#bwaverse

Four weeks. You'd managed to avoid working with Bucky Barnes—'the best linebacker' on the football team —for four weeks. Twenty days of complete bliss. 480 hours of not hearing his whining and complaining about how your friend allegedly cheated on Steve Rogers. It was a whole big deal where Bucky took Steve's side and you took your friend's side. Naturally. They kissed and made up, but you and Bucky; well, you couldn't get past the misunderstanding. So here you are, at each other's throats while Steve and his girlfriend are living happily ever after.

Steve isn't in this class, but John and Sam are. They make a ruckus over the fact that you and Bucky are lab partners, because why not? John's always kissing Steve's ass, trying to secure his spot as the back-up quarterback, and Sam constantly teases Bucky over every single aspect of his life.

"Gentlemen, enough," the professor says, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "This is a biology lab, not the locker room. I would appreciate it if you treated it as such."

The commotion dies down, but you can still hear John and Sam's hushed voices.

This is exactly why you don't talk to anyone outside of the music department. It's a landmine of passive agressive comments disguised as small talk.

You avoid the jocks at all costs. They're a loud, obnoxious presence wherever they flock to. Their entire personality is Liberty Knights this, Liberty Knights that, never knowing when to shut up about Brooklyn Western Academy's football team. It truly feels like they peaked in high school and make it everyone else's problem.

But having to work one-on-one with Bucky? Impossible. The worst. He hates your guts and never takes anything seriously—a horrible combination, really.

You're trying to take notes on the professor's lecture, but your thoughts are on an endless loop, drowning out his procedures. You start to doodle in your notebook, hoping to take your mind off of Bucky, but you can't help but feel like someone is watching you.

You sneak a peek over at the jocks and Bucky is staring at you. Fuck, why is he staring at you? He never looks at you. Actively avoids it, actually. Does he really hate that he has to work with you that much? Is he trying to find a way to switch partners because he can't stand the thought of being next to you?

This is going to be a long two weeks.

"Okay, Barnes, here are the ground rules," you start when you both meet at the lab table. He cocks an eyebrow. "Rule #1: I'm not doing all of the work in this lab. You have to contribute your share." He opens his mouth but you barrel over him. "Rule #2: I'm going to get an A on this, so you better lock the fuck in. Rule #3: We need to set a strict schedule of when we work on this lab. I don't care if it's during your…" you gesture toward the table Bucky and his friends were sitting at. "whatever you guys do. We need to stay consistent."

"Consistent… Well, what days work best for you, princess?"

You blink at him twice, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "Did you just call me princess?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know. Did I?"

A flush spreads across your cheeks, hot and intruding. You know what, we're not gonna deal with that right now.

"Most mornings between 9am and 11am," you say after taking a breath. "Don't even think about nights. I have rehearsal."

He groans, rolling his eyes, the icy blue eclipsed by flesh. "Rehearsal. Right. Well, I can't do mornings."

You cross your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him. "What, cause you're too hungover? Or do you have 'practice' at that time."

"No, I have class in the morning." He pauses. "Then practice."

"Well, when are you not busy?"

He thinks for a moment. "The weekends?"

"The weekends."

"Yep. That's when I'm free."

"Can you give me a time frame or…?"

"How about you give me a time frame and I'll work around it." His tone is condescending. And you don't like that.

"Fine. 10am to 5pm. Either day. Can you work around that?" you ask, the words dripping with sarcasm.

"Anything for you, sweetheart." Gonna punch him in his perfect teeth. "Saturdays at 2pm."

"Perfect." You start to gather your things. "Guess I'll see you—"

"We should exchange phone numbers or something." He clears his throat. "For the lab. For easy communication."

"I check my email daily. Email is fine." He should also be checking his email.

He's silent for a moment. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. "My notifications don't always show up right away on my phone. Wouldn't want to leave you hanging if something comes up."

"Okay… Do you use Instagram?" you ask him this knowing damn well he does, his profile always popping up in your recommended accounts. "We could use that."

