. You didn't care.
He came inside you with a shuddering groan, burying his face in your neck. You rode out your own climax right after, a wave of intense pleasure that momentarily erased the pain.
For a few, perfect, terrible moments, you were his, and he was yours. There was no Dot, no Don, no Mafia. Just you two.
Then the reality crashed back down. He pulled away, standing up and quickly re-arranging his clothing. He zipped his pants, did up his belt, and picked up his glass, draining the last of the rye. He didn't look at you as he spoke.
“I have to go.” he said, his voice flat now, back to business. “The wedding is in six days. I can’t be here after tonight.”
You looked at him, still naked, the cool air touching your skin where his heat had just been. “And that’s it? You just get to get on without me?”
He finally looked at you, and the blue eyes were dead. “It’s how it is, Doll. You knew this when we started. We always said it would end.”
“We said goodbye with words, Bucky…” you said softly. “But we always go back to us. Why do you have to go back to her?”
He looked at you for a long moment, a flicker of something in his eyes, but then it was gone. “Because I have to. Because it's my job. Don't make this harder than it already is.”
He picked up his coat, not even looking back at you as he walked to the door.
“It isn’t goodbye, Bucky,” you said, your voice empty.
“I know…” he responds. He then just opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it firmly behind him.
You sat there for a long time, the silence of the apartment crushing you. You didn't cry. You had no more tears. You just felt...empty.
If you belonged to Bucky, then Bucky belonged to you.
This is the end or is it? You don’t care.
While Bucky was busy playing the part of the safe bet, Dot was playing a different game entirely. A game where your lover’s future wife didn't actually love him at all.
But Bucky wasn't a man who played fair, and if you were toxic, he was the champion of it. He wanted you miserable, he wanted you desperate, and most of all, he wanted you reminded that no one else could ever fill the void he left behind. You belong only to him.
You were at ‘The Winter Hell’, one of Bucky’s high-end clubs in New York. You were draped over some nameless, handsome associate of the Rumlow crew, dancing in the dark, strobe-lit corner of the VIP lounge.
You let him palm your breasts through your silk slip dress, his fingers rough and clumsy as they slipped beneath the lace of your panties. You arched your back, putting on a show for the security cameras you knew Bucky watched like a hawk. But inside, you felt nothing but a hollow, clinical boredom. The man was a ghost, his touch was white noise. No guy could satisfy you, no one could touch the nerve endings, Bucky had claimed as his own territory.
Then, the air in the booth shifted. The guy suddenly went pale, his hands recoiling as if he’d touched live wire. Bucky was there, standing in the shadows, looking like death in a charcoal suit. He didn't say a word to the man, he didn't have to. A single, icy look sent the interloper scurrying into the crowd, terrified for his life.
But you knew, Bucky will kill him.
Bucky stepped into the booth, his presence suffocating and electric. He didn't comfort you. He didn't ask if you were okay. Instead, he grabbed your hair, tilting your head back until you were forced to look at his dark, mocking face.
“You like that, Doll?” he hissed, his voice a jagged edge. “You like being handled by a man who doesn't know the first thing about how you work?”
Before you could snap back, he forced you down onto the velvet banquette. He didn't care who saw, he didn't care about the risk. He knelt between your legs, his large hands bruising your thighs as he pried them wide. He didn't go for your mouth, he went straight for your core, his tongue lashing against you with a brutal, expert precision that made your entire body go rigid.
He ate you out with a terrifying intensity, his mouth hot and demanding, sucking the very soul out of you. He knew every sensitive spot, every hidden trigger, and he used them like a weapon. He sucked hard on your clit. He made you come so hard your vision blurred, your fingers digging into his shoulders, a ragged sob of pure, unadulterated need escaping your throat.
When he finally pulled away, his lips were slick, and his eyes were predatory. He leaned up, his face inches from yours, smelling of your sex and his expensive scotch.
“Don't ever forget…” he whispered, his thumb dragging across your swollen lower lip. “He couldn't satisfy you. No one can. You're mine, Doll. Even when I’m standing at that altar, you’re the one who’s going to be screaming my name in my bed.”
Yeah he had that power over you and he was proud of it.
He stood up, adjusting his tie as if he’d done nothing more than check his watch, and walked away, leaving you shattered and soaking on the velvet, hating him and wanting him in equal, toxic measure.
You both only said goodbye.
And that’s how, two days before the wedding of the century, Bucky was back in your apartment. He was stressed. He was drinking more. And the only thing that could calm him down was you.
Yeah you had that power on him and you were proud of it.
