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winterromanov · 5 years ago

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AU idea- college athlete Bucky and he’s really popular and all that but very sweet and he meets this girl who’s sweet and a little quiet in one of his classes and he just keeps trying to be around her, study with her, buy her coffee and she likes him but she’s just like.... why is this cute popular boy paying attention to me lol

pairing: bucky x reader (also SUPER tempted to do a part two of this, let me know if you’re interested)

You recognise the guy staring at you from across the table in your Russian lit tutorial. You recognise him because everyone knows Bucky Barnes, the football star, certified big name on campus and best friend of fellow football star Steve Rogers. He’s the guy that every girl on your corridor gossips about, the one all the professors love, the one who gets hundreds of likes on his Instagram pictures.

(You don’t follow him but you have to admit, you’ve scrolled through his feed a few times. Just to see what the fuss is all about, you know. And you know. Boy, you know.)

You’ve never actually interacted with him before because your circles aren’t the kind that usually interlink, but now you’re sat in a seminar on Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Bucky Barnes is definitely staring at you.

When your eyes eventually flicker up from your laptop--just to double check you’re not making it all up, that he’s not looking at the much prettier girl next to you--he grins, pen between his teeth. Your cheeks involuntarily catch fire and you deliberately snap away. Because this is Bucky Barnes you’re talking about, who dated Natasha Romanoff in his freshman year before it all very publically...fell apart. Who could have literally any girl he wanted worshiping at his high-tops. Who would never look at a girl like you because, well.

You’re you.

You’re trying to buy coffee in the campus shop next to the library when he actually speaks to you directly for the first time. Emphasis on the word trying, because you left your damn purse at home and Apple Pay is not being your friend and you can feel yourself getting more and more embarrassed the longer the cashier has to wait. You eventually resort to rummaging round your backpack for loose change in order to pay the poor guy, but an arm with a contactless debit card reaches out and beeps the payment through for you.

“I’ll get a latte to go, please, Mario.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Mr Barnes.”

It’s Bucky Barnes. Of course it’s Bucky Barnes--only someone like him would take the time to know the server by name. He’s wearing his faded red Columbia jersery and a baseball cap. His grin is kinda crooked and yes, yes you know it’s one of the many reasons all the girls go wild for him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, stepping aside so he can go to the front of the queue. He merely shrugs. “Here--let me pay you back, I know I’ve got a couple of dollars in here somewhere...”

He shakes his head as he taps his card once again, the server handing him his latte in a reusable mug with a wink. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, your idea about interior monologue in Anna Karenina in Ivan’s class the other day actually inspired my paper, so I do owe you one.”

You blink, kinda dumbstruck at the thought of Bucky Barnes remembering any input you’d given in class. Or anyone remembering any input you’d given in class. “You liked my point?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bucky sips his coffee, grimacing slightly as the liquid burns his lips. “Tolstoy finding humour in death. It’s so dark and beautiful. All your points, actually--you see a lot in literature than I’ve never picked up on in a first reading.”

“I...Uh. Well. Thank you.” You’ve always been quite reserved in class, scared to say anything in case it’s stupid or outlandish and the other students laugh at you. In reality you know it’s you being paranoid, but old habits die hard.

Bucky looks at his watch before hissing a profanity under his breath. “Gotta run. Cold War study group across campus in three minutes. Catch you later?”

He phrases it like a question rather than a generic add on, a necessity of politeness. His blue eyes look at you expectantly, actively waiting for you to reply.

(They’re so blue, his eyes. Blue like the sky in the summer back home, bright and cloudless and stared at from a meadow.)

“Yeah, of course! See you in class.” You raise your coffee cup sheepishly in his eyeline. “And thanks for the coffee.”

And like that he vanishes, bustling out the door and stepping purposefully in the opposite direction as the sun blazes on his back.

You see his backpack before you see him, slammed down on the bench next to you in the lecture hall. He sits down with a long exhale of breath, like he’s ran here--this time he’s dressed in sportswear so you assume he’s been to the gym. Veins ripple and flex up his ridiculously toned arms. Being a football hero probably does that to you.

“Crime and Punishment,” he says, instead of a greeting. “What did you think?”