He shrugs, pulling out his phone. "That works. What's your username?"

You give it and he friends you. The request notification pops up and you accept it. His profile is public, of course.

Another notification appears.

[jbbarnes] sup

"There," he says, pocketing his phone into his varsity jacket. "Now you can message me whenever." Hopefully it isn't always this dry.

"Mhm, yup." You stuff your belongings into your bag. "Whenever…"

Ever since you friended Bucky on Instagram, the app taunted you. It's not your preferred social media choice—you mainly downloaded it to keep in touch with friends and family—but you use it enough to warrant the amount of storage it takes up on your phone. A post will appear once every three months or so, something to show your mom that you're not dead, but that's about the extent of your profile.

There's nothing exciting about the pictures—you don't bother with the filters, the captions are basic—so why are you now worrying about each post at 1am? Why are you wishing that you'd taken the extra five minutes to choose a filter or two?

You tap the direct messages icon. The top message stares at you.

[jbbarnes] sup — 14h

It's unopened. Which is fine. It's not like there's anything else to it, right? You watched him type it. It took a second, maybe less. Case closed.

Yet your finger hovers over his username. What if he put something else? What if he included some important information that you've missed for fourteen hours?

You should check it. Just one tap… It's harmless; he sent you it for a reason. Just. Open. It.

With a shaking finger, you tap the screen.

sup

One bubble. One word. Nothing more, nothing less.

You throw your head back and groan, the cement wall doing nothing to help the headache that's been simmering for an hour. Why is one message bothering you so much? Let alone one from Bucky Barnes?

It's fine. Just swipe out of the conversation and move on. Time to put Instagram away.

You tap on his username instead. What are you doing?? Put. the phone. down. Nothing productive will come out of this, and you know that.

You stare at his profile.

James "Bucky" Barnes no pen or paper but i still draw attention BWA class of '27 sc: jbbarnes

Oh, this is the worst. This man seriously wants to be a physical therapist? You roll your eyes. There's no way. No way he'll make it past undergrad. Not with the way he's constantly partying and at practice and lifting weights and—

A picture catches your eye. It's the third post down where he's laid down on the bench press seat, mid-rep, and holy shit he's ripped. You tap on the post and bring your phone closer, counting each ab muscle adorning his torso. One, two, three… How the fuck does he have an eight pack?

Then your eyes travel down farther, down to his gym shorts, where he's…

All of the moisture in your mouth dries up as you stare at the outline of his dick and travels straight down to your core. No, this isn't… You don't like him…

You shift in bed, the creak of the cheap mattress frame assaulting the stillness of your room. You don't like him. Any other person would have the same reaction. Especially since he's very… large…

Enough of that. It's really getting late and you have class tomorrow.

You click on his most recent post. A team photo with 'the boys.' Steve is in the middle, his signature golden boy smile beaming and Bucky next to him with a smirk, holding up bunny ears behind Steve's head. Sam is arm in arm with Joaquin; John is behind them, trying desperately to push his way in. By some miracle, Pietro is stood still, pointing finger guns at the camera. And to round it all out, Thor, the Norwegian exchange student, is holding up Bob with one arm, his bicep fully flexed and on display. You're unsure as to why Bob is there—isn't he the water boy?

And the caption: someone call the weatherman cuz we making it rain

God, where does he find these?

You click into the comments.

captain_rogers: best team in all of brooklyn

jbbarnes: best team in all of new york

captain_walker2: i think u forgot to tag me barnes

wingmanwilson: my boys 😤

jbbarnes: the boys of bwa

captain_walker2: barnes, can i get a tag?

cucumber_bob453: omg im part of the boys now??

jbbarnes: you've always been part of the boys bob

captain_walker2: tag?

A chuckle escapes your lips. It's entertaining how much John is trying to fit in with them all. It shouldn't be that hard, but there's just… something about him that doesn't mesh with the others.