You were both naked, tangled in the sheets of your bed, lost in the haze of afterglow warmth. The room smelled of sweat and expensive cologne. Bucky was asleep, his face relaxed for once, looking younger than his thirty-something years. You were running your hand through his hair, a faint smile on your lips.
You didn't hear the lock turn this time. But the sound of the door opening violently was unmistakable.
“Well, well, well…” a voice said, a voice you recognized immediately. It was sharp, clear, and dripping with satisfaction, not anger. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Bucky was awake and alert in a split second, his instincts overriding his sleep. He bolted upright, pulling the sheet up to cover you both, but not before Dot had gotten a very clear look.
She was standing in the doorway, beautiful as ever in a pale blue dress, a slight smirk on her lips. She didn't look shocked. She didn't look heartbroken. She looked… victorious.
“Dolores,” Bucky said, his voice unusually flat. “What are you doing here?”
“My dear fiancé…” she purred, walking into the room and looking around with a critical eye. “I was just doing a little bit of pre-wedding detective work. And it seems my intuition was right.” She gestured to the two of you. “I always knew you were too smooth to be faithful. But I didn't think you'd be this reckless.”
“This isn't what it looks like.” Bucky began, the weakest defense in the world, in a very ‘I don’t have time for this shit’ voice and you had to bite your lip from smiling.
“Isn't it?” Dot laughed, a harsh, brittle sound, clearly annoyed that Bucky and you are not looking scared. “You, naked. Her, naked. Smells like porn-novella in here. I think it's exactly what it looks like.”
You sat up, not bothering to hide yourself anymore. You looked at Dot, and you saw something you hadn’t noticed before. A look of genuine relief.
“You're not mad.” you said, stating the obvious.
Dot turned her icy gaze to you. “Mad? Darling, I'm thrilled. This is my 'get out of jail free' card. I never wanted to marry you, Bucky. Our fathers... they made this arrangement. I’ve been with Brock Rumlow for two years. He actually respects me.”
The revelation was a hammer blow to Bucky. He stared at her, stunned.
“Rumlow?” he said, his voice rising in anger, yeah his ego is bruised and you raise an eyebrow at him, knowing him very well. “You’ve been with Brock?” The Rumlows were your father’s bitterest rivals.
Dot’s smile widened. “Yes, Bucky. And now, thanks to this... interesting little display, I have all the proof I need. I'm going to my father. This wedding is off. I'm going to Brock.” She turned to leave, her victory lap complete.
“You can't do that bitch!” Bucky said, his hand already moving toward the bedside drawer. “It will be a bloodbath.”
Dot just laughed over her shoulder. “That’s not my problem anymore, is it? It’s yours.”
She walked back down the hallway, the sound of her heels clicking on the hardwood floors a death knell for the uneasy peace Bucky had tried so hard to maintain.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. You could see the muscles in his back tense, the visible stress radiating from him.
“This is it…” he whispered. “It’s all going to blow up.”, he lit up a joint, roaming around naked.
You looked at the doorway, where Dot had just vanished. You looked back at Bucky. You saw the weight of his entire world, of the family, of the expectations, crashing down on him.
Scratch that, you can make Bucky yours.
You didn't think. You didn't plan. You didn't hesitate.
You slipped out from under the covers, completely naked, and opened the bedside drawer. The black steel of the Colt .45 was cold in your hand.
Bucky smirked, seeing you like that.
You walked out of the bedroom, following the sound of Dot’s heels. You found her in the living room, near the front door, already pulling out her phone to make the call that would end the world as you knew it.
“Dot.” you said.
She turned, her face filling with genuine surprise for the first time. “What the hell do you want now? Did your 'guy' not give you enough…”
Her eyes went wide as she saw the gun pointed directly at her heart, “What are you doing?” she stammered, raising her hands. “You can't just…”
“I love him so much…” you quoted softly, a grim smile on your lips. “But I'm not a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside anymore. And I'm not going back to black. He’s mine!”
You squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the small apartment. The force of the shot knocked her backward, her body slamming against the front door before she slumped to the ground. A single, dark red flower blooming on her pale blue dress.
You didn't even flinch. You just watched her for a moment, making sure she was gone. Then you turned and walked back into the bedroom.
Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you with a mix of shock and something that looked terrifyingly like admiration. The sound of the gunshot hadn't seemed to register. He looked at the gun in your hand, and then up at your face.
“Doll?” he said, his voice strangely calm.
You looked at him, and for the first time, you felt completely, utterly powerful. You hadn't gone back to black. You had made your own light.
“You don't have to go back to her…” you said, your voice steady. “The wedding is definitely off.”
