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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 5 months

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Anonymous request: You're also an Avenger and you love the Christmas time but everyone else doesn't. So you kinda get sad every year as you're the only one enjoying the time. One day you decide to put on some Christmas tunes and start making cookies when Bucky starts watching you from the other room, smiling to himself as he sees you all being happy and cute. He decides to change his mind and joins you, helping you make cookies, even though he's clumsy but you enjoy his presence (as you both have feelings for each other). In the end you're covered in dough and stuff and he grabs you and kisses you, admitting both your feelings, while the rest of the team watches you both happy from afar.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2,195 words

Warnings: tooth rotting sweetness, beware of diabetes!

A/N: Shoutout to @samodivaa for aiding and abetting this endeavor!

To you, they were family. And Christmas was supposed to be a time for family. At least that is what you'd been raised to believe, even though you weren't a Christian or religious. To you Christmas was a time for togetherness, for helping others, showing kindness and love and having hope. Shortly before joining the team, you had lost your family and the Avengers had become a surrogate family of sorts. You loved them dearly and wanted them to experience the same joy you did at this time of year.

Tony had graciously let you order a magnificent tree, which you'd basically decorated on your own, with the assistance of your inhuman powers. The others had watched you or walked by showing various degrees of enthusiasm for your activities, ranging from praise to outright disregard for your endeavors. Despite your gratitude, your friends’ lack of interest did dampen your spirit a little.

The closer it got to Christmas Day, your resolve to spread some Christmas cheer grew stronger. It helped that you’d hung a blown up photograph of your own family’s last Christmas picture opposite your bed.

“Don’t worry guys, I’ll get them to come around. I won’t let the love die. I promise,” you whispered in front of the image before starting your day.

You had come up with a plan to try and win your friends over to the festivities. No one could ever say no to your sister’s secret cookie recipe. She had had people practically drooling in anticipation of stuffing their faces with her Christmas concoctions. So after a morning of grueling training with Steve, you took a shower and headed to the store to purchase the correct ingredients. Upon your return, you found Sam, Steve, Bucky and Nat congregated in the living room adjoining the kitchen. They were pouring over some plans over their next mission.

“Hey Nexus! What you got there?” Sam called as you entered the room.

You rolled your eyes at his use of your superhero name. You hated it, but the media had used it far too often and you were stuck with it.

“None of your business, Falcon!” you snarked back at him.

You made a pit stop at the table they were sitting at, Nat and Bucky trying to hide their sniggering faces behind their hands. Steve’s face remained relatively passive, giving you a kind smile for which you were grateful.

“Come on, Sugar. You bring me something sweet?” Sam certainly knew how to turn on the charm, especially in front of Bucky. He knew that the Winter Soldier was harboring a little crush on you and he played up in front of him to see if he could provoke Bucky into acting on his feelings. So far he hadn’t succeeded, but he could definitely hope for a Christmas miracle.

“Here.” You pulled out a bag of his favorite treats which you’d bought back for him from the store.

“So anyone interested in helping me bake some festive cookies?” you asked, shaking a bag of chocolate chips in front of their faces.

“Sorry, Sugar. I have to go talk to my sister. She wants me to buy some new fangled toys for the boys.” He pressed a chaste kiss against your cheek and took his leave.

Nat stood up with Steve. “We can’t stay. We have to show our faces in front of some high powered windbags,” she wrinkled her nose before giving you a hug. “Save some for me though!”

“Me too,” Steve dropped a quick kiss on your forehead before following Nat out of the door. He was in on Sam’s plan to light a fire under Bucky’s ass.

“Buck?” you asked dubiously.

“Not sure that’s my thing, Doll.”

“Your loss,” you replied in a slightly sing-song tone of voice and shuffled over to the kitchen with your bag of goodies, letting Bucky go back to brooding over the book he had pulled out of his jacket pocket.

Sauntering around the kitchen, you laid out the ingredients. You grinned as a happy thought entered your brain and you pulled out your phone letting FRIDAY connect to your bluetooth. Bucky looked up as a tune started to play, it didn’t surprise him in the least that you had your very own Christmas playlist. He couldn’t help but be distracted from his novel as you swayed around the kitchen measuring out flour and butter. But it wasn’t your dance moves that eventually got Bucky’s attention, it was the sound of your voice.

