I Hate When You Like A Show That Isnt Popular So No One Writes For It

I hate when you like a show that isn’t popular so no one writes for it 😭

cat girl but in a garfield way

I’m certain this has been said before but I would die for George Crabtree.

AHHHH THIS IS SO CUTE WTF

🍋 pucker up, buttercup 🍋

pairing: sunshine!bucky barnes x grumpy!fem!reader

summary: it's been a long day of working at your lemonade stall during the town's busy summer festival and making the day worse is all the unwanted attention and come-ons you've gotten from customers. by the time bucky barnes tries his own tired pickup line, you've had enough—but then he goes and spills a fresh pitcher of lemonade and offers to make a new one. you're reluctant to admit bucky might not be like all those other guys. in fact, he might be someone you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with.

warnings: fluff with a bit of angst, some references to sex (not really 18+ content but as always i'd prefer if minors didn't interact with my blog!), kissing, nicknames, some gross pickup lines (not from bucky), possessive/protective bucky, i think that's it!

word count: 6.9k

a/n: i wanted to write a short bucky fic but it quickly spiraled out of control and became this 😅 but i loved writing this one so i have no regrets!! i didn’t originally intend for it to be for @the-slumberparty’s june challenge but it fits—i used the “fresh pitcher of lemonade” and “festival” prompts (though i may have interpreted “festival” different than others). anyway please enjoy some fluffy romcom-y goodness with a grumpy reader and sunshiney bucky!!!

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“Pucker up, buttercup.”

That was it—you’d hit your breaking point. You’d been working in the lemonade stall since that morning, setting up alongside the other vendors in the farmer’s market section of your small town’s summer festival, cutting up and squeezing lemons, mixing them with sugar and water and serving the ice-cold drink to countless locals and tourists. The sun beat down on your modest little wooden stall, the roof of which thankfully offered some shade, but it was a swelteringly hot summer day and you’d had so much of your own lemonade, you’d already had multiple sugar crashes. 

So when that deep, overly charming voice slid through the hazy heat of the afternoon, hitting the back of your neck as you rushed to make another fresh pitcher of lemonade, it made your hackles rise right along with your blood pressure. Anger pulsed through every nerve of your body, making your fingers grip your knife a little too tight, your hands pausing in the middle of chopping up a lemon. Violent thoughts were a riot in your mind for a moment as you struggled to keep yourself under control.

You’d never hurt anyone of course, but you had half a mind to stab your knife through the sign your friend had convinced you to put up. It was a kitschy little thing featuring a cartoon lemon with big eyes, bigger eyelashes and cherry-red lips pursed for a kiss under the words, “Pucker up!” It had seemed like a cute, but ultimately harmless addition to your lemonade stall. You had no idea at the time how wrong you’d be. 

All throughout the day, every cocksure single guy—and far too many not-so-single guys—had taken the sign as an invitation to flirt with you and your friend. That had been fine because your friend had soaked up the attention, but then she’d had to leave, abandoning you to the sea of smarmy guys hell-bent on getting the lemonade stand girl’s number. Every single one of them thought they were so clever with their lemon puns or their various uses of “Pucker up!” in a sentence, and you’d had to force yourself not to make a sour face as you shot them all down. If that stupid sign wasn’t nailed to the wooden structure of your stall, you would’ve taken it down hours ago.

Instead, you’d had to put up with the steady stream of guys—from teenagers far too young for you to men who looked like they could be your grandfather—shooting their shot with the lemonade stand girl, ignoring the fact that you didn’t seem the least bit interested in any of them. It was enough to give you a blistering headache and so when the latest guy stepped up to your stall, trying his hand with his tired pickup line, your anger bubbled over. Throwing down your knife, you whirled around, turning to the front counter and preparing to give him a piece of your mind. 

But then your gaze caught on brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the summer sun, looking like the calm surface of the most refreshing lake. The sounds of the summer festival—screaming children, haggling parents and, more distantly, the bells and whistles of carnival games and rides—quieted around you, turning into a dull roar as you took in the man standing at your stall. 

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair swept back from an excruciatingly handsome face. Stubble dusted along the sharp edge of his jaw, framing his perfectly soft mouth. You couldn’t help but let your eyes trace the exact curve of his lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow and the tilt at the corners, showing off a hint of a smirk. 