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He stood up, naked as you were, and took the gun from your hand. He set it down on the dresser, and then wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close.
“Damn…” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “That was... impressive.” He sighed, a sound of relief, of a burden lifted. “The clean-up is going to be a bitch, but I have a guy for that. Don't even worry about it.”
He didn't care. He wasn't worried. In fact, as he buried his face in your neck, you knew he was happier than he’d been in years. The world could burn. The families could fight. But in this apartment, you had rewritten the script.
Hi, I really hope it is okay with you, I had recieve a similar request for Sierra Six-
I have joined both the requests, I hope you enjoy this ❤️
Warning- Yandere, stalking, obsession, brutal fights, kidnapping, gaslighting, let me know if I miss any...
The city buzzes beneath the low hum of dusk crowded streets, honking horns, people brushing past without a glance.
You’re just another face in the crowd. Another pedestrian with headphones in, eyes half-lost in a bookshop window, unaware you’re being watched.
High above, tucked into the shadow of a hotel rooftop, he watches through the scope of his sniper rifle. Not for you. Not yet.
His finger is wrapped around the trigger, trained on Lloyd Hansen two blocks down. The man’s voice echoes faintly through the earpiece as he chats with his latest contact. But Sierra Six isn’t listening.
Not anymore.
Not since you stepped into view.
You’re not part of the mission. You're not a threat. You're not even supposed to exist to him.
But you do.
Somehow, with the tilt of your head, the smile you offered to the elderly bookseller, the way you adjusted your scarf like the cold actually mattered, you worm your way into his mind like a splinter.
His hand relaxes off the trigger.
He blinks once, twice. His training screams at him to stay on task. But his mind is no longer his own. It spirals. Imagines things.
What’s your name? Why are you here? Are you alone?
His eye stays pressed to the scope. He zooms in, not on Hansen, but on you.
He memorizes your features. Every blink. Every shift of your weight from one foot to the other. And when you walk away, he doesn’t turn back to the target. He watches where you go. Follows you. Tracks your footsteps from above.
A new target has entered the game. One that makes his pulse rise in a way even gunfire never did.
The door clicks softly behind him, no forced entry, no broken locks. Just the practiced fingers of someone who’s done this a hundred times, and never been caught.
Sierra Six steps inside your apartment like it belongs to him.
Because, in his mind, it does.
Your scent hits him first, warm laundry, paperbacks, the faintest note of jasmine from your lotion. He closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes it in. A crooked smile plays on his lips.
You're not home. He made sure of it. Watched you from across the street for two days before choosing this exact window. You're running errands. You’ll be gone for at least an hour and twenty-seven minutes.
He knows your entire schedule. Where you shop, what time you wake up and how long your showers last.
He walks slowly through your living room, careful and silent, like a lover returning to a place he’s missed. His eyes sweep across every surface, every frame, every mug and blanket like it’s sacred.
He doesn’t touch much.
Only what matters.
In your bedroom, he runs his fingers along your dresser. Opens the top drawer with reverence. His breath catches at the sight of your lingerie, silks and lace you thought no one ever saw. He picks out one, midnight blue, delicate.
He takes it. Folds it with care.
From your jewellery box, he selects a ring you haven’t worn in years. A simple thing. Silver, worn and forgotten.
Perfect.
He sits on the edge of your bed, opens your nightstand drawer, and finds the diary. He doesn’t hesitate.
Page after page spills out pieces of you. Your late-night thoughts. That fight with your brother. The ache of loneliness. The kind of man you dream about gentle, but dark. Protective. A man with hands that know how to hurt but would never hurt you.
He chuckles softly.
You already want him, you just don’t know it yet.
He keeps reading. Memorizes the way you describe the city, the way you hate elevators but still take them when you're tired. You doodle in the margins. Your longing for something real.
When he flips through the photo album on the shelf beside your bed, he finds it.
You, mid-laugh, hair pulled back, a summer day behind you. The kind of joy that’s rare in his world. He runs a thumb over the image, and this one, this one he takes. Folds it carefully into his jacket.
Then, finally, he sits back in your desk chair, pulls the picture out, and speaks to it like you’re right there.
“You don’t have to be lonely anymore…” he whispers. “I’m going to take care of everything. I’m going to fix it. You’ll see.”
He presses a soft kiss to the photo. Folds it again, places it in the inner pocket of his shirt, right over his heart.
Then he stands, before he leaves, he looks around one last time. Like he’s promising the space, I’ll be back.