You scroll down to the next post. Bucky's smiling at the camera—eyes crinkling and a small dimple formed on his right cheek—with his arm around Sharon Carter.

A strange feeling tugs at your heart. Seeing him there with Sharon. You shake your head, erasing the thoughts faster than they arrived.

You scroll through his posts faster now, catching glimpses of more muscles and smiles and football games. He's not… unattractive. The dimple is cute. He's got nice facial structure. Middle of the run nose. And his eyes… Piercing blue. Almost green in some lighting. He's the opposite of unattractive. Not like you'd actually admit any of this to anyone.

You turn off your phone with a groan. You're not attracted to Bucky Barnes. He's annoying. He's a jock, of all things.

But your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears. And there's another body part that's pounding—

Enough! The phone is off. The thoughts need to be turned off. Go. to. sleep!

You sigh and pull the covers up around your shoulders, ignoring—but failing—to think of the boy with piercing blue eyes and shaggy brunet hair.

Bucky's not sure when you started hating him.

No, that's a lie. He knows when you started. He's just unsure as to why you still do.

After Steve and his girlfriend made up, Bucky thought that the two of you would go back to mutually watching each other from the football field. He'd watch you in the stands, laughing at something the person next to you said, and couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.

You were infectious. Not in a diseased way, but in the way you laughed. The way you smiled at everyone while walking across campus. Except for when he passed by and you'd avert your eyes quickly, finding a leaf or pebble to stare at on the sidewalk.

But the times your eyes would find his? When you'd brush the hair out of your face after playing the school song and see him on the field? It felt like magic. Like he could survive off of your gaze and nothing else. He would drop everything to go up there and say something that made you smile. He would take any punishment from his coach to drop the ball and pull you over the railing and kiss you.

The only issue: you still hate him.

It's the Saturday after you two were paired up as lab partners.

He opens the door to the seemingly empty biology, immediately hit with the sharp smell of alcohol and sterilizing agents.

You're already at the counter, stacking the petri dishes and gathering the swabs for the lab. He looks at his phone, checking the time. He wanted to get here a couple of minutes early to ensure everything was in place, but you beat him.

"When did you get here?" he asks, watching your diligence over the lab materials.

You jump and whip your head toward him, sending the petri dishes clattering along the counter. "Christ, Barnes, where did you come from?" you shriek, gripping your chest.

He glances at the entrance to the lab. "Last I checked, the only way to get in was through that door."

Your eyes roll. "No shit, Sherlock. You just, fuck, you scared me. Do you have silencing shoes or something?"

A chuckle. "Nah, I'm just agile. It comes with the training."

"Agile. Noted."

He nods and a smile creeps up on him again. Get it together, Barnes, or else she's going to think you're a creeper or something.

He clears his throat and moves closer to the counter, grabbing the dishes and stacking them the way you initially organized them. "So what's on the agenda for today?"

You watch his hands, almost transfixed with the movements, then realized he asked you a question. You blink up at him. "Wh-What? Sorry, what did you say?"

"What's on the agenda for today?"

"Oh, well, we have to check the dishes from Thursday, record those findings, then start the next batch."

"Got it. I can start on the batch from Thursday if you want to start the next batch?"

You nod. "Just don't mess it up."

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin, bringing his hand up to his forehead in mock salute.

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him quickly, burying your head in your spiral notebook. He swears he sees the flushing of your cheeks but doesn't want to get any closer. It seems like you're opening up to him and he doesn't want to ruin that. So he'll tread carefully. He can be patient.

The two of you work in silence. Bucky brings his own lab notebook to check on Thursday's batch, while you diligently swab the new bacteria. The silence is comfortable; not tense, not demanding, just there. A soothing rhythm of pencils scratching against paper, the clink of plastic, and each other's breath.

"So, uhm," Bucky starts, finishing up his writings. "Are you excited for next week's game?"

You look up at him and nod, humming in response. "Of course. You?"

He smirks. "Of course. It's my favorite day of the week."

The corner of your mouth tugs upward. "Makes sense."