The singing voice you’d been born with was silky smooth, no one would have guessed that you were in possession of such a sweet instrument. Ever since you’d come into your powers, you had the ability to project your voice much further, sing louder with a lot more ease. But you never quite got the confidence to use it publicly. Bucky, however, knew better. He followed your schedule closely enough to know when you’d be in the shower, and he would excuse himself to put his ear to the vent to listen to you belt out your favorite tunes. And it was pure luck that today he would be getting a private concert. He sat, chin resting on his vibranium palm, lost in a fantasy of dancing with you.

This reverie was broken by your sudden gasp and a clatter of a bowl falling to the floor. Bucky was out of his seat in a flash, by your side, helping you clear up your mess.

“Thanks, Bucky!”

“No problem,” he grinned shyly. He always felt a little nervous when he was in such close proximity to you. He wondered if you could hear his heart pounding. “Looks like you need a little help.”

Had you just heard correctly? Was Sergeant Bucky Barnes offering to help you bake Christmas goodies?

“Really?” you asked, hopefully.

There was no way Bucky could say no to those shining eyes, the sincerity behind them when you looked at him. He wanted to be close to you, but at the same time he wanted to run away in shame. Why would someone as pure as you be interested in someone like him? At least, that’s what he always told himself when you smiled in his direction. The two of you were friends, there was no doubt about that, but you were friends with everyone. Bucky wanted more. He wanted all of you.

“Well, I can’t have you accidentally hurting yourself making baked goods.” A faint blush stained his cheeks as he spoke.

Not that you noticed, attributing his color to the rising temperature from the oven.

“Can’t have that at all!” you giggled. “Here, want to measure out the flour?”

You move over, giving him space to do his own thing and pick up the eggs for your next recipe. Your concentration in avoiding dropping shell pieces into the mix was broken by the sound of Bucky’s voice singing quietly to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. It took a lot of effort to bite back the smile the vision brought to your face. No one would believe the sight; the big bad Winter Soldier singing Holiday singles while baking festive treats. You never understood why people were frightened of him, why people would cross the street to avoid him. It made you angry when people shot fearful looks at him, you gritted your teeth when his reputation was slated in the media. Why couldn’t they see the soft hearted man you had come to love? You had given up trying to hide your grin as you imagined him in an apron with the words “kiss the chef” printed in bold red letters across it.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice interrupted your fantasy, he was sporting a slightly concerned look. “You okay? You’ve gone really red.”

“Yeah, fine,” you squeaked. “I should probably stop drinking the wine.”

“Doll, you haven’t even opened the wine.” Bucky frowned at the empty glasses and corked bottle on the counter.

You tittered nervously, “yeah, right, umm, it’s just a bit hot.” You fanned your face, trying to disperse the deepening crimson color that was starting to look the same as the wine bottle before you.

Bucky shuffled closer to you. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine, really, Bucky. Why don’t we start mixing this together?”

You handed Bucky the softened butter and were about to instruct him to beat it together with the sugar, but before you had the chance, Bucky had dropped the entire block into the bowl of flour he had just finished measuring out. A tiny yelp left your lips, which turned into a smothered giggle as Bucky’s flour coated face emerged through the mist created by the crater in the bowl. Without hesitation, you grabbed a clean towel and started dusting his maroon Henley.

Bucky was laughing along with you as you dusted away the flour. Eventually you'd cleared up most of the flour, but he had missed a spot. You mustered up your courage to reach up and brush your fingers over his nose.

“Did you get it all?” he asked.

He was standing impossibly close to you. And you wondered if you had imagined the way his eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second.

“I think so,” you smiled bashfully. “But maybe you should let me finish up on this.”

“Do you want me to do anything else?” Bucky felt a sudden pang of discomfort. What if you didn't want him around at all.

“Yes! I suck at opening those bottles.” You pointed at the wine. “Do you mind pouring a couple of glasses for us?”

“No problem!” Bucky completed his task efficiently and with enthusiasm.

