𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 | bucky barnes x f!reader 𝜗𝜚
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he notices her in every small gesture; she notices him in every quiet heartbeat
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.2k 🧍♀️
𝐚/𝐧: hii!! so this was written for my beautiful @fandom-cuties !! 💋 college au, college!bucky x college!reader. this has been sitting in my drafts for some time now but last night i made some changes bc i got inspired by Sunny & Steve’s 1k Follower Celebration!! congrats sunny, im so happy for you 💋💋 as always, feedback is appreciated and enjoy!! :)) + pics credit: pinterest
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ﾒ૦
You weren’t supposed to be there.
Technically, this wasn’t your world — not the world of ink-stained maps, timelines scrawled across whiteboards, or professors who spoke as if they’d lived through every century they lectured about. You belonged to developmental psychology and children’s education, where everything was about the growing mind, the way language unfurls like a ribbon in a toddler’s mouth, or how play could be as vital as air.
But history has always called to you, not in the rigid, exam-heavy sense but in the way you looked at the world: how every step you took felt like it was laid on the bones of something that came before. You loved the invisible threads, the stories that whispered through the cracks of a century. Sometimes, when your own classes ended early, you slipped into these lecture halls and let yourself pretend you belonged here, too.
This particular hall was cavernous, too cold from the overworked AC, filled with the low murmur of students balancing laptops and iced coffees. You’d taken a spot at the back — half-hidden, so you could leave quietly if someone asked questions you weren’t supposed to answer.
The professor started speaking: revolutions today, movements of the people, the way unrest crackled through centuries like fire under dry brush. You opened your notebook, scribbling words you had no test to prepare for. You listened anyway.
And that’s when he noticed you.
James Buchanan Barnes — though here, on campus, he was just Bucky — sat in his usual place, second row from the front. Close enough to look attentive, far enough to avoid being volunteered. He leaned back in his chair with his notebook open, pen spinning between his fingers like he didn’t care if it flew out of his hand.
Bucky Barnes was confident. At least, that was the currency he dealt in — the grin that slid into place when someone waved at him across the hall, the teasing comments he tossed out when his friends complained about an assignment. The kind of guy people either envied or gravitated toward.
But the truth — the part almost no one got close enough to see — was quieter. He loved this. Not the performance, but the lecture. He loved the way the professor’s words unfolded, the way history wasn’t just facts but poetry in disguise. The small, fragile moments that shaped the world.
And today, for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t just focused on the professor. He was focused on you.
You, sitting in the very back, pen flying like you had a stake in this story. You weren’t checking your phone, or zoning out the way half the hall was. You leaned in, your posture intent, your expression open. It was the kind of listening that carried weight, like you weren’t here just to collect facts but to feel them.
He told himself it wasn’t unusual. People audited classes sometimes. But something about the way you tilted your head when the professor spoke about the echoes of 1848 revolutions… it made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
You didn’t notice him. Why would you?
He was just another history major, one of the “popular guys” who laughed too loudly in the hallways and flirted too easily at parties. You didn’t see the way his notes were half lecture, half fragments of thought — lines of Neruda shoved between bullet points, or the occasional scrawl of Camus: The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.
You were watching the professor. He was watching you.
The class carried on, time bending strangely as it always did when you listened to something you loved. The professor’s voice was steady, rhythmic, painting revolutions not as distant events but as restless, breathing things.
Bucky found himself writing less about the lecture and more about the presence of someone at the back of the hall who seemed to burn quietly without realizing it. He hated that. Hated how easily his attention betrayed him.
By the end of the hour, the scraping of chairs against the floor filled the space. Students poured out, phones lighting up, plans for lunch spilling into the corridor. You packed up quickly, efficient, slipping out before the crowd thickened. You always did — easier that way, less chance of someone asking you why you were there.
Bucky watched you go, telling himself not to. He had no reason. No tether. You weren’t in his circle, his classes, his anything.
And yet.
When the door shut behind you, he lingered in his seat longer than usual, tapping his pen against the margin of his notebook. He’d already decided he’d look for you next time.
Even if he told himself he wouldn’t.
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It should’ve ended there.
One accidental glance across a lecture hall, one ghost among the rows of students, gone by the time the door swung shut.
But you kept appearing.
At first, it was subtle. A flicker of familiarity in the campus coffee shop when he stopped in too early on a Tuesday. You were there, laughing with the barista like you’d known them forever, bright in a way that wasn’t loud but still filled the space. He caught himself standing too long in line just to listen, though he didn’t know why.
Then he saw you again on the lawn, cross-legged on the grass, your notebook open but not your laptop. He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened at the way your pen darted across the page like in urgency, like you were trying to catch a thought before it slipped away. He’d wanted to ask you what you were writing. He didn’t. He lay back on the grass a few feet away with his friends, pretending to listen to the debate about which bar was better on Thursday nights.
It became a pattern. You weren’t everywhere — no one could be — but somehow he kept finding you in the in-between places. The library, where you gravitated toward the psychology stacks but strayed often to the history shelves, your finger trailing along the spines like you were choosing old friends. The dining hall, where you never sat alone but always had the kind of presence that drew people in. Even in the gym once, earbuds in, hair pulled back, completely oblivious to the glances you caught without effort.
And the more he noticed you, the more curious he became.
Bucky Barnes wasn’t used to curiosity like this. Usually, he knew the script before it started — who would flirt back, who would smile, who would eventually get tired of his easy confidence. But you didn’t fit a script. He didn’t even know if you’d recognize him outside of a lecture hall.
So he learned in fragments.
From the way you waved at half the campus, he guessed you were open, willing to send a teasing quip, or a soft-spoken compliment. From the conversations he overheard — not because he tried, but because your voice carried warmth that drew others in — he learned you were majoring in psychology and children’s education. That explained the way you talked to people, like you were always listening to more than what they were saying.
But then there were the contradictions: how you leaned over a copy of The Myth of Sisyphus in the library one day, lips moving faintly as you read Camus, while your abandoned notebook held doodles of vines curling around the margins. How you snuck into the history lecture again, same back row, as if you couldn’t help yourself.