"Well, that's my entire personality, right? Might as well stay consistent."

He walks closer to you, tossing his notebook down on the counter. "As they say, consistency is key, Barnes."

He pauses for a moment. "Tell me, what's the instrument you play? The brassy one?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "'The brassy one?' Thanks for the specificity. So helpful."

"Okay, you can't blame me. I don't know the instruments. Just trumpet, brass, flute…"

You laugh. A genuine laugh that makes him want to grab you by the waist and dip you into an earth-shattering kiss right in the middle of this biology lab.

"Ah, yes, the three instrument families: trumpet, brass, and flute."

He smiles, unable to hold back the joy that's been aching in his heart for weeks. Months, even. "Please just tell me. Put me out of my misery already."

You wipe a tear from your eye, small laughs escaping here and there. "Mellophone. I play the mellophone for pep band, but french horn for concert band."

"Mellophone," he says, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. "Hmm. And french horn? A woman of many talents, I see."

That almost-blush from before returns, dusting the tips of your ears pink. "It-It's basically the same. Nothing too fancy about it." Your eyes flick away from him now and you busy your hands with the collected samples.

No, don't look away he wants to say. He wants to see the way your eyes light up when you talk about playing your instrument. He wants to make you laugh again, hypnotizing him with the way it pitches up first and then comes back down. He's an addict and he needs more.

"Earth to Barnes," he hears, a hand waving in front of his face. "Hey, are you in there? Did you get lost?"

His vision focuses back on you, your figure sharpening in front of him, now standing. "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Did you say something?"

"Yeah. I said do you think we're done here? I've got all the samples we need and I assumed you finished up over there." You raise your eyebrow again, a small smirk playing on your lips. "Did I bore you with my music talk?"

"No, no, not at all," he says, shaking his head vigorously. The exact opposite, actually. "I was just.. Also thinking about the fact that we're done here." But he really, truly doesn't want to be done here. Would you say no if he asked you to go to the cafe on campus? Probably. The last thing he wants is for all the progress he's made to be for nothing. One step forward, two steps back?

"Great. Yup. All done here…" you say, dragging out your words a little too long. "I'll, uhm, I'll see you on Monday? For class?"

Your tone sounds reluctant, like you maybe don't want to go either?

He should just do it. Just ask. He opens his mouth, about to say it. Saying it… Asking you to go to the campus cafe…

"Yeah, for sure. See you on Monday."

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Barnes, you fucking idiot!

All the muscles in your face relax into… disappointment? Goddamnit, Barnes. Save it. Save this. Don't make her frown.

You just nod solemnly and shuffle out of the lab.

And he just watches you leave like a fucking idiot.

Whoever invented brass instruments clearly forgot to take into account that it might be played outside. And the fact that prime marching band season is, in fact, during September, one of the hottest months of the year.

Whoever that person is, you'd like to have a nice, long conversation with them, because your mellophone keeps slipping out of your hands and almost hitting the turf beneath your feet.

Because of the heat, marching band practice has to take place at 8am on a Sunday. You'd much rather be anywhere else than the football practice field at 8am on a Sunday, but such is the life of a music major.

"Okay, everyone, gush and go!" your director calls from the bleachers on the megaphone.

In an instant, 150 band members are running to their water bottles on the sidelines of the field and chugging as fast as they can. You almost crash into five separate people on the way to your bottle, but you get there eventually and spray the stream into your mouth.

"Did you save any for me?" Natasha asks as she walks up to you, her tone light and teasing. Even with the 80 degree weather, she somehow hasn't broken a sweat.

You take a breath after drinking and say, "I sure hope you brought your own. If not, rookie mistake."

She smirks. "Oh, I did. I just like to keep you on your toes."

"Ha ha," you deadpan, wiping the corners of your mouth. "But seriously, don't scare me like that."

"Like I said, I gotta keep you on your toes. Expect the unexpected and all that jazz."

You take another long swig before your director calls out again. "Times up! Back to set one!"

