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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.
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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.
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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.
I enjoyed reading this so much there’s so many good lines in here that are really funny. I especially love the scene where he asks her out for the first time, the title totally makes sense now😂
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.
helloooooooooo
so i had an idea.. this is college setting. mordern times. so college!bucky is a fairly popular guy. he is in the football team. and is a business major.
and the reader is a psychology major, but she somehow caught his eyes, despite being not that famous. she was sweet and nice. basically sunshine. and this guy, goes to the psychology dept, just to "pick his frnd up" who is sam. sam and steve both know it, but allow his frnd to be pathetic for a sweet girl
sam and the reader r very good frnds. and she met bucky few times. talked with him. basic interactions. all while bucky was internally screaming every time she even smiled at him.
and slowly make them date. i geniunly dont knwo how. im out of idea. but i trust u to make him awkwardly ask her out, and her awkwardly accepting. being all cute and flustered.
p.s: nat and wanda being supportive frnds and pushing them together along with steve and sam.
and pls pls pls can u do grumpy x sunshine??? its my fav!!
You are my favorite ! I love the whole idea and thank you for giving me so many pointers to work on!!! I would love to write a comedy with the grumpy x sunshine trope!!! I'll write it soon this week itself!
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Hey, yes I'm working on it! Like really frying myself to get a better idea. I have the idea just need to execute it well. You are definitely getting part 2
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