He realized then: you loved history the way he did. Maybe not with the same academic weight, but with the same hunger.
And suddenly, it wasn’t just noticing anymore. It was intrigue.
The kind that sat in his chest during quiet moments, when he closed his laptop at night and wondered why the image of you on the lawn, sunlight on your cheek, felt more vivid than anything else that had happened that week.
He didn’t talk to you. Not yet. His confidence stretched far in social circles, but this—this was different. There was something terrifying about curiosity that meant something.
One night, sitting with his notebook open in the library, he scribbled without thinking:
“I’m not gonna text you, but I’ll really want to.”
And then he froze, because it wasn’t for anyone. Not really. Except that it was.
He crossed it out before anyone could see. But the words stayed, burned into the page beneath the ink.
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It happened on accident.
You were balancing your notebook and a too-hot coffee, slipping out of the history lecture you weren’t technically enrolled in, when the strap of your bag caught on the chair. It wasn’t graceful. The notebook slid, the coffee sloshed dangerously, and you muttered something under your breath about your own coordination.
And then he was there.
“Careful, sunshine,” came a voice warm with amusement.
You straightened quickly, eyes flicking up — and of course it was him. You’d seen him a hundred times in this hall: leaning back in his chair, grinning at his friends, giving off the kind of ease that drew attention without effort.
“Not sunshine,” you corrected lightly, a smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “Just clumsy.”
He smirked, like he was filing that away. “Could’ve fooled me.” He bent down, picking up your notebook before you could. His fingers brushed the worn cover, and he raised an eyebrow when he handed it back. “Psychology, right? Children’s education?”
You blinked, surprised. “How’d you know that?”
He shrugged, casual, like he hadn’t been paying attention. “Word gets around.” Then, softer, unable to resist: “And I’ve seen you scribbling about Erikson’s stages of development more than once.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks — not embarrassment, exactly, but the surprise of being noticed. Really noticed. “Wow. Observant.”
“History major,” he said easily, sliding his hands into his pockets as you both moved into the hallway. “We’re trained to notice things.”
You laughed, light and genuine, and he felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest. He wanted to hear it again, wanted to press the moment like a flower between pages.
“You don’t have to sneak in, you know,” he added, tilting his head toward the lecture hall you’d just left. “Professor doesn’t mind.”
“I like sneaking,” you said. “Makes it feel… I don’t know. Forbidden fruit.”
That earned you a grin. “History as forbidden fruit. That’s a new one.”
“Don’t mock me.” You bumped your shoulder lightly against the wall as you walked, balancing your coffee now that your bag was settled. “I just… like it. History. The stories. The way it explains how we got here. Psychology tells me why people think the way they do, but history tells me why we keep making the same mistakes.”
The honesty in your voice stopped him for half a step. He caught up quickly, covering it with his usual smirk. “So you’re saying you come here for fun?”
“I’m saying I come here because I can’t not.”
There was silence for a moment, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that let him notice the curve of your smile, the way your eyes lit when you talked about something you loved.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “most people sneak into parties. Not lectures.”
“Most people are predictable.” You sipped your coffee.
That made him laugh — really laugh, the kind that cracked through his careful exterior. It startled him, how much he liked talking to you already.
You reached the end of the corridor where paths split in opposite directions. You paused, shifting your weight, and he noticed you weren’t in a hurry. Neither was he.
“So,” he said, leaning against the wall with deliberate ease, “what’s your favorite? Out of all the history you’re not supposed to know.”
You tilted your head, considering. “The French Revolution.”
He arched a brow. “Cliché.”
“Not the guillotines,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “The people. The hunger. The idea that ordinary lives could change the world.” Your voice softened. “Camus said, I rebel — therefore we exist. I think about that a lot.”
His chest tightened. Camus, on your tongue, here in this fluorescent-lit hallway. It was like you’d reached straight into the quietest part of him and turned on a light.
“Not bad,” he said finally, because he didn’t know how to tell you the truth: that your words had already lodged in him like an arrow.
You smiled, but it wasn’t sunshine in the blinding way. It was quieter. Like the sun warming your skin on a slow afternoon, steady and sure.
And he wanted more.
“Barnes!” a voice called from down the hall. One of his friends. Loud, impatient. “You coming?”
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. For once, he didn’t feel like grinning.
You shifted, like you were about to make your exit. “Go on. Don’t let me keep you.”
He almost did. Almost nodded, walked away, kept this moment safely small. But the thought of it ending here made something restless in him.
So he leaned closer, just enough that only you could hear. His voice was low, a thread of honesty under the bravado:
“I’m not gonna text you,” he murmured, “but I’ll really want to.”
Your breath caught, eyes widening slightly, and he straightened before you could reply. He offered you a lopsided smile, the kind that looked careless if you didn’t know better.
Then he pushed off the wall, walking toward his friend without looking back.
But the truth was simple, and it pressed against his ribs with every step he took away from you:
He already wanted to.
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The library had a particular kind of silence.
Not empty, not sterile — but alive. A soft hum of laptop keys, the shuffle of pages, the occasional throat cleared. It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand quiet so much as invite it.
You liked that. You liked how people gathered there with their own little universes: the engineering majors muttering equations, the art students sketching furiously in oversized pads, the grad students living on caffeine and panic. You always gravitated to the second floor — quieter than the main level, but not quite the hushed mausoleum of the third.
And it was there, between classic literature and old history shelves, that you saw him again.
Bucky Barnes, of course. He was half-slouched in a chair near the window, textbook open, pen twirling absently between his fingers. Sunlight cut across the table, lighting up the margins of his notes. He was writing furiously, not bullet points, but phrases — sharp, crooked handwriting spilling across the page. You caught a glimpse as you passed, and it wasn’t dates or names. It looked more like lines of… poetry.
You slowed without meaning to. Then you cursed yourself for slowing.
He noticed you almost instantly, eyes flicking up. That easy, practiced smirk appeared, but there was something unguarded in the second before it — like you’d caught him in the middle of something he wasn’t used to being seen doing.