He waited patiently for you, watching you mix the batter with expertise. You rolled out the dough and held out a couple of cookie cutting molds.

“Which one? Snowflake or Christmas tree?”

Bucky grabbed the snowflake from your open hand and went to work on the dough. You couldn't help but notice how cute he looked as he tried to fit as many cookies on one roll without having to re-roll. It was adorable how his tongue stuck out a little as he concentrated on the task before him. You let him arrange his concoctions on the baking tray.

“What now?”

As if on cue, the oven binged, indicating that the cupcakes you'd put in earlier were done.

“Now, we swap this tray for that one!” you pointed at the oven.

“No problem!” Bucky opened the oven and shoved his left hand inside to grab the baking tray.

“Bucky!” you shrieked. “You don't have any oven gloves!”

Bucky chuckled.

“Doesn't it burn?” you demanded, a little distressed by his nonchalance.

“Doll, calm down.” He put the tray of cupcakes on the counter and showed you his metal palm. “It's fine, metal, remember?”

When your heart finally stopped pounding from panic, you covered your face in embarrassment. Bucky took your fingers and gently pried them off your face, smiling down at you, his eyes filled with more mirth than you were used to.

“So want to frost the cakes?” You grabbed the closest cone of frosting, trying to hide behind it.

“Sure.”

Bucky leaned into your side, making you squeeze the frosting filled cone with unease and painting your face with a green glaze. Bucky was having the time of his life, the thought that he was making you uncomfortable was giving him a much needed confidence boost to do what he wanted to.

“Errr, Doll, you have a little.” He motioned at his mouth.

“Oh,” you wiped a small spot off your cheek, not quite getting all of it. “Did I get it?”

Bucky sucked his lips in for a moment, contemplating his next move. “May I?”

You nodded. He placed his hand on your jaw, his thumb next to the edge of your mouth. “There's just a little…”

Bucky leaned in slowly, his eyes focused on yours for a moment looking for signs of discomfort from your part.

To you, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. Gently, Bucky covered your sugar coated lips with his and licked it off. His tenderness took your breath away.

As he finally drew back, he stopped, his nose brushing yours. His eyes searched yours for a reaction.

“Is it gone?”

“Want me to do it again, to make sure?”

“I'd like that.”

This time you kissed him back, letting his tongue tango with yours. Bucky's warm hands brushed your arms, coming to rest on your waist while yours found purchase on his sturdy chest. When the kiss ended, you felt flustered but the corners of your mouth wouldn't stop turning up.

Bucky picked up another colored cone. “So this can't be too hard, right?”

You laughed, showing him how you liked to decorate your cakes. Even though you'd not spoken the words out loud, you and Bucky had a mutual understanding about how you felt for each other.

And unbeknownst to you and Bucky, your friends watched the blossoming romance unfold with knowing smiles and a mild frown from Steve who forked up $50 to Sam for his accurate predictions.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes fan fiction #finding the christmas spirit

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honey-on-your-tongue · 9 days

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Too Sweet

Javier Peña x fem!reader

Part one

Series masterlist

Blog masterlist

You’d come down to Colombia with one thing in mind: prove you’re more.

You’d studied journalism, been the top of your class. You were made for this, born for it. Everything you did came naturally. College had seemed almost too easy to be true. And to top it all off, you loved it. You loved the investigation, the adrenaline, the fact that you could show people the truth…

You were headed down the road of your dreams.

Joining the DEA hadn’t really been your idea. Your grandpa, the DEA agent back in his time, had insisted. He’d promised he could get you good connections, told you that you’d love it.

You knew you would. The idea of working in a big, complicated, dangerous case like that…How could you let the opportunity slip? So you agreed.

With your grandfather’s help, you were officially part of an investigative team for the DEA. Nothing big at first, just small busts on local operations in Texas.

And then, word reached your grandfather that more hands were needed in Colombia. He recommended you. You were called down a few weeks later.

You had big hopes for yourself, knew that you could do this. You were determined to take down the cartels, to uncover anything and everything necessary to win the drug war. You were hungry for information and hungry for the chase.

But then, a week before leaving for Colombia, your superior had called you into his office.

You sat at his desk, wondering what this was about.