You smile, spreading your hand across the heavily annotated and dog-eared copy you have in front of you. “Long, dark, often psychologically challenging, but ultimately an interesting perspective on nihilism. And you?”

“Oh.” He nods in faux seriousness. “I thought much the same. Reckon I’d like to go for a beer with Dostoevsky.”

“That would be an interesting encounter.”

Bucky rests his laptop and his copy of the book on the bench and looks as though he might say something else until the professor enters the room, hushing the hall to silence. When the lights dim so you can see the projector, you wonder if Bucky can hear how furiously your heart beats in your chest.

After than, some sort of unspoken agreement develops wherein every Russian literature class, his place is a spot next to you. You always seem to arrive first--he’s always rushing from somewhere--but he clocks you and instinctively walks over, sliding into a chair adjacent to your own. The conversation is usually the same. Always about the books.

You’re not sure what any of it means but you’ve somehow found a friend in the famous Bucky Barnes, and people start to notice.

“Since when have you and Bucky been so close?” Wanda Maximoff asks as you queue for the canteen lasagna, the flourescent bar lights doing nothing for the food presentation. “My brother is in your lit class and he says you two sit together a lot.”

You shrug, spooning lasagna onto your plate. “We just sit together.”

“You don’t just sit together with Bucky Barnes, (Y/N). That’s not a thing that happens.”

“Honestly, Wanda, we just talk about books.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, swiping her meal card at the end of the belt. “Sure, okay. I believe you. For now.”

She has to believe you, because you know what she’s insinuating. And when you look across the canteen and see Bucky laughing with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson and his ex girlfriend Natasha Romanoff, you know this cute, handsome boy and his often insightful observations of Russian texts are so far out of your league that it’s kind of embarrassing.

so, (y/n). what did you think of the master and margarita?

i think pilate suffering for his sins for two thousand years is pretty rough tbh

but he deserves it?

i mean. probably. his suffering is necessary for the redemption arc

just what i was going to say. obviously.

see you tomorrow :)

“Do you want to come to a party?”

Bucky asks you this as you come out of your seminar on Chekov’s Uncle Vanya and, admittedly, it kind of knocks you off guard. When you lamely blink back at him blankly, he decides to elaborate.

“It’s my friend Sam’s birthday. It’s just at our dorm--should be fun. Although we’re very competitive when it comes to beer pong, so beware.” His smile is wistful but he quickly comes back to earth, falling in step with you as you walk along the hall. “So what do you say? You interested?”

“You’re inviting me to a party?” you reply, as this is a very big step in your friendship. This is assuming he’d happily see you outside of class amongst his equally popular and attractive friends.

“Yeah, I think so,” he laughs bemusedly, pausing at the door that leads to the quad. He has his Cold War class across campus. “(Y/N), I’d really like you to come.”

You look at him and expect him to reveal this--him--as a joke, but he’s earnest and certain and honest, with an almost shy smile on his face. His eyes are hidden by his usual cap but you know the colour of blue so well by now. And not just because you’d zoomed in on his Facebook photo in a moment of ridiculous late-night longing.

(You follow him on Instagram now, too, but only because he followed you first. You were still too uncertain to initiate it, worried that he’d ignore you.)

“Okay,” you say, swallowing nervously. Wondering if this might be a mistake. That you’d turn up and no-one there would like you. “Who else will be there?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll introduce you.” He pauses, chewing his lip for a second, before gesturing at the door. “I’ve got class, so I’ll...I’ll see you later.”

Your hands tighten round the straps of your backpack. “See you later, Bucky.”

Bucky shares a floor with Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers at a block about a ten minute walk from your own, and you use the walk in the chill New York air to calm your jangling nerves. You’re wearing your favourite navy blue dress and have braided your hair and made an effort with your makeup--and you’re not totally sure what for, what you’re expecting. You’re just the quiet girl in Bucky Barnes’ literature class. You don’t know how it got to this.

You’re too awkward to press the buzzer so you message Bucky to let him know you’re outside. Scrolling through your Facebook inbox, your messages have become...quite frequent. Especially at night. You lie on your bed and frantically type until the early hours, only realising it’s 3am before it’s too late.