“Well, well,” he drawled, closing his notebook halfway. “Didn’t think I’d run into my favorite trespasser again.”
You raised your brows, keeping your voice light. “Trespasser? I’m enhancing my education.”
“Uh-huh.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching like he had all the time in the world. “By sneaking into history lectures you’re not signed up for.”
“It’s not sneaking if I’m quiet about it.” You slid into the chair across from him without asking. Your coffee landed with a soft thunk on the table. “Besides, you seemed to enjoy the company last time.”
Something flickered in his eyes, quick and subtle. But he smoothed it over with a lazy grin. “Can’t deny that.”
You sipped your coffee, then tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You know…”
“What?”
“It’d be pretty hard for you to text me, considering you don’t actually have my number.”
The words hung there, playful but sharp, and you had the satisfaction of watching his mask slip for just a second. His pen stilled. His brows rose. He hadn’t expected you to call back his bravado from last time.
Then he chuckled, low and amused, shaking his head as he leaned forward. “So what I’m getting is… you want me to text you?”
You let your mouth curve into a slow, teasing smile. “Wow. Did you practice that in the mirror, or does it just come naturally?”
He laughed — a real laugh, not the rehearsed one people usually got. He ran a hand over his jaw, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “You’re somethin’ else.”
“And you’re deflecting.” You set your cup down deliberately, folding your arms. “What were you writing, anyway? Didn’t look like notes.”
His posture shifted, subtle but telling. For once, James Barnes — Mr. Confidence, Mr. Popular — looked a little hesitant. “Just… thoughts,” he said after a beat. “Nothing you’d wanna read.”
“Oh, so now you’re mysterious.”
“I’ve always been mysterious,” he countered, leaning back again, but his hand covered the edge of his notebook like he was guarding it. “Ask anyone.”
“I’d rather ask you.”
That landed heavier than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. You watched him carefully, saw the way he froze for half a second before rolling his shoulders like it was nothing.
“You like history so much,” he said instead, steering the conversation, “what’s your take on Kafka?”
You blinked at the sudden pivot, then smiled faintly. “Kafka’s depressing.”
“Depressing’s honest.” His voice softened. “All that talk about cages and freedom and turning into cockroaches — it’s just another way of saying life’s heavy. And he didn’t look away from it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. This wasn’t bravado. This wasn’t cocky Bucky Barnes who charmed professors and parties alike. This was someone else, someone who thought too much, someone who maybe scribbled poetry in the margins of his history notes.
“Maybe,” you said gently. “But I think he also believed that even if life is heavy, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth carrying.”
His eyes met yours, sharp and intent, like he was measuring your words against something inside himself. Then he smiled — smaller this time, softer, not for show. “You really don’t make it easy, do you?”
“Easy’s boring.”
There was a pause, filled with the faint scratching of pens from nearby tables. Sunlight shifted, sliding across the wood between you.
You leaned forward, lowering your voice as if confiding a secret. “So what’s the verdict, Barnes? Gonna text me, or just keep making grand declarations in hallways?”
His smirk returned, but it was slower now, more thoughtful. “Guess I’ll have to get your number first, won’t I?”
“Guess you will.” You slid a scrap of paper from your notebook, scribbled your digits, and pushed it across the table.
He stared at it like it was something dangerous. Like he wasn’t sure if picking it up would change everything.
Then he tucked it carefully into his notebook, tapping his pen against the cover. “You know, I didn’t practice that one in the mirror.”
“Mm.” You leaned back, smiling sly. “Still sounded rehearsed.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. But underneath the humor, there was something raw in his gaze. Like he hadn’t expected to want this, but he did.
You sipped your coffee, pretending not to notice how his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. Pretending not to feel the weight of that wanting pressing into the quiet space between you.
The library’s hum carried on around you — students, books, sunlight, the low thrum of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
And beneath it all, Bucky Barnes was beginning to realize that for the first time in a long time, he didn’t just want to be noticed.
He wanted to be known.
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Campus at night had its own kind of stillness.
The daytime noise — laughter across the quad, bikes rattling over pavement, professors calling after students — all of it melted into something softer. Streetlamps buzzed faintly, scattering amber light across sidewalks. The air smelled faintly of leaves and cold stone.
Bucky noticed you before you noticed him.
He was heading back from a late library stint, hands shoved in his pockets, notebook heavy in his bag. He’d tried to study, but his thoughts had been scattered — drifting too often toward the scrap of paper folded into his notebook. Your number. The fact that he hadn’t used it yet. The fact that he’d wanted to about a hundred times.
And then, across the quad, he saw you. Walking alone, coffee cup cradled in your hands like it was a shield against the night chill. Your pace wasn’t hurried, but it was deliberate, like you had somewhere to be.
Something in his chest tightened.
“Hey,” he called softly, careful not to startle you.
You turned, blinking under the streetlamp’s glow. And then you smiled — not wide, not showy, but enough to undo him completely. “Barnes. What are you doing out here?”
He shrugged, falling into step beside you. “Could ask you the same thing.”
“Heading back to my dorm. You?”
“Same. Library.” He tilted his head at you. “Shouldn’t be walking alone this late.”
“Oh?” you teased, eyes glinting. “And what are you gonna do about it?”
“Walk you home, obviously.” He said it with that practiced cockiness, but underneath was something firmer, a thread of sincerity that surprised even him.
You raised your brows, but you didn’t protest. You just adjusted your grip on your coffee cup and kept walking.
For a few moments, silence stretched between you — not uncomfortable, but weighted. The crunch of gravel underfoot, the distant hum of a vending machine, the faint wind tugging at branches.
“You always this chivalrous?” you asked finally, breaking the quiet.
“Only for people who sneak into history lectures.”
You laughed, and the sound was softer than it had been in the library earlier, less teasing, more genuine. “Guess you got a long list, then.”
He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Your hair caught the lamplight. Your steps matched his, easy, like you’d done this a hundred times. He wondered if you knew what it did to him — the simplicity of just walking beside you.
“Y’know,” he said after a beat, “I wasn’t kidding about Kafka the other day.”