Natasha salutes to you and you salute back before running to your respective sections; one flute, one mellophone.

The drum major commands the band to attention and blows their whistle, signaling the tempo of the first song. Your instrument is up—lips to mouthpiece—and you take a breath on the fourth whistle.

The band moves for the first eight bars, completing the drill without a hitch. Then the next eight bars are played with no movement—a rest during the hardest part of the song.

You're about to transition into the next set— your eyes straight ahead and body aware of the people around you—until a blur of movement pulls you from your focus.

The first rule of marching band: don't let distractions mess up the set. (At least, according to your band director. Is it true? Who knows.) Focus is key or else the entire set goes to shit.

Any other time, you'd ignore the blur. Students go on runs through this part of campus all the time. However, this blur looks familiar. The body type, the backwards baseball cap, the kinesiology tape wrapped around the left shoulder. You've seen this body in plenty of Instagram pictures.

Focus. You have to focus. One diagonal step at a time.

Your heart rate picks up as he gets closer and you notice that he's shirtless. Eight pack out and visible for everyone to see. Glistening pecs and pumping biceps. This is different than seeing a still picture. This is real. He's right there.

Before your feet can catch up with your brain, you miss a step. You trip over your own feet, one ankle crossing over the other, which sends you hurtling toward the mello player next to you.

The second rule of marching band? Protect the instruments at all cost. Especially since you're liable for any damage done to the instrument while in your possession.

Don't let it smash into the ground, please, please, please.

You lift the mello up as high as you can while crashing toward the turf, hoping and praying that anything but your instrument is damaged. You'll take a broken bone, a scraped knee, even a brusied ego, but your lack of funds cannot take mellophone damage.

The fall rattles your bones, sending shockwaves from your hip and throughout your body. Somewhere on the way down, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't want to bear witness to any damage to the precious piece of metal in your grasp.

This is not happening. Nope, not at all. There are not people crashing around you. There are no grunts and gasps traveling throughout the mellophone section and into the trumpet section. How could there be, when your eyes are shut?

You're going to just stay here. This patch of the turf? Your new home. What a comfortable spot. It's lovely, isn't it?

Your band director is calling your name. Or maybe this is a hallucination. Maybe you fell asleep and you're taking a nice nap in the sun, the rays beating down and warming your skin.

You've almost convinced yourself until the weight of your mellophone is no longer being held up by your hand. You pry open an eye, preparing for the worst possible outcome—your band director towering over you—but instead, you're met with the unexpected.

Bucky Barnes is stood in front of you, setting down your instrument gently on the turf. You open your other eye, taking in the full image. His chisled body is absolutely drenched in sweat, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. You can see your frazzled reflection in his sunglasses and cringe. Your hair is plastered to your face and somehow also sticking up on the other side of your head. Your face can best be described as a tomato.

But, by some miracle, Bucky extends his hand out to you. You can't quite see his eyes through the sunglasses, but if you had to guess, he might look concerned.

You stare at his hand. Do you take the help and be mortified forever? Or do you suck it up and stand on your own?

Bucky doesn't give you the chance to decide, and instead takes the hand that you still haven't put down. His skin is warm and calloused—lighting up the nerve endings of your palm—yet he touches you like you're glass. Like one wrong move could cause irreparable damage.

He's helping you up now, his other hand a warm presence on your hip as you stumble. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you," he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. Your heart skips a beat, unsure how to process the gentleness of his tone.

"Th-Thanks," you stutter, your voice almost as unstable as your legs. "I'm good now. You can let me go."

He chuckles a bit and shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You're shaking. Let's get you to the bleachers."

You look down at your hands and, sure enough, your fingers are moving uncontrollably.

"It's fine, I can make it—"

Bucky cuts you off by moving, the hand at your hip gripping ever so slightly. "Just let me do this, sweetheart. Let me help you."

Oh, God. Sweetheart. Sweetheart? This sweetheart is different than the one from the lab earlier. His voice is soothing, sweet, tender, where the first one was nothing but sharp around the edges. Mocking.