That’s what friends do, right? Friends.

(God, you’re so fucking in love with him, aren’t you?)

Bucky’s on the edge of a laugh when he answers the door, but his expression falters into muted surprise as soon as he lays eyes on you on his doorstep. A silly gold party hat is positioned at an angle over his head.

“(Y/N),” he says, and you flush, because the way he says your damn name. He steps aside so you can step in under his arm. “I’m glad you came. Finished The Idiot yet?”

“Onto the last fifty pages.” His house is decked out with balloons and paper chains and the loud pumping of a bass stereo carries from the lounge, alongside the chatter of laughing of guests. You recognise Columbia’s only archer and Olympic hopeful Clint Barton rush up the stairs, holding the hand of a brown haired girl. Bucky rolls his eyes at him and yells already? “I think it might be one of my favourites on the module.”

He leads you through to the kitchen which is empty other than various bottles of alcohol on the table and Natasha Romanoff sitting on the counter. Her red hair hangs effortlessly across her shoulders, lips painted scarlet, wearing a classy black jumpsuit. Natasha Romanoff makes you feel nervous because a) she’s the kind of girl you could never be and b) she’s the kind of girl Bucky Barnes dates. She’s sipping rose out of a wine glass, her eyes discretely looking you up and down.

“Is this the famous (Y/N)?” Natasha asks, her tone intrigued, her lips curved. Bucky laughs bashfully, scratching the back of his head. “Honestly, this guy doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Sorry?” you gape, looking between her and him. Bucky sends Natasha a glare that signals for her to shut up which only makes her more amused by the situation, leaning back casually. “Uh, I don’t know--”

“Ignore her. She’s insatiable.” Bucky quickly swerves, pressing a glass into your hand. “Would you like a drink? We have pretty much everything imaginable. Natasha has plenty of wine she’d love to share.”

Natasha is totally unaffected, already looking at her mobile phone. She flicks a hand at a line of bottles next to the microwave. “Feel free, honey.”

You’re not a big drinker as you don’t often frequent cool college parties and you’ve been drunk a grand total of one time after one too many glasses of champagne on new year’s eve. Bucky seems to see this in your face.

“You don’t have to drink, obviously,” he says kindly, “But if you mix a bit of soda with rose it actually tastes kinda nice. Much better than beer, anyway.”

“Okay,” you nod, letting him mix the drink for you. He’s remarkably careful, pouring the tiniest amount from one of Natasha’s bottles and topping it up with sprite. He grabs a beer for himself, cracking off the lid with his teeth.

“You know you’re not impressive when you do that,” Natasha says drolly, even though she hasn’t looked up from her phone.

“(Y/N) was impressed,” Bucky says with a wink. You try and keep straight-faced but yeah, come on. You were.

“Of course she was impressed,” Natasha interjects, “You’re both stupidly in love with each other but too polite to make a move.”

Bucky flips her off before pressing a gentle hand in the small of your back, ushering you away from her. “She’s drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!”

You sip your drink, wondering if your palms will ever stop sweating. Natasha can’t be right. She isn’t right. Or is she? No, she can’t be, because this is Bucky Barnes and you’re you.

Bucky’s friends are actually kinda nice. Really nice, in fact. You’ve always been intimidated by Steve Rogers’ reputation on campus but he might be one of the sweetest guys you’ve ever met, instantly welcoming and eager to get you involved with the games he’s beginning to set up. Sam Wilson is bold and blunt, but he grins mischievously and gives Bucky a pointed look when he introduces you and snaps a party hat to your head. In various corners of the apartment you see people you vaguely recognise from school, names burning at the edges of your memory but ultimately escaping you.

Steve sets up the table for beer pong and Bucky clutches your wrist, beckoning you over to play (and cutting short your conversation with a very interesting business major called Pepper). Steve and Sam are on one side while you and Bucky are apparently on the other--Steve’s positioned himself so he’s directly in view of a British exchange student with big eyes on the other side of the room.

(Aside from your own, you’re actually pretty observant when it comes to potential romantic encounters.)

“Just so you know,” Sam stares hard at the two of you, pointing with two fingers, “It’s my birthday, so I have to win. It’s the rules.”