You looked at him curiously. “What about him?”
“Most people think he’s all doom and gloom. But there’s… a kind of beauty in it. In admitting that life’s absurd, heavy, sometimes unbearable. Doesn’t mean you stop living it.” His voice was lower now, softer, like he was confessing something without meaning to.
You were quiet for a long moment, then said gently, “Sounds like you’ve thought about that a lot.”
He shrugged, eyes on the sidewalk. “History’s not just dates and wars. It’s… people trying to make sense of things. Same with Kafka. Same with Camus. They just wrote it down so the rest of us didn’t feel so alone.”
Your lips curved faintly. “You’re not what I expected.”
He blinked at you. “That a good thing?”
“I think so.” You sipped your coffee, eyes forward again. “You come off like you’ve got it all figured out. Confident. Easy. But then you go and talk about Camus in a hallway or Kafka on a night walk, and…” You trailed off, searching for words. “It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. Not in a bad way — more like someone had just nudged open a door he hadn’t realized was visible.
He cleared his throat, covering the shift in his chest. “You make me sound complicated.”
“You are complicated.” You said it so simply, so certain, that he had to laugh.
“Guess that makes two of us.”
You glanced at him then, and your smile was small but steady. “Guess it does.”
The dorm buildings came into view, windows glowing faintly against the dark. He felt the end of the walk approaching, too soon, too abrupt. He wanted to slow down, to stretch this quiet companionship as long as he could.
“So,” you said lightly, “gonna text me now, or are you still committed to not doing that?”
His chest tightened, because there it was again — that teasing, that little jab at his bravado. But this time your voice carried something softer beneath it. A thread of… invitation?
He swallowed, covering his nerves with a grin. “Depends. You want me to?”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips quirked. “Wow. Still with the mirror lines, huh?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. But the warmth in your voice stayed with him.
At the steps of your dorm, you hesitated. You shifted your coffee cup from one hand to the other, then looked up at him. And for just a second, you let something slip through the cracks — something small, vulnerable.
“Thanks for walking me,” you said quietly. “I… liked it.”
It was such a simple thing. A scrap of honesty, bare and unguarded. But it lodged in him like a spark catching dry kindling. He wanted to grab onto it, to ask if you meant it the way he hoped you did. But you were already retreating, one hand on the door handle, your smile lingering just long enough to blur the line between imagination and truth.
“Goodnight, Barnes.”
And then you were gone, leaving him on the steps with the echo of your words.
I liked it.
He stood there longer than he should have, staring at the closed door, the night humming quietly around him.
By the time he finally turned and walked back toward his own dorm, his heart was already aching in a way that was both unbearable and irresistible.
He was falling. Fast.
And he couldn’t decide if it was the best or worst thing that had ever happened to him.
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The library was quieter at night.
Most people had migrated back to dorms or parties, the tables scattered with only the serious — the ones too stubborn or too anxious to call it quits. You belonged to the first category. Bucky Barnes, though, wasn’t sure which one he belonged to.
He spotted you before you spotted him. Again. Always. You were tucked into a corner table with a small stack of books, laptop open but untouched, pen between your fingers as you chewed on the end absently. You had that same expression you always wore when you worked — concentrated but soft, like you weren’t just reading words, you were listening to them.
He stood there for a second too long, watching. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he crossed the room.
“Mind if I join?” he asked, voice low.
You looked up, startled, then smiled faintly. “Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually study.”
“Hey.” He pressed a hand to his chest like he was wounded, setting his bag on the chair across from you. “I’m an excellent student.”
“Sure you are.” Your smirk was teasing, but your eyes softened as you gestured toward the seat. “Sit down, then. Prove it.”
He dropped into the chair, pulling out a thick history text and his notebook. It wasn’t entirely a lie — he did study, when he let himself. But tonight, he wasn’t sure if he was here for the French Revolution or for you.
For a few minutes, silence settled. Pages turned. Pens scratched. You scribbled notes with your head bent low, hair falling forward. He tried to focus on his own work, but his eyes kept drifting.
Finally, he leaned back, watching you. “You’re intense when you work, you know that?”
You glanced up, brow arched. “And you’re distracting.”
“That a compliment?”
“Depends,” you said, smirking. “Are you trying to be?”
He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”
“You just make it easy.”
That earned you another laugh — a real one, the kind that made you glance at him a second longer than you meant to. You ducked back to your notebook, cheeks warm.
Bucky tilted his head, studying you. Then, without warning, he said, “Trouble.”
You blinked, looking up. “Excuse me?”
“Nickname,” he said easily, pen twirling between his fingers. “You’re Trouble.”
You frowned, half-offended, half-amused. “That’s… rude.”
“Not how I mean it.” His grin widened. “You sneak into lectures you’re not signed up for, throw Camus quotes at me in hallways, make me wanna write poetry in the margins of my notes…” His voice dipped lower. “That’s trouble, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught, just for a second. You hid it with a laugh. “Nice. Do you hand out nicknames to all your study partners, or am I just special?”
“Special,” he said simply.
The word lingered between you, heavier than the teasing tone he’d tried to give it. Your pen stilled against the page. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you cleared your throat, pretending to focus back on your notes. “Well, Trouble sounds better than Clumsy, at least.”
He smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Clumsy sunshine. Has a nice ring to it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Don’t push it, Barnes.”
“Bucky,” he corrected softly.
You looked up again, surprised.
“Call me Bucky,” he said, watching you closely.
Your lips curved slowly. “Bucky it is, then.”
He didn’t know why hearing you say it out loud did something to him. Like his name belonged differently in your mouth than anyone else’s.
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It hummed with something unspoken, something he wasn’t brave enough to name.
You worked quietly for a while, jotting down notes, your coffee cooling beside you. Bucky tried to force himself back into the French Revolution, but the words blurred on the page. All he could think about was how close you were, how your hand brushed your hair back every few minutes, how your foot tapped absently against the floor.
Finally, you spoke without looking up. “You ever wonder why we study all this?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“History. Psychology. Everything.” Your pen tapped against your notebook. “Sometimes I think we’re all just trying to make sense of things that don’t really have answers.”