You might just melt by the time you get to the bleachers.

"My instrument—"

"Ava will get it. I've got you."

You sigh, finally giving into his touch, leaning into it just a bit more.

You let him walk you across the field and set you down gently on the bleachers, his warm touch replaced with the aggressive bite of the metal.

His reaches toward you for a moment before recoiling back. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, concern laced through each consonant and vowel.

You nod and swallow quickly, finding your voice as his naked torso comes back into view. "Thanks, Barnes."

It's his turn to nod—a quick bob of his head—before he runs off, returning to his previous route.

Before you can say anything, you're swarmed with a hoard of people. Your director, the drum major, section leaders, the whole nine yards. They're asking you questions, but you don't hear them. All you see is Bucky's retreating form, jogging away from the field with long strides.

"School song everyone! School song!"

At the drum majors command, all band members clambor from their seats, fumbling with instruments and flip folders until the school song is found.

The Liberty Knights scored the winning touchdown for Brooklyn Western Academy. The crowd went wild, cheers erupting throughout, the parents of the players hugging and pumping cardboard cutouts of their faces.

To continue the celebration, the pep band plays the school song at top volume. It might not sound like a symphony, but tone quality is not the main focus here. This is about pep and energy, and with a large band, that is more than delivered at the end of the game.

The school song is played with an intensity unmatched to previous games. Excitement is at an all-time high! The boys of BWA will be advancing to the playoffs! Who wouldn't be excited?

"Are you pumped for the next game?" Kate asks you as you both pack up your instruments.

You shrug, shutting your case closed and snapping the latches shut. "It's kinda like every other game, right? We play, we play some more, we watch a game we pretend to know, we play, then the team wins. Then onto the next one." You grab the handle of the case and pick it up. "Don't get me wrong; I love playing pep band. It's a great time. But football? Not as much of a great time."

Kate shoves you playfully and looks at the field. "You're not having a good time staring at Barnes's ass?"

Your face flushes hot. "I don't— I'm not—" She's laughing as you sputter. "Okay, fuck you, Bishop. Not funny."

"It's kinda funny—"

"Not. Funny."

She holds her hands up in surrender, her case swinging back and forth from one. "Okay, okay, fine. Not funny. Apologies." Another giggle escapes. "But maybe you should make your staring less apparent if you don't want people to notice."

You glare at her. "That's it. Friendship over. You can play the 2nd horn parts by yourself now." You walk away from her, starting your descent down the bleacher steps.

"Wait, wait, I'm sorry!" she calls after you, scurrying to follow. "I take it back. I have noticed zero staring. No staring ever. On my life."

You look over your shoulder and grin. "Apology accepted. Friendship back on. 2nd horn partner reinstated."

"Phew! Don't scare me like that. I don't think I'd ever recover."

You let out a short laugh, reaching the bottom of the steps. Natasha is waiting there for you, her purple and gold uniform gleaming under the lights.

"Nat! We missed you!" Kate calls, giving her a hug. "I still would love to know how you never break a sweat in that uniform."

Natasha smiles. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. I'm sworn to secrecy."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, Miss Mysterious. We get it. You've been blessed with perfect genes. No need to rub it in our faces."

"But where's the fun in that?" She holds her hand out, gesturing to your case. "Here, let me help you."

Your eyebrows furrow. This is out of the ordinary for Natasha. "What? Why?"

"Barnes is waiting for you behind the bleachers. He said something about a lab project?"

Your heart does a flip. It's been almost a week since the marching band practice fiasco. You've interacted with Bucky during biology, but nothing more than working on your samples in a class full of students. Therefore, you haven't had a moment alone since causing a crash in the middle of the practice field.

"Lab project… Right. Okay." You hand her your case. "Take care of her, okay? I'll hunt you down if you don't"

"Oh, I know you will." She lets out a small laugh. "Okay, go. You know how impatient he is."