The first time Sierra Six met Lloyd Hansen, it was in a ruined estate, low lighting, guns drawn, each man calculating the other with a look.
“You must be Lloyd.” “And you must be the trash they picked out of prison.”
Lloyd smirked like he wasn’t threatened. Six didn’t blink.
They circled each other in words before bullets ever flew. Predator vs predator.
“You got any family, Six?” Lloyd had teased, voice laced with that usual sociopathic amusement, “You know. Just in case I need leverage.”
Six hadn’t responded, but he threw the question back casually as he clicked the safety off, “Do you?”
Lloyd tilted his head, paused, then shrugged, “Nope. Just me, baby. No ties. No mess.”
Six knew he was lying.
Not because Lloyd gave himself away, but because he already knew about you.
Three days later, you were home, alone. The rain tapped gently against the window as steam curled from the slightly cracked bathroom door.
Six entered silently.
No gloves, no tools. He didn’t need them anymore. You’d left the door unlocked tonight. You never do, but you were distracted and tired.
Vulnerable, he thought.
He stepped through the apartment like a shadow, pausing outside the bathroom door.
The sound of the water running, your soft humming beneath it. He could see your silhouette through the curtain, blurred but beautiful. The gentle curve of your shoulder, the way your fingers dragged through your hair.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just watched.
He thought of Lloyd, how casually he lied. How filthy it felt knowing someone like that had ever been near someone like you. Six’s fingers twitched, his jaw clenched.
You deserve better.
The water shut off. He slipped out of the hallway in a heartbeat, into your bedroom, hiding behind the curtains. Hidden by night, he watched through the tiny slit of the fabric as you moved through your nightly routine.
Lotions, pajamas, reading, lights off.
Time passed slowly. He could hear your breathing shift deeper, heavier. Sleep had taken you.
Only then did he move, quiet as breath.
He stepped closer to the bed, towering over your figure curled in the sheets. You looked soft, breakable yet so beautiful. So unaware of the world outside your dreams.
He knelt beside you, brushing a lock of damp hair from your face with the back of his fingers.
You didn’t stir, his touch was too light, too careful. Like he didn’t dare wake the thing he worshiped.
“He lied about you…” he whispered. “He doesn’t deserve to have known you. But I do.”
His thumb grazed the corner of your lips.
“I’ll protect you from all of it. I’ll make sure you never feel pain again. You’ll never cry again. I’ll take you far away, somewhere they can’t touch you.”
He leaned down, his lips nearly brushing your temple, “You’ll be happy. Even if I have to break the world for it.”
Then he slipped away again, unseen, unheard.
But not unfelt.
He watched from the rooftop across the café. Perched like a ghost in the scaffolding. Hidden from the world. Hidden from you.
Below, you stood on the cobbled street, your arms crossed as Lloyd paced in front of you, face twisted in irritation. He wasn’t yelling, not quite, but close. You tried to speak, but he cut you off.
Six could read your face like a page, frustration, hurt, confusion.
He zoomed in just enough to catch it all. No audio necessary.
“So it’s true,” Six murmured under his breath, eyes locked on the interaction. “You’re his.”
Lloyd Hansen had lied. He said he had no family. Said he had no ties.
But there you were.
Lloyd's sister, his complete opposite yet sharing the same blood.
And Six hated that you shared blood with someone like him.
You looked like someone who should’ve been loved. But Lloyd treated you like you were a problem. A nuisance. He waved a hand at you like swatting a fly, then stormed off, leaving you alone with that sadness clinging to your shoulders like a storm cloud.
Six’s hands curled into fists, the edge of his scope creaking under the pressure.
No one should look at you that way. Especially not him, and that’s when he made the decision.
It was time.
Three days later, you were walking down the same street. Paper bag tucked in your arms, earbuds in, lips moving to a quiet hum.
He timed it perfectly.
The corner. The tilt. The distraction.
Your shoulder collided with his chest. The paper bag tumbled, apples rolling onto the street like marbles. You gasped, stumbling back, but strong hands steadied you.
“Shit! sorry,” he said quickly, crouching to help you gather the mess. “That one’s mine. Totally my fault.”
You blinked, slightly flustered. “No, it’s okay. I wasn’t looking...thank you.”
He handed you the last apple. Held it just a second too long before releasing.
“I’m Court...” he said with a small smile, the name sliding off his tongue like a well-worn lie. “Nice to meet you.”
You returned the smile, a little shy, brushing hair from your face. “I’m....”
“I know.”
You paused, confused.
He laughed softly and played it off, “I mean, you dropped this receipt for that book...” he pointed out to the book you had just brought in your hand, the receipt had fallen along with the apples.