“I don’t think you have to worry,” you reply, looking up at Bucky. His expression is warm, his arms desperately close to yours. “I’m probably going to be pretty rubbish at this.”

“Buck’s a good teacher,” Steve says, grabbing a ping-pong ball and handing it over to Sam. He rolls it between his fingers, his face scrunched in mock seriousness. “But we’ve all had plenty of practice.”

“Too much practice, arguably,” Bucky drawls. “And Wilson, don’t you think for one second that (Y/N) and I are going to let you win under any circumstances.”

“I don’t need you to let me win,” Sam says, before perfectly throwing the ball into one of the cups near the front. He stands back smugly, crossing his arms over his chest, as the rest of the room whoops. “I think you’ll find I possess the skills for victory, fair and square.”

You laugh as Bucky rolls his eyes, picking up the plastic cup filled halfway with lukewarm beer. He keeps eye contact as he knocks the whole thing back, wiping his lip emphatically once he’s done. “That’s it. The game is on.”

Admittedly, it get’s to a point where it’s pretty close. You almost visibly bristle as Bucky tries to show you the ropes, positioning your hips with his hands and following your aim as you try (and often fail) to pit the ball in one of the opposite team’s plastic cups. Whenever you score he yelps dramatically, high-fiving you, and his grin is borderline magical.

(Natasha watches bemusedly from the sidelines, making dry comments here and there. It’s like she’s checking you out for herself. Assessing you.)

It get’s to the point where there is only one cup left on either side and the tension is palpable. Limbs are floppier from downing liquor, the aim repeatedly more off--your stomach is warm and your feet feel light--and Bucky’s palms ghost your waist as you concentrate on what could be the winning put. Sam and Steve try and distract you by dancing ridiculously to an ABBA track playing out the speakers, but Bucky’s words of encouragement are what filter through. You take a deep breath and throw, only exhaling when your ball lands with a triumphant plop in the central solo cup.

Bucky throws his fist in the air before grabbing you and spinning you round, his laugh ecstatic in your ear. You cling onto his neck, your fingers barely millimeters from entangling in his hair, before he plants you down on the ground again. Well. You think you’re on the ground. You might as well be in the clouds.

“A round of applause for the winning shot,” Bucky says, holding your hand and lifting your arm so you can take your bow (which you do with pleasure). Steve and Sam pretend to be reluctant, but they clap anyway.

“I’ll allow it, this once, (Y/N),” Sam answers bemusedly, coming round to the other side of the table. “But if you try and upstage me on my birthday again there will be consequences.”

You feel more confident now, more like these people are your friends. So you grin, feeling the magnetic pull of Bucky to his side from next to you. “I’ll try not to. Promise.”

Sam hums, before clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Come on, Barnes. You can go mix me a drink.”

Bucky shrugs, asking if you want anything from the kitchen while he’s on his way there, but you shake your head. You’re happy right now with what you have.

Natasha approaches you while you’re waiting outside the bathroom. Someone--you think he’s called Rhodey--emerges and offers you a salute and you’re about to go in, but Natasha grabs your hand and pulls you in with her and locks the door behind you.

You’re so astonished you’re not sure what to say. She brushes the hair away from her neck, back facing you.

“I need someone to unzip me,” she declares like it’s obvious, indicating towards the zipper halfway down her back. “Do you mind?”

“No,” you blink, hand nimbly reaching forward to drag the zipper down her back. Even her back is flawless, like porcelain, a tattoo of what looks like a spider curling up from her waist. “Of course not, no.”

She sits on the toilet unabashedly and doesn’t ask you to look away but of course, you do, because this whole situation feels very strange indeed. The wall is plain and blue and spotted with mildew, probably damp from the shower. Like all student accommodation. It feels weird looking at damp while Natasha Romanoff, beautiful as she is, literally pees behind you.

“I care about Bucky a lot,” she says suddenly, “I’ve known him a long time. Way before college, way before we--dated. I love him, but not in the way you think. And I know what he’s like, what the signs are.”

You shift your feet uncomfortably. “The signs of what?”