He leaned back, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe we just want proof we’re not the first ones to feel lost.”
You glanced up then, and the weight of his gaze hit you like a wave.
“That’s very Kafka of you,” you murmured.
“Yeah, well.” He smirked faintly. “You bring it outta me.”
Your heart thudded harder than you wanted to admit. You dropped your eyes back to your notes, but your lips tugged upward.
The clock ticked quietly. A couple students shuffled past, whispering. But the table between you and Bucky felt like its own universe, fragile and self-contained.
At one point, you reached for your pen at the same time he did, and your fingers brushed. The touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a jolt through him. You pulled back quickly, smiling down at your notes like nothing had happened.
But he felt it. God, he felt it.
“Trouble,” he said softly, almost to himself.
You looked up, brow furrowed. “What?”
He shook his head quickly, covering with a grin. “Nothin’. Just… you live up to your nickname.”
You gave him a look — skeptical but amused — then went back to your notes. But your cheeks were faintly flushed, and he let himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe you weren’t immune to him after all.
The night stretched, books shifting into stacks, pens slowing as energy waned. Eventually, you closed your notebook with a sigh. “Okay. My brain is officially fried.”
“Same,” he admitted, though his notes were half-finished.
You packed up your things, and he did the same, the two of you falling into step as you left the library. The cool air hit, crisp against your skin, and you tucked your hands into your pockets.
Bucky glanced at you, fighting the urge to say something he wasn’t ready to say. Instead, he settled for: “Thanks for letting me crash your study session.”
“Thanks for making it less boring,” you said softly.
He smiled at that. A small, quiet smile that felt different from the ones he gave anyone else.
And as you walked side by side into the night, he thought about how Trouble had never felt so much like salvation.
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Bucky Barnes wasn’t jealous often.
Not really. He knew who he was, what he looked like, the effect he had when he leaned against a wall with that easy grin. Confidence came to him the way breathing did: automatic, practiced, instinct.
But none of that prepared him for how it felt to see you with someone else.
It wasn’t even anything scandalous. Just a Tuesday afternoon on the quad, the autumn air cool enough that students had traded tank tops for sweaters, the grass dotted with little circles of people. He’d been heading toward the student union when he spotted you under an oak tree, books spread out on the grass.
And someone else was with you.
A guy — tall, light hair, clearly from one of your psych classes by the look of the text open in front of him. He was leaning closer than necessary, gesturing toward your notes with his pen. You were smiling, that soft, steady smile that hit Bucky in the chest every time.
Bucky froze mid-step, hands shoved deeper into his jacket pockets. He told himself it was nothing. People studied together all the time. You were extroverted, friendly, the kind of person who made strangers feel like they belonged. Of course someone would want to sit with you.
But that didn’t stop the ugly twist in his stomach. Didn’t stop the way his jaw tightened when the guy laughed at something you said, like he had a right to it.
He forced himself to keep walking. He wasn’t going to be that guy — the one who hovered, the one who glared. He had no claim on you. Just a handful of conversations, a nickname, and the memory of your voice saying I liked it when he walked you home.
Still, he carried the image with him all day. Through class, through halfhearted attempts at homework, through his friends joking at dinner. It sat in his chest like a weight, heavy and insistent.
By the time night rolled around, he couldn’t stand being in his dorm. Too loud, too crowded, too many eyes on him. So he did what he always did when his head got too full: he walked.
Campus was quieter at night. The lamps hummed, the pathways stretched empty. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to shake it off. Tried to tell himself it didn’t matter.
And then, like the universe had some kind of twisted sense of humor, he saw you again.
You were leaving the library, a stack of books hugged to your chest, scarf looped loosely around your neck. Alone this time. The sight of it — of you by yourself, of the night curling around you — punched something loose in him.
“Trouble,” he called before he could stop himself.
You turned, startled. And then you smiled. Small, genuine. “Bucky. What’re you doing out here?”
He jogged a couple steps to catch up, falling into stride beside you. “Could ask you the same thing.”
“Studying.” You lifted your books as proof. “You?”
“Walking.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fighting to sound casual. “Couldn’t sit still.”
“Mm.” You glanced at him sidelong. “That seems to happen to you a lot.”
He huffed a laugh. “You paying that much attention to me?”
“Maybe.” Your smile tilted, teasing.
God, it almost made him forget. Almost. But the memory of that guy on the lawn still gnawed at him, sharp and insistent. The words were out before he could bite them back.
“Studying with someone earlier?”
You blinked, surprised. “Yeah. Pietro. He’s in my psych seminar. We’ve got a project due.”
Pietro. Of course. Bucky knew the name, knew the guy — easygoing, sharp, always in the front row of class. He wasn’t surprised you’d clicked with him.
“Why?” you asked, brow arched.
“Nothing.” He forced a shrug, tried for nonchalance. “Just… looked like you were having fun.”
You studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to his shock, you laughed. Soft, incredulous. “Are you jealous, Barnes?”
The word hit like a jolt. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally smirked — the practiced, cocky kind that usually got him out of anything. “What if I am?”
You stared at him, lips parting slightly. Then you shook your head, smiling as you looked away. “You’re ridiculous.”
But your cheeks were faintly pink, and Bucky clung to that like it was proof.
The two of you walked in silence for a while, the path lit by soft pools of lamplight. His chest still ached, but differently now. Not just jealousy — something deeper, something raw. He wanted to reach across the space between you, to touch your hand, to say the words that had been sitting on his tongue for weeks.
Instead, he said quietly, “I like walking with you.”
You glanced at him, surprised by the softness in his tone.
“I like it too,” you admitted.
It was such a small thing, almost nothing. But it cracked him open all over again.
By the time you reached your dorm, he was reeling — from jealousy, from relief, from the unbearable ache of wanting. You turned to him at the door, books still hugged to your chest.
“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said softly.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Goodnight, Trouble.”
You lingered a beat longer, like you wanted to say something else. Then you slipped inside, leaving him alone with the night and his own pounding heart.