Did you though? She said that like you've been friends for ages.

"Alright, alright. Going."

You round the corner before you hear, "Text me later!"

This is sounding more and more like a setup.

Underneath the bleachers, Bucky is leaning up against one of the supporting beams, arms crossed and one foot pressed against the beam. His protective gear is off, leaving him in his jersey and those ridiculously tight pants.

When he spots you, he pushes himself up and walks over to you. "Hey," he says, almost breathlessly.

You quirk up a brow. "Hey," you say, your doubt creeping into your tone. "Nat said something about our lab project?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that…"

"Barnes, this is not the time to tell me that you have some event or practice or whatever that has suddenly come up and you can't finish the lab so I have to do it myself."

His hairline shoots up. "No! No, it's not that. Fuck, it's not that…"

You cross your arms over your chest, frustration oozing out of your skin. "Okay, then what the fuck is it?"

"I… Well, I've been thinking—"

"A feat for you, truly—"

"About— hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

You shake your head. "Just spit it out already."

"Fine, whatever." His hand goes back to his neck, then says your name. "I was thinking… Would you maybe want to, I don't know… Go on a date or something?"

Did you hear that correctly? "A… date?" He nods. "You're asking me out…" He nods again.

After a few long moments, a laugh bursts out of you. "Oh— You're kidding right? This is a joke." You wipe the corners of your eyes. "Barnes, you're funny. You're hilarious. Who put you up to this? Was it Sam? Steve wouldn't be the type to do this… Oh, I know. It's John. Am I right? John bet you to ask me out. Is this what will finally get him into the cool kid club?"

Then, you look at him. He's not… Oh, shit he's not laughing. Your stomach drops. He almost looks hurt. Like you just kicked his puppy and laughed until your stomach ached.

His eyes travel to the ground, searching for something to latch onto. "You know what, just— Fuck, just forget I asked, okay?" He turns and starts to walk away, but you can hear him muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid…"

Shit, you gotta fix this and fast. "Hey, hey, I didn't mean to— Barnes, wait!" you call out to him, running after him. You grab his hand and give him a tug so he faces you. "Are you being serious? Is this serious?"

He catches your eyes for a moment then looks down.

"Bucky, I— I thought you hated me."

This brings his gaze back up to yours. "You thought I hated— I thought you hated me!"

"Because I thought you hated me."

He blinks once. Then twice. "I don't. I mean, I did just try to ask you out…"

You're at a loss for words, staring into his eyes and searching for an answer. "But Steve and… You hated me for taking her side." You shrug. "I hated you for taking Steve's, but that's besides the point. You really don't hate me?"

He scoffs, dragging his hand over his face. "Fuck, I'm an idiot. I should've just said something. Stupid, stupid—"

His rambling is cut off with the softness of your lips on his.

You pull away for a moment and murmur against his lips. "Shut up and kiss me, Barnes."

His lips crash against yours—hard and relentless—his tongue running along the seam, begging for entrance. You part them, welcoming the intrusion with open arms.

The kiss is electric. His lips are as soft as you imagined them, softer than any other man you've dated. He's intoxicating and you can't get enough.

In a flash, he's pushing you up against the beam he occupied earlier, pressing up into your body like he needed it to live.

"Bucky, fuck—" you manage to gasp out between kissing, moaning as he moves to your neck. Your hands grip his arms, nails digging into the rigid muscle. "Bucky, what if someone sees—"

"Then let them," he mutters into your skin, the vibrations sending heat down to your core. "I've waited too long for this, sweetheart."

A gasp escapes your parted lips as his hand slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your pants. "What are you—fuck," you hiss as his fingers run over your clothed folds, then pressing gently onto your clit. "Bucky, this is a bad idea."

He sucks at the pulse point on your neck, pulling another moan from your mouth. "But you want this, right?" He looks up at you, eyes glazed over with lust. "Tell me to stop. Say the word and I will."

You don't. You don't want him to stop. That's the last thing you want him to do. But he chose a really poor place for it to happen.