She audibly sighs out of frustration. “Honestly, it sounds like you’re both as bad as each other. I know--I know when he’s falling for somebody. You’d think, I know you think, that somebody like him...he’d have no problem with it. And maybe if he cared a little less and felt less intensely he wouldn’t.”

“I’m not sure...”

The toilet flushes. Natasha rises and turns back to you and you dutifully zip her back up while she washes her hands, looking at your reflection in the mirror. When you’re stood side by side like this it really does emphasise the differences between you, but also the similarities. She’s a girl. So are you. Girls, despite what every atom of her being exudes.

“You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).” She smiles crookedly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just--treasure him, yeah? He deserves it. I get a feeling you both do.”

She doesn’t look back at you as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Bucky gives you one of his old football jerseys to walk home in because it’s past midnight and you didn’t bring your own. He also insists on walking you home. And you feel nervous, not just because you’re alone with him for the first time this evening, but also because Natasha’s words circle the back of your mind like a tape cassette stuck on loop. You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).

“Can I ask you something?” you question, arms crossed as your steps echo on the sidewalk. The street is surprisingly deserted--it’s usually crowded with students, all sorts. Tonight, it is quiet.

Bucky looks over at you quizzically, but intrigued. “Yeah. Shoot.”

“Why me?” When he looks perplexed, you laugh awkwardly and continue on. “Connie Taylor is in our Russian lit class, too, and she’s way prettier than me and like...she’s been trying to get you to notice her all semester and yet.” You scrunch your nose as you look up at him, examining his features. His jawline. The hair that falls into his eyes. His naturally flushed cheeks. The party hat he’s yet to take off. Him. Him him him. “You always come to me.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Connie Taylor seems perfectly nice. But Connie isn’t you. I like you.” You arrive at the door of your block and he pauses, shoes scuffing into the ground. “She’s not prettier than you, or smarter than you, or any of the reasons you’ve inevitably thought in your head as to why you think she’s more deserving of anything than you. And I find it vaguely insulting that because...I don’t know, play football, that I could only be interested in one kind of person.”

You look away. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No, I know.” He steps closer so that the toes of your shoes are almost touching. His hand searches in the darkness for your own. Squeezing your small fingers between his, scarred and scraped from football practice. “(Y/N), I like you because you’re funny and kind and intelligent. I like it when you message me about books, I like it when you save me a seat in lectures, I like it when you explain every single point you make so everyone in the class can understand it. I like so many things about you, and you need to get it out your head that because you’re not Connie Taylor that this can’t be true.”

“No-one ever notices me, Bucky,” you murmur quietly, “And I don’t say that for sympathy, or whatever. I say that because that’s how it’s always been.”

You both stare into each other and for one agonising, aching moment you think he might let go of your hand, snuff every spark out like a candle. But instead--instead he ducks in, covering your lips in a soft post-midnight kiss, his mouth warm and tasting faintly like beer. He snatches the breath from your lungs.

“Do you believe me now?” he whispers, hands curving round your jaw. You want to close your eyes, remember this feeling forever. Trap it all in a polaroid. “You are so fucking special. Everyone but you can see it, and it’s so frustrating.”

You kiss his palm, letting your lips linger on his skin for a moment longer. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I had a really great time.”

His smile is faint but there, nonetheless. “I knew you would. I hope this means you’ll be willing to come out with me again sometime.”

“I think I would like that.”

He unravels from you, not before ducking in for one last sweet, beautiful kiss. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“‘Night, Bucky.”

Your hands remain clasped together until he’s far enough away from you, dropping your hand and grinning as he’s eventually lost in darkness. You have to hover for a second with your keycard in your hand, trying to gather your thoughts, process the events of the evening. Bucky Barnes like you. He likes you, not in spite of you, but because you’re you.

When you collapse on your bed you map the constellations of cracks on your ceiling, your heart thumping and your mind almost one hundred percent him.

“you and i, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to Earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”

y/n. it’s 2am and doctor zhivago is making me cry.

also sam has made me drink sambuca

i wish i was crying over russian books with you

even though ur probably asleep

that’s cool

hope ur having sweet dreams

miss you

my masterlist

send me a request

#oh my god im so sorry for this #it got a bit out of control #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

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