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened with a smile, “Good observation...”
“Hard not to when a pretty girl is holding it.”
A flush crept to your cheeks, and from that moment on, it began.
The friendship, the “accidental” meetings, the coffee shop run ins. The night walks where he listened to you more deeply than anyone ever had.
You had no idea the stranger you met was the same man who broke into your apartment. Who kissed your photo. Who watched you cry yourself to sleep after the fight with your brother.
To you, he was the gentle soul with kind eyes.
To him? You were his and now that he had your name, your trust, and your smile, he would never let you go.
The pond shimmered under the moonlight, gunfire echoing off its surface like fireworks. The chaos had narrowed down to two men, bloodied, brutal, and too far gone to stop.
Sierra Six stood chest to chest with Lloyd Hansen, each breath heaving, bodies marked by bruises and rage. Claire had been rescued. The CIA would come soon. But there was something unfinished here, something personal.
Lloyd grinned through bloodied teeth. “You think you win because you got the girl out?”
Six didn’t flinch, “I didn’t just take the girl,” he said coldly. “I’m taking everything.”
Lloyd’s jaw tightened, but realization dawn upon him, as he understood instantly.
“Her?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “You went near my sister?”
Six's face barely shifted, but his eyes burned, unapologetic and proud, “I’ll take good care of her. Better than you ever did.”
Lloyd surged forward, snarling like a cornered animal, “You touch her, I’ll haunt you from the goddamn grave. She’s not yours!”
Six chuckled low and unbothered, it almost sounded like pity, “She’s already mine.”
The shot rang out so fast, it was almost not visible.
Lloyd dropped to the ground with a wet thud, his final expression twisted somewhere between shock and fury.
Six looked down at him for a long moment, then whispered, “Goodbye, brother-in-law.”
One month later, the world had moved on, the CIA covered up the mission. Claire was safe.
And you? You were gone.
Your friends hadn’t heard from you. Your phone was disconnected. Social media silent. No signs of forced entry at your apartment. Just vanished.
Because you were here, in his space now, far from the city. Far from freedom.
The day Lloyd was shot, you were taken.
One month earlier, you screamed when the door creaked open. The sound was muffled by the cloth gag wrapped tight across your mouth. You tugged uselessly at the silk ties around your wrists and ankles. And then you saw him.
Sierra Six stepped into the bedroom with calm, practiced grace. Shirt a little stained, boots still dirty from the night before. But he smiled, soft, warm, happy, “Missed you, sweetheart.”
You thrashed harder, tears already filling your eyes. You tried to speak, to scream.
He set something on the bed beside you, a photo. Bloodied and crumpled of Lloyd dead.
Your scream tore out of your throat, even muffled. You kicked, you cried, you begged through the gag. He watched you with something that almost looked like affection.
“Shhh,” he cooed, brushing your hair gently off your face. “I know. I know it hurts. But he was hurting you. I saw it. I felt it.”
You whimpered, voice hoarse behind the cloth.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his lap like a doll, cradling your trembling form as if comforting a lover, not a prisoner.
“You don’t have to be sad anymore. No more yelling. No more fights. No more people walking out of your life. I’m here now. And I’m never going to leave.”
Your body shook as he gently lifted your ankle, fingers brushing over the black tracker he’d locked around you a week ago. Your entire world was one room, one man, one monster.
“This is your new beginning,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll take care of everything. Just like I promised.”
He wiped your tears with his thumbs, gaze full of devotion.
“You’ll see. One day, you’ll thank me for this.”
You screamed into the gag again and he smiled, whispering softly into your ear like it was a lullaby.
“I love you.”
As your muffled sobs faded into the quiet of the room, Sierra Six sat beside you, watching your chest rise and fall with each trembling breath. The moonlight cast long shadows over your face, as he hummed softly, some old tune without words, just sound and silence.
Peace.
Meanwhile at the present day, somewhere far away, beyond cities and forests, beyond sirens and screams, in a private wing of a remote facility, sterilized white lights buzzed faintly overhead. Machines beeped steadily beside a lone hospital bed. A chart marked DO NOT DISCLOSE IDENTITY hung at the door.
The figure on the bed was still. Quiet. Tubes ran from his arms. Bruises had faded. Bandages had been changed.
And then, a twitch.
Fingers on the right hand shifted. Once. Twice.
The monitor beeped faster, a low groan rattled through dry, cracked lips. Stubbled jaw and a bloodied memory.
The moustache was still intact.
Lloyd Hansen’s fingers clenched into a fist, because this time it was personal.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