Carl was somewhere in his late fifties, a man hardened by his time in the DEA. He’d worked under your grandfather for years. You'd always thought he was a good man.

Until that day.

“Listen,” he told you, sighing softly. “The higher-ups are sending you to Colombia mostly because your grandpa requested it. But you’re a kid. You’re too young to go down there and keep up with the kind of work that’s going on with the Medellín cartel.”

You’d frowned, taken aback, but quickly recovered. “I’m not a kid, Carl. I can handle myself. I know what I’m getting into.”

He pursed his lips, pausing a moment before saying, “I’m gonna be honest with you, kid, because your grandfather and I go back. How can someone like you expect to go down there and make a change?”

“Someone like me?” you echoed.

“Graduated little over a year ago, been in the DEA less than twelve months…” He paused, as if debating it. And then he added, “And you’re a woman.”

You froze then. That was supposed to be a problem?

“So?” you’d demanded, crossing your arms.

“So a woman—a pretty girl like you should be settling down, finding a man to love her, taking care of a family. What are you doing, going to the middle of a battlefield?”

You wanted to throw up. Wanted to punch him, scream, throw things. How dare he?

But you simply took a deep breath. “I can handle myself,” you repeated and stood up to leave.

“They’ll chew you up and spit you back out, kid,” Carl warned. You knew he was saying that because of what had happened to him in Mexico with your grandfather. A raid gone wrong, three DEA agents dead, Carl was hospitalized for months. He never returned to the field and instead retreated to managing operations from behind the desk.

You gave him a long, cold glare. “And I’ll go back. Not all of us run away with our tails tucked between our legs at the slightest sign of danger, Carl.” You turned and headed for the door. “I’ll tell my grandpa you said hi.”

You think about the conversation the entire flight to Colombia.

What are you doing, going to the middle of a battlefield?

He's a fucking idiot, you think to yourself. Why else would anyone go to the battlefield? To fight, to defend…How could you just not do anything about it? If you stood by and watched everything go down, knowing that you have the ability to help even in the smallest things, you’d be just as bad as the narcos. Standing by and doing nothing is aiding and abetting the cartels.

You can do this. You know you can do this. And yet, Carl’s words cut deep. You know he’s not the only one who thinks that. Working in the middle of a field mostly ruled by men means having to deal with the fact that they all look at you like some toy thing, like just another housewife in the making.

You won’t—won’t, won’t, won’t—let that get to you. You know your potential. Even if no one else can see it, you know it’s there, you know how far you can go. And you’re going to make all of them see it too.

The first day in Colombia is a blur. You go through the airport, find a taxi to take you to the apartment the embassy has assigned for you. You settle in. It’s a simple place, simple furniture, not decorated. Just a twin-size bed, a few rickety chairs and a table for a dining room, thin curtains.

You sigh. It’s the first time you’ve lived alone. Sure, you had a dorm in college. But this is…different. It’s your apartment. All of this is your responsibility. It’s a feeling of freedom and fear all in one. Just the kind of adrenaline you need to get your mind off that horrid conversation with Carl.

You settle in. Meaning that you take your suitcases into your room and sit on the bed, the springs squeaking beneath your weight.

You start work tomorrow and you have nothing to eat, nothing to clean the house with, nothing to cook with—just nothing.

Since you’re not sure how long you’re gonna be in Colombia, you might as well make this place a home.

You find a decent furniture store not far from the apartment complex that can deliver your things in a couple of days. You buy simple things—a dresser, sofas, a real dining table with chairs, and a bed where you can sleep more comfortably. It’s a big bill, but some of your expenses are refunded by the DEA, so you allow yourself a certain amount of luxury.

And what kind of home doesn’t have decorations?

You pick out plant pots, nicer curtains, a few lamps to lighten up the place. And dishware. Simple plates, silverware, glasses, mugs. A set of four since you don’t expect to have much company. The cookware goes at the end. A single set of pots of three different sizes, a kettle, and a medium frying pan. Add some spatulas and you’re done.

You’d left your new apartment around midday. You return at dusk, just as the sun has dipped over the horizon, leaving the sky a soft purple.

You were told you’d get a car. Apparently, not until next week, according to the woman who you’d called to ask about it.

