#mr 305

And that’s where you met him.

Bucky Barnes.

Not the Bucky Barnes, super-soldier Avenger-with-a-heart-of-gold Bucky Barnes. At least, not immediately recognizable. You were halfway through shouting “DALEEEEEE!” when you turned and smacked right into his chest — broad, solid, smelling like cologne and danger.

“Whoa there, Mr. Worldwide,” he chuckled, steadying you. “You okay?”

You blinked up at him through your shades. “Mr. Worldwide,” you corrected, because commitment was key.

His mouth twitched. “Right. Sorry, Mr. Worldwide.”

He had the audacity to grin like he wasn’t already the sexiest man in a three-mile radius. You tried to focus on the Pitbull currently yelling about fireballs, but this man was giving off his own.

“Didn’t think anyone could pull off that look,” he said, eyes dragging down your open collar and back up again. “But damn if you’re not making me question everything.”

You adjusted your bald cap like the professional you were. “It’s all about confidence, papi.”

Something in his gaze snapped.

By the time the concert ended, you’d danced, screamed, and somehow ended up with Bucky Barnes buying you post-show churros. He licked sugar off his fingers while you tried not to combust.

“So, do you always seduce people while impersonating Pitbull?” he teased.

You smirked. “Only when they look like they could handle it.”

His jaw flexed. “Try me.”

Fast-forward thirty minutes and your bald-capped reflection was staring back at you from a hotel mirror while Bucky Barnes absolutely obliterated your life choices in the best way possible.

“Jesus, doll—” he groaned, thrusting hard enough to rattle the headboard. “You keep the hat on, yeah? Don’t ruin the illusion for me.”

You cackled. “You’re fucking Mr. Worldwide right now, baby. You respect the brand.”

He barked a laugh — sharp, disbelieving — before flipping you onto your stomach. “Then sing me a damn Pitbull song while I’m in you.”

You tried. You really did. “🎵 I know you want me— 🎵”

“—yeah, I do,” he growled into your neck, biting gently.

The rhythm of his hips matched the bass from the concert still buzzing in your skull. You’d never known patriotism until Bucky muttered, “Mr. 305 to the bedroom,” like it was a military order.

At one point the bald cap slipped sideways and you yelped, “No! My legacy!”

Bucky, laughing so hard he nearly lost rhythm, caught it mid-slide and tugged it back into place like a gentleman. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect Miami’s finest.”

You looked back at him, sweat-slick and feral, and gasped, “Call me—”

He panted, “—Mr. Worldwide?”

You slapped the wall. “DALE!”

And that’s how you knew you’d reached nirvana.

Later, you lay sprawled across the sheets, bald cap askew, both of you still laughing breathlessly.

Bucky brushed a hand over your fake goatee. “You know, never thought my first Pitbull experience would end like this.”

You rolled toward him, too lazy to remove your shades. “You kidding? He’d be proud. Man’s out here preaching international love and we’re just doing our part.”

Bucky snorted, pulling you closer. “Guess that makes me your Miami heat.”

You hummed against his chest. “You’re more like Winter Soldier, but I’ll allow it.”

He tilted your chin up, kissing you slow, sugar-sweet from the churros. “Next time, you can be yourself.”

You grinned. “Next time, you’re wearing the bald cap.”

He froze. “Wait, what?”

“Equality, baby. We take turns being Mr. Worldwide.”

His groan of mock agony was drowned out by your laughter — and somewhere, you swore you heard Pitbull himself whisper on the wind: