Situations with Bucky Barnes!
[ BUCKYBARNESXFEM!READER SMUT/FLUFF ]
* mild language and explicit depictions of sexuality (other trigger warnings stated at the beginning of the chapter). 18+ or else...
requests are [open but no guarantees]
started De...
A/N: if you guys have any tropes u want to see, lmk :) ALSO I DONT KNOW IF I DID THIS RIGHT AHGAHAGA Summary: You think Bucky is shallow for rejecting a girl. Little do you know. Warnings: fluff, dummies not talking about their feelings, miscommunication (ofc 😩), slight angst but resolved
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"Ooh, she's cute."
You've been doing this for over an hour. He's downed at least four coffees by now. And the worst part is you call it finding a suitable mate. But he's just not interested in the women you're scouting for him at a rest stop a few miles out from Fargo, North Dakota. He would've just left, gone and sat in the truck, but he'd feel bad leaving you rambling to yourself when you're the one paying for this meal.
"Come on, Buck, you're no fun," you huff, dropping your spoon into the thick mug now emptied of hot cocoa.
"You're right. Can we go now?" He starts to slide out of his seat when you scoff. He goes still like a deer in headlights. This should be fun.
"James Buchanan, you're telling me none of the lovely ladies in this diner tickle your fancy? Not even third barstool? She's tall, Buck, like... model tall," you suggest with your brows raised.
"I'm not... we're in North Dakota, you think that's what I'm lookin' for?"
"Just one date! You wouldn't take her on one, single date? The little bar across the street seems sensible, why not?"
"Um—"
"Tell meee..." you whine, leaning over the sticky, vinyl table cloth with a pout.
He shrugs. "Not my type."
"Bullshit. She's everybody's type. She's my type, Bucky. Are you blind or stupid?"
"I'm just not interested."
You pull a face like you're offended on her behalf. Bucky rolls his eyes and wishes you'd drop it.
"Oh, I get it," you say. Leaned back, arms stretched across the length of the seat, you huff and glare at him. "You think you're too good for her, huh? Just 'cause she's a North Dakota ten, and you're a Brooklyn eight, you think that makes you better, don't you?"
"What? An eight?" he mumbles, shaking his head.
"Ugh, you men gross me out sometimes. Massive egos, teensy little brains," you say, slapping a twenty on the table and standing with a vicious squint. "Well, let me learn you something, James"—you loom over him and poke your pointer finger at his chest—"you're shallow, and you're no better than her. You prob'ly couldn't take her out if you wanted to. Goodnight."
You huff and walk away, but he chuckles and calls after you: "It's noon, doll." Flipping him off, you march out into the parking lot. He considers the woman for a moment. You called him a Brooklyn eight. She's pretty, he'll admit, but he wasn't lying when he said he wasn't interested. Bucky's seen the far stretches of the Earth, which means he's seen women of all forms. Accountants and soldiers from all over, all professions, all languages. All beautiful. But nothing intrigues him quite as much as you do.