You took a cab, brought the boxes out of the trunk and left them all in the entrance hall. Now, you find yourself hauling boxes of decorations up the stairs. Up and down, up and down. Your legs grow tired, your back aches from carrying all the heavy stuff up two floors.

You’re heading back down to retrieve a box of plates when one of the doors on the first floor opens.

A man in his mid-thirties steps out, wearing a mustard-yellow button-up tucked into his jeans. His brown hair is a little tousled, his dark eyes find yours before moving to the boxes at the bottom of the stairs. A small smile quirks his lips up under his mustache.

“¿Necesitas ayuda?” he asks.

You blink. You know a little bit of Spanish. More understand it than speak it, really. You immediately become flustered, a little afraid you won’t be able to communicate with this man when he’s so kindly asked if you need help.

“Oh, uh…Yo estoy—” you cut yourself off. Can he even understand you with your accent? “The boxes, um—está pesados y—”

“You’re American,” the man says, relieving you when you realize he speaks English too. He eyes you up and down. “I’m Javi,” he introduces, holding a hand out to you.

You shake his hand. His palm is warm, fingers calloused. You’re distracted by that as you give him your name almost mechanically, your mind on the feel of his hand against yours.

His eyes flash with recognition. “You’re the new girl.”

You blink. “I—What?”

He chuckles softly. “I’m a DEA agent,” he explains. “They told me you were coming down to help with the cartels.”

“Oh.” You nod softly. “Yeah, that’s…me I guess.”

He eyes you again. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or not. “I-I’m twenty-three,” you blurt, as if that were an acceptable answer.

Which is the acceptable answer? you wonder. If there even is one…

He chuckles softly, an easy smile on his lips. “That’s still pretty young,” he points out, tucking his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “So. I’m guessing you just moved here?”

“Yeah. Just…settling in, actually,” you reply, nodding at the boxes on the floor.

“You moving all that on your own?” he asks, frowning slightly. “Here, let me help.” He reaches for a box before you can respond.

“That’s—You really don’t have to, I can do it myself,” you stutter, glad for the help but still trying to be polite.

“Come on, it’s no problem. I’m glad to help,” he insists, already starting to walk up the stairs with a box in his arms.

You follow after him, quick little steps trailing after his long strides. You lead him to your apartment, the door already open, and you gesture at the messy threshold, loaded with boxes. “You can just put it down anywhere,” you tell him, a little embarrassed about the mess.

He nods and sets the box down on the floor. He gives a quick, curious look around your apartment and whistles lowly. “Nice place. Your apartment’s got a better view,” he says, peeking into the living room.

“Not much of a view when that lamppost is out. It’s just…dark.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be able to see the sunrise,” he replies.

You turn to him, smiling softly with a little hmph. “I don’t stay up until the sunrise,” you tell him. “I can’t function properly if I don’t get enough sleep.” His eyes meet yours, dark, his gaze thick, and you feel nervous. Did you come off as weird? Are you making an absolute fool of yourself right now? Your nerves make your rambling worse. “I just—I just need at least eight hours, y’know? Otherwise I’m just stumbling through the day in a bad mood and that’s never good for anyone, especially if I don’t get my morning coffee. I’ll just be upset and bitchy all day and people get upset about it and then I get upset about that so it’s like a chain reaction and…” You trail off at the look in his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

I sound like an idiot. He's gonna think I'm a fucking moron.

***

Fucked.

That’s all that Javier’s mind can come up with.

Fucked. I’m fucked.

He’s fucked. You adorable little thing, rambling on nonsensically, cheeks turning pink, eyes wide and nervous. His interest is piqued. You’re pretty, clearly smart, and you’ve gotta have guts to come down here at the ripe old age of twenty-three. You intrigue him, something about you has him thinking about blurring the boundary between co-workers and something more.

When he heard there was going to be a journalist headed down here to aid with the investigations, he’d expected some grumpy old man. Or a plain asshole who’d sit on his ass all day and do nothing. He had even thought that maybe they’d send down one of those pretty TV reporters just to get more people to watch their news.