And Bucky Barnes stood there, wondering if maybe — just maybe — he hadn’t imagined that flicker in your eyes. That tiny, impossible sign that you might want him, too.
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It started with coffee.
Bucky didn’t even realize what you were doing at first. He’d stumbled into the café, late for his morning class, head still heavy with last night’s reading, and there you were — bright-eyed, leaning against the counter with two cups in hand.
“You look half-dead,” you said, holding one out to him.
He blinked at you, then at the cup. “You—wait, that’s for me?”
“Unless you wanna fight me for it.” Your grin was playful, but your voice was softer. “I figured you probably didn’t eat breakfast. Again.”
He hesitated, then took it, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. “Thanks, Trouble.”
The nickname made you roll your eyes, but you didn’t correct him. You just smiled, that warm, quiet smile that made something in his chest ache, and nudged him toward the door.
From then on, it became a pattern. Not every day — not predictable enough to call it routine — but often enough that he started watching for it. You’d slide a coffee across the library table. Drop a granola bar onto his notes with a casual “Eat.” Nudge your scarf toward him when the walk home got too cold.
Little things. Ordinary things. But to Bucky, they felt extraordinary.
And he noticed your little things, too.
How you always saved a seat in lecture, sliding your bag onto the chair beside you until he arrived. How you scribbled tiny doodles in the corners of your notes — vines, suns, little abstract shapes. How you leaned forward when you laughed, head tipping just slightly like you couldn’t contain it.
One afternoon, in the library, he caught you tucking your hair behind your ear for the tenth time in five minutes, the strands falling stubbornly forward. Before he could think better of it, he reached across the table and brushed them back for you.
You froze. Just for a second. His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long, and then he pulled away, clearing his throat.
“Distracting,” he muttered, as if that explained everything.
You looked at him — really looked — and then ducked your head, smiling faintly as you returned to your notes. But your cheeks were warm, and he swore his pulse didn’t settle for hours.
It was always like that: tiny gestures that hit him harder than they should.
Once, in lecture, you slid a note across the desk. He unfolded it to find your messy handwriting scrawled across the page: “This professor could make a revolution sound boring.”
He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Instead, he scribbled back: “Jealous? He’s stealing my thunder.”
You shook your head, grinning, and under the desk your knee brushed his. Neither of you moved it.
Another time, you passed him a book — a worn copy of Letters to Milena by Kafka, pages underlined and margins filled with your handwriting.
“Borrow it,” you said simply, pressing it into his hands. “Tell me what you think.”
He didn’t sleep that night. Not because of the reading — though he devoured every word — but because of the notes in the margins. Your thoughts, your questions, the tiny stars you drew beside lines that clearly mattered to you. Holding that book felt like holding a piece of you.
And Bucky Barnes was not used to feeling like this.
Not used to sitting in his room at 2 a.m., thumbing over the underlined words and wondering what you’d say if he admitted how much he wanted you. Not used to thinking that the small things — a shared laugh, a brush of hands, a book with your handwriting — could undo him more than anything else in the world.
He’d been with people before. He’d flirted, dated, kissed. But nothing had ever felt like this slow unraveling, this terrifying, beautiful ache of wanting someone not just in the bright moments, but in the quiet ones.
And maybe — maybe — you wanted him, too.
He saw it in the way your eyes lingered a fraction too long when he said something soft. In the way your smile curved when he called you Trouble. In the way you leaned a little closer than you needed to when you pointed something out in his notes.
It wasn’t much. Barely anything. But for Bucky, it was everything.
That night, walking you back again — books hugged to your chest, lamplight catching on your hair — he almost said it. Almost told you about the way his chest tightened when you laughed, about the poetry scribbled in the margins of his notes, about how much you’d become the center of his orbit without even knowing it.
But when you glanced up at him and smiled, small and tired and real, all he could manage was:
“Goodnight, Trouble.”
And you whispered back, softer than the night air, “Goodnight, Bucky.”
He stood outside your dorm long after you’d gone inside, heart pounding, clutching the copy of Kafka like it might give him the courage to finally say the words waiting in his chest.
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The library was nearly empty.
The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the occasional scrape of a chair, and the whisper of pages turning were the only sounds. Usually, the quiet felt protective, almost sacred. Tonight, it felt fragile, like it might crack under the weight of everything unsaid.
You were sitting at a corner table, laptop open, notes spread around you. Your coffee had gone cold hours ago, but your pen still moved, scribbling tiny annotations in the margins of your textbook. He watched you from the doorway for a heartbeat too long before he realized he’d been staring.
“Still here?” he asked softly, leaning against the frame.
You glanced up, surprised, then gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Thought I’d try to finish before I collapse.”
“Need a hand?” he asked, walking over, careful to keep his voice low, not wanting to disturb the ghost of quiet that lingered around you.
You shook your head. “I’m fine. You?”
He pulled out the chair across from you anyway, sliding in, letting his notebook land with a soft thud. “Just here to make sure you don’t fall asleep on your notes.”
“Big brother duty now, too?” you teased.
“Only for you, Trouble.”
Your smile tugged, slow and easy, and something in him twisted — not jealousy, not annoyance, but a raw, aching longing that made his chest tight. He wanted to reach across the table, brush your hair back, hold your hand, whisper all the things he’d been holding back for weeks.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he watched.
You leaned over your notes, fingers brushing the page as you traced a timeline with precision. He noticed the way your eyebrows knit together when you were focused, the tiny twitch of your lips when you stumbled over a phrase. Every little movement felt like a private performance, and he didn’t want to miss a second of it.
“You know,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “I never realized you could make history lectures look… alive.”
You blinked at him, then laughed softly, but the sound was quiet, like a secret. “Careful. You might embarrass me if anyone hears you.”
“I don’t care.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I mean it.”
Your fingers paused on your pen, then returned to the page, but he saw the subtle shift — how your shoulders relaxed, how your eyes softened when they met his. That small vulnerability was enough to make him swallow hard.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
“And you like it.” He didn’t mean it as bravado. It slipped out with a gentleness he wasn’t prepared to justify.