You return his look, panting down at him with swollen lips, and don't say a word.

He grins and presses against your clit again, harder this time. You moan and buck your hips forward, searching for more pressure. "Gonna make you feel good, okay? Gonna take care of you."

He pushes your panties to the side and slips two fingers into your folds, collecting some of your slick and spreading it upward. "Fuck, you're already wet for me?" You nod, delirious from his touch. "Of course you are, baby. You've wanted this all along. Wanted me."

"God, Bucky, yes," you groan, growing impatient. "Please, I want you."

"Alright, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you…" He plunges a finger into your cunt, grinning at the way you clench around him. "Oh, s'that what you want? You want that, baby?" You nod vigorously. He pushes in another finger, making you hiss at the stretch. "You're takin' it so well, doin' such a good job for me…"

"More, Bucky, please…" you beg, rolling your hips until his thumb hits your clit. "Th-There, please. Want that too…"

"Don't you worry, I'll make you feel good. You want it like this?" His fingers start pumping inside of you while his thumb rubs circles over your clit.

The moan that comes out of you is loud. Loud enough that Bucky covers your mouth with his other hand. "Shh, baby, gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone hearin' us."

He pumps faster, each drag of his fingers pulling a needier moan from your covered mouth. You clench around him, feeling your release getting closer and closer.

"Bucky," you moan against his hand, but it comes out muffled.

"That's it, baby. You gonna come for me?"

"Mhm…"

He increases his speed, soft squelching coming from your cunt. You're gripping onto him like a lifeline, afraid that if you let go, you might lose yourself all together.

You squeeze his arm twice. "Buck."

He looks up, concentration etched on his face, and sees your face contorted in pleasure. "You ready to come for me, baby? Gonna come around my fingers?"

He lifts his hand up enough for you to speak. "Yes, Bucky, fuck, I'm— Shit, fuck, I'm gonna—" The band in your belly is threatening to snap. "Jus' like that— Fuck, yes! I'm gonna—!"

White, hot pleasure floods through your veins as Bucky fingers you through your release. Your thighs are trembling, your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers.

Bucky says your name, whispering it against your skin. "Yes, sweetheart. You look so pretty when you come…"

After you're done and spent, you rest your head against the metal beam, panting heavily as Bucky removes his fingers. You whimper at the loss, a soft moan escaping your lips.

He wipes your slick on his pants and uses his other hand to move the hair covering your face, kissing your forehead once it's out of the way. "You did such a good job for me… Fuck, please let me do that again."

You let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe on a bed next time?"

He grins. "A bed would be great."

A moment passes filled with breath. Your heavy, gulping ones and his soft, warm ones against your skin.

"Alright, Barnes," you say once your lungs are working normally. "Pull down those skin-tight pants."

"Wh-What?" he sputters, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?"

You gather up your hair behind your head and wrap a hair tie around it. "You want me to return the favor, right?"

He stays frozen for a second longer, then his thumbs start pushing his pants down.

Not two seconds later, Steve rounds the corner of the bleachers. "Buck, where the fuck are you?"

You and Bucky's eyes meet, both pairs widening. He yanks his pants back up and tries to pull his jersey down to cover his growing boner.

When Steve finally spots the two of you, his eyes narrow at Bucky. "Buck. What in the hell are you doing back here?"

"Well, we were.. we were talking about our lab project! Right?" He turns to you and says your name. "Biology lab project."

"Mhm, yup," you say, trying to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest. "Biology lab."

Steve looks between the two of you, taking in the flush across your cheeks and Bucky's failed attempt at hiding his boner. "I—I'm just not going to ask. But Buck, we need you for the team picture."

You press your lips together, the laugh threatening to escape.

"The picture, right… How could I forget?" Bucky sends you daggers with his eyes. "Let's get to it then, Rogers."

It takes every cell of your being to withhold your laughter until the two of them round the corner. Then, and only then, do you release it.

And damn, does it feel good.