Then he found out your name. He recognized your last name, he knows who your grandfather is. The Federico García, a good man and an even better DEA agent that controlled the Mexico cartels at the Texas border. But he never thought agent García would have a gorgeous, intelligent, gutsy granddaughter who’d end up working in Colombia.

And now that he’s seen you…

No, he thinks to himself. Come on, man. Look at her. She’s almost fifteen years younger. You can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

He shakes his head slightly to get rid of the thoughts.

He glances around again. Your apartment is bare with the evident lack of use. Javi wonders how many hours it’s been since you got off the plane.

You smile a little sheepishly. “I, uh, still got a few more boxes to get to if you, um, wanna help?”

He gives you his trademark sideways grin. “I’d be happy to,” he replies. As you two leave your apartment and start walking back down the stairs, he asks, “You nervous?”

You open your mouth to reply and pause. He glances at you, raising a curious eyebrow, and chuckles when you nod softly. “A little,” you admit. “Not so much about, like, the cartels and the narcos. Just…nervous about being in a new place where I don’t know anyone.”

“Ah.” He nods. “I get the feeling. But you’ll be fine.” He nudges your shoulder with his gently. “You got me now.”

Stop, stop, stop, his mind screams. Are you flirting with her? Why are you flirting with her?!

You give him a shy grin. “Yeah, I guess. So you’re, uh, a field agent?”

He nods proudly. “Yeah. Only way to catch these motherfuckers is to go after them ourselves.”

“Do you ever get afraid?” you ask. “When you’re walking in there with guns and bulletproof vests…Do you ever lose your nerve?”

He sighs softly. “I’m scared, sure. There’s always the risk of getting shot, killed…But if we don’t do this, who will? Someone has to stop these assholes.”

You nod. “Fair point,” you allow.

Thing is, Javier didn’t tell you the whole truth. Is he afraid? Fuck, yes, he’s afraid. He lives with the constant fear of getting caught in the crossfire. The narcos would never purposely kill a DEA thanks to Kiki, but a stray bullet…

He also doesn’t tell you about the interrogations, the tortures, the illegal shit he does with Carrillo and the Colombian army. The nightmares he has sometimes. The look of terror on these people's faces when they know they’re caught.

He helps you with all of the boxes, purposely taking a little longer just so he can talk to you. The way you speak, the way you look at him with eyes full of innocence, the way he knows what his intentions are and still can’t seem to stop himself…

Fuck, he’s doing the wrong thing. He knows he is. And yet, he’s not holding back.

Once all of the boxes of decorations and basic home necessities are placed in your threshold, Javi smiles softly. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

You nod. “Thanks again for your help,” you tell him for the millionth time. “I’ll be in by eight…ish. If I can find a cab. Do cabs drive by here?”

Javi blinks at you. It takes him a moment to put the pieces together. “You don’t have a car yet. You won’t get it until roughly next week.” He sighs. He remembers that, waiting for the embassy to make true on their promise to give him a car. It took days longer than it should’ve. “I can drive you.”

Your big, soft eyes widen a little. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience—”

He waves dismissively and cuts you off. “No, really. I mean, I have to go to the embassy anyway, might as well give you a lift.”

You hesitate, biting into that plump bottom lip of yours. He can already imagine himself tugging it out from between your teeth, running his thumb over it…

“Really,” he insists. “It’s no problem. I’ll even let you pick the music,” he teases.

That gets a little giggle out of you. “Alright,” you give in after a moment. “Okay. Thank you. So, uh, I’ll be ready at eight.”

Javi smiles softly, his most dashing, charming smile. “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Good night.”

“‘Night,” you reply, a soft pink filling your cheeks when he playfully winks at you before walking away.

This is a mistake, he thinks to himself as he walks down to his apartment. I should stay away from her.

But deep down, Javier knows he won’t. He can’t. He wants a lot of things from you, but keeping his distance? It's just not one of them.

Dividers from @cafekitsune they're all amazing!!! Thank you for creating these gorgeous works!

If you guys want me to start a taglist for this fic, lmk! Ily!!! Please don't forget to comment, reblog and like <3

#javier pena angst #javier pena fluff #javier pena fic #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #javier pena smut #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena narcos #javier peña #javier peña smut

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