The table fell quiet again. Pages rustled. The low hum of the library became a heartbeat in the background.
And then you did something so small it could’ve been imagined. You let your hand rest near his on the table, a fleeting inch between fingertips. He didn’t move. Neither did you. The space between your hands was almost nothing, but it was enough.
He wanted to close it. He wanted to take your hand, hold it, claim it, but the words in his chest were too fragile, too loud, and he couldn’t risk breaking the moment.
Instead, he leaned back slightly, voice low, almost reverent. “I don’t think you know how much trouble you are for me.”
Your head tilted, that small, soft smile curling at your lips. “Do you like being in trouble?”
He swallowed, heart thudding. “Only when it’s you.”
A pause. Long enough that he wondered if he’d overstepped, if he’d imagined the heat in your cheeks. But you didn’t pull back. You just went back to your notes, letting him exist in the small orbit he’d been creating around you for weeks.
Time stretched. The library emptied further. The clock ticked toward closing. And yet neither of you moved to leave.
Finally, he whispered, “Walk you back?”
Your head lifted, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “I’d like that.”
The walk outside was colder than he expected. You both zipped jackets tighter, but the air didn’t chase away the heat building between you. You walked close enough that shoulders brushed. His fingers itched to find yours, to lace them together, but he kept them tucked in his pockets.
“You always show up when I’m alone,” you said softly. “Like, somehow knowing.”
He shrugged, though the truth was anything but casual. “Guess I’m good at noticing things.”
“You’re a little too good,” you said. Your voice dipped, a whisper meant for him alone. “Makes me… wonder sometimes.”
The words made his chest lurch. Wonder? Did she mean it like he hoped? Or was he reading too much into the small curve of her lips, the tilt of her head toward him in the night air?
“I notice everything about you,” he admitted quietly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “The little things. How you smile when you’re thinking about something you love. How your hand lingers on a pen a little too long. The way you… make everything feel lighter.”
You stopped walking for a moment, letting the silence swell around you. His words hung in the night, warm and intimate.
“Bucky…” you breathed, and the single syllable, soft and hesitant, sent shivers down his spine.
He leaned closer, instinctively. “Yeah?”
Your eyes flicked to his, small, vulnerable, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought the world had narrowed to the space between you. And then you did something he’d never forget: your fingers brushed the back of his hand, almost by accident, almost shyly, and the contact lingered longer than it had any right to.
He wanted to cup your face, pull you close, tell you how fast and completely he was falling. How every glance, every small gesture had been pulling him toward this moment. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he whispered, “Goodnight, Trouble.”
“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said, voice soft, the tiniest echo of that vulnerability in your eyes.
He watched you go inside, the door closing behind you like a punctuation mark on a sentence that was far from over. And as he walked back toward his dorm, the night wrapping around him, he realized something he couldn’t deny:
He was lost.
Completely, utterly lost.
And he didn’t want to be found — not by anyone, not by anything, except the small, quiet, devastating light that was you.
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The rain came without warning.
One moment, the night was quiet, the sky a deep indigo, the lamplights cutting through the darkness like golden knives. The next, drops began to spatter against the pavement, a soft rhythm that echoed through the empty campus.
You were walking back from the library, umbrella tilted slightly against the wind, books clutched to your chest. Bucky spotted you from across the quad, the rain dotting your hair, your scarf soaked at the edges.
He didn’t hesitate. He jogged to catch up, jacket already in hand, and slid it around your shoulders before you could protest.
“Bucky—”
“Shh.” His voice was low, firm, but not harsh. “Don’t argue. You’ll get wet.”
You glanced up at him, water dripping down your forehead, and for a second, your eyes widened — not with surprise, but something softer, something that made his chest ache.
“Thanks,” you said, voice quiet.
He didn’t answer. He walked beside you, matching your pace, feeling the weight of every step against the wet concrete. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, of wet leaves, of night itself. And in that hush, every word seemed magnified, every glance stretched longer.
“You always show up,” you said, tilting your head to look at him. “When I least expect it.”
“I told you,” he murmured, his breath catching slightly. “I notice things.”
“Yeah? What else did you notice?”
His eyes flicked to yours, but he didn’t answer right away. Not with words. Instead, he let his hand brush yours — almost by accident, almost casual — but it lingered, warm and grounding.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips, small and vulnerable.
“Yeah,” he admitted, heart thudding so loud he thought you’d hear it. “I am. When it comes to you, anyway.”
You didn’t respond, just walked with him, letting the silence swell. The rain poured harder, washing the world in silver and sound, and he felt something in him loosen — all the practiced cockiness, all the control he’d held onto, slipping away.
“Bucky…” you whispered.
He stopped. The sound of your voice under the rain made the ache in his chest tighten and soften all at once. “Yeah?”
You glanced up, rain streaking down your face, and there it was — a flicker, just for a moment, of something raw. Vulnerable. Unspoken.
“I… I like this,” you admitted, voice almost drowned by the rain. “Walking. With you. Even in the rain.”
He swallowed, eyes fixed on you, heart hammering against his ribs. “Me too,” he said, almost breathless. “I… I like being with you. More than anyone.”
The words tumbled out faster than he could stop them, and even as he spoke, he felt the fragility of the moment. You didn’t step back. You didn’t laugh it off. You just let him exist, your gaze steady but soft, small tendrils of doubt and hope curling in your expression.
“You’re… really falling for me, aren’t you?” you said, almost teasing, almost serious.
“Every second,” he admitted, stepping closer, the rain soaking both of you. “And it’s… terrifying.”
You tilted your head, studying him, and then something tiny happened — your hand brushed his again, a fleeting, almost accidental touch that sent a shock straight to his chest.
He wanted to cup your face, pull you close, tell you everything — every poem scribbled, every stolen glance, every sleepless night thinking of you. But he stopped himself. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted the moment to linger, because he wanted you to feel it first.
“So… what happens now?” you asked softly, barely audible over the rain.
He swallowed, voice low, rough with emotion. “Now… I keep walking with you. I keep noticing. I keep… hoping.”
You let out a small laugh, one that trembled in the rain. “Hoping for what?”
“That maybe,” he said, stepping closer until the space between you was almost nothing, “you feel the same.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a heartbeat, and he felt it — the quiet, tremulous proof that he wasn’t imagining it.
“You’re a mess,” you whispered.
“And you don’t seem to mind,” he murmured, almost against his will, letting a hand hover near yours, hesitant.
You laughed again, soft and small, letting your fingers slide down his arm. “Maybe,” you said.
And that was enough.
For one suspended, perfect heartbeat, the rain fell around you, the world faded, and Bucky Barnes — cocky, confident, practiced Bucky Barnes — felt like he was seeing the universe for the first time.
Everything he’d been holding back, all the longing, all the soft, aching yearning, it was all there, in that small, trembling smile of yours, in the brush of your fingers, in the tilt of your head.
He leaned closer, almost there, almost confessing everything. And then, just as the lightning forked across the sky, he whispered, voice low and rough with want:
“Trouble… I don’t think I can hide it anymore.”
You blinked, small, vulnerable, but steady. Your hand brushed his again, and he knew. Not everything needed to be said. Not yet. But the promise was there — in the rain, in the silence, in the tiny, tender gestures that had always meant more than words.
And for the first time, Bucky let himself fall — completely, utterly, without restraint.
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The library had emptied long ago. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights was louder than usual in the absence of other students. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass of the windows, and you wrapped your scarf tighter around yourself, head bent over your notes.
Bucky sat across from you, hands tucked in the sleeves of his hoodie, notebook open but mostly ignored. He kept watching you. The way your fingers traced the words you wrote, the small crease of concentration between your brows, the gentle tilt of your head — everything felt impossibly intimate.
“Hey,” he murmured after a while, careful not to startle you.
You looked up, surprised, then smiled softly. “Hey.”
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch between you. “You know… you make it hard to focus sometimes.”
You tilted your head, one brow raised, a teasing half-smile curling your lips. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” His voice was quieter now, almost confessional. “It’s not just… the notes or the lectures. It’s… you.”
Your cheeks warmed faintly, and you ducked your eyes back to your textbook, pretending to scribble something. He noticed the way your fingers lingered on the pen a moment longer than necessary.
“You really like calling me Trouble, huh?” you said softly, voice almost playful, almost questioning.
He smiled, but it was gentle this time, not cocky. “Yeah. Fits you. In a lot of ways.”
“Fits me how?”
“Fits the way you get under my skin,” he said, shrugging, voice low. “The way you make me… notice everything. Every little thing. The way you smile when you’re thinking, the way you argue with me just to see if I’ll keep up. That kind of… trouble.”
You looked up then, eyes meeting his, and for a moment the world shrank to the quiet corner you shared. “I… didn’t know you noticed all that,” you admitted, small, almost shy.
“I do,” he said simply, shrugging again, but his gaze stayed fixed on you. “I notice you. All of you.”
You swallowed, leaning back slightly in your chair, unsure whether to laugh, to tease, or to just reach across the table and touch him. Instead, you let your hand hover near his notebook, brushing against his fingers accidentally.
His chest tightened. He didn’t move his hand away. Instead, he let your fingers linger there, brushing softly, and the air between you grew warmer, charged, but still quiet.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Maybe,” he admitted, low, almost a confession. “But you’re worth it.”
You blinked at him. “Worth… what?”
He hesitated, searching for the words that could carry the weight without breaking the fragile quiet. “Worth noticing,” he said finally. “Worth… wanting to be around. Worth staying up too late for, even if I can’t explain why.”
Your lips curved faintly. “I… like that,” you murmured, almost to yourself. Then you added, quieter: “I like that you notice.”
Bucky’s chest tightened again. He wanted to reach for your hand, to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, to lean just a little closer, to let you know without saying anything outright how much he cared. He did none of those things. He simply let himself exist in the space next to you, letting the quiet and the soft warmth between you speak louder than words ever could.
The clock ticked on. The library’s hum was steady, unbroken. Outside, the wind carried a soft rain, spattering against the windows, but the corner you shared felt like its own little universe.
At one point, you reached for your coffee, and your hand brushed his again. This time, he didn’t flinch. He let your fingers linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary, savoring the small, electric connection.
“You always know when I need this,” you said softly, gesturing to the warm cup. “Even when I don’t realize it myself.”
“Maybe I do,” he murmured, voice low, almost shy. “Maybe I’ve been paying more attention than I should.”
You looked at him then, eyes bright, the faintest hint of a smile teasing your lips. Not a challenge, not a joke — something softer, almost tender. Something that told him you weren’t just letting him notice, you wanted him to.
Bucky’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile in return. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t speak louder, didn’t try to force the moment into anything. Instead, he simply let the silence hold you together, the small touches, the shared space, the quiet understanding that this — this closeness — was enough.
Finally, the librarian’s voice echoed from the other side of the room: Closing in ten minutes.
You packed your things slowly, still close enough that your shoulders brushed his as you stood. He grabbed his bag, and together you stepped out into the night, the rain now falling steadily.
He offered his jacket without thinking, sliding it around your shoulders. You didn’t protest. Your hand brushed his, lingering slightly before you tucked it under the fabric.
“You’re always showing up,” you murmured, voice soft, carrying just a hint of wonder.
“Only for you,” he said quietly, letting his hand linger near yours, brushing just slightly against your wrist. “Always for you.”
You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned a little closer under the jacket, letting the warmth and the small, intimate space speak for both of you.
And as you walked together across the rain-slick campus, shoulders brushing, fingers almost touching, Bucky realized something he hadn’t dared admit before:
He didn’t need to say it aloud. She already knew. She had always known. And in these quiet, small moments — a touch, a glance, a shared warmth in the rain — that was enough.
Maybe one day he’d tell her everything. But for now, walking beside her, letting the small gestures carry the weight of all he felt, was exactly where he wanted to be.
.° ༘ tag list: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @umbreoni @metal-armed-muse
divider by: @cafekitsune