While you stood staring at the man, you noticed his expression shifting. The arrogant smirk smoothed into something softer and his eyes focused on you in a way that felt attentive, like he was really taking you in, not just seeing you as the lemonade stand girl. He scrutinized you, and you despaired at the realization he was seeing you after so many hours of working the stall. 

At the very least, your hair was a mess, pulled back from your face haphazardly, and you had no doubt you were shiny with a sheen of sweat. Not to mention, the brown burlap apron you wore wasn’t exactly cute, especially since it hid the majority of your outfit—a pair of shorts and a tank top you’d normally be confident in. Altogether, you didn’t feel like you were looking your best. Meanwhile, the man looked like he’d just stepped out of a professional photoshoot, which only gave you more reason to resent him. 

Wiping your face self-consciously, the grating feeling of your fingers against your skin let you know you only managed to smudge sugar across your cheeks. Then, you stepped up to the counter. “Can I help you?” you muttered, the words coming out harsher than you’d intended.

“Oh, h-hey, I’m Bucky,” the man said, ducking a little to avoid the glare of the sun. His brows pulled together in a cute, flustered expression, chipping away at your defensive anger. He leaned in so he could see you better and you got a whiff of his cologne, something earthy and spicy. It annoyed you how much you liked it. 

Bucky looked at you expectantly and although he seemed to have shed the insincere pretense he’d used to greet you, you wondered if he was just switching tactics. Instead of giving your name, you blinked at him warily, waiting for the cheesy pickup lines or the cajoling come-ons.

A nervous, lopsided smile spread across Bucky’s face that was more charming than it had any right to be. “If you won’t give me your name, I’ll have to keep calling you buttercup,” he said, his words a friendly threat.

It really showed how broken down you’d been by the obnoxious flirting all day because, even as tiny little butterflies took flight in your stomach at the thought of this handsome man calling you buttercup, your first reaction was to scowl. “Do you want lemonade or not?” you demanded, crossing your arms over your apron. You didn’t know what this guy’s game was, but you weren’t going to trust it. Even if you kind of wanted to.

“Yeah, I’ll have some—and some for my friends,” Bucky said, turning to gesture into the crowd.

You saw what was about to happen, but you were too tired from the day to react quick enough to stop it. Because Bucky had been leaned into your stall, when he turned to point out his friends, his arm knocked over your only remaining pitcher of lemonade. It tipped over the front of the counter, falling to the ground at Bucky’s feet with a clatter on the concrete.

“Oh shit!” Bucky yelped, jumping out of the splash zone before looking up at you with a chagrined expression. “I’m so sorry, buttercup.”

Your headache pounded in your temples, and you shook your head, brushing away his apology. With a resigned sigh, you walked around the counter, stooping down and starting to clean up the slices of lemon that had been in the pitcher with the lemonade. Thankfully, the pitcher was safe, since you’d learned a long time ago not to use actual glass. It made sense to only use plastic pitchers when you knew the festival would be full of boisterous kids—and apparently clumsy, attractive men. 

“Let me help,” Bucky muttered. He crouched down beside you, gathering up the pitcher and picking up lemon slices. 

Looking up in surprise that he was actually sticking around to clean up his mess, you caught his eye. He was so much closer than you expected, close enough you could smell his cologne again and it warmed something inside you. You wanted to lean into him, but held yourself back. “Thanks,” you said grudgingly. 

“You smell like sugar…and lemons,” Bucky said dreamily, his eyes a little unfocused before his gaze sharpened back in on you. A light pink tinted his cheeks and you wondered if he’d gotten too much sun or if, for some reason, he was blushing. 

“Well, I’ve spent the whole day making lemonade,” you pointed out awkwardly, trying for a friendlier tone. You figured if he was going to abandon the pickup lines and be a decent human being, you could try to be nice. Thankfully, he wasn’t making you regret that decision. Yet.

A wry grin curved Bucky’s mouth and he ducked his head. “Right, of course.” He stood, one hand holding your pitcher and the other cupping a bunch of lemon slices. You straightened up and directed him to the garbage in your stall, where you both dumped the wreckage of Bucky’s clumsiness. 

It felt a little too intimate to have Bucky behind the counter, so you grabbed the pitcher from his hand and swept past him. You didn’t want to ask him to leave—especially since you didn’t know how to without being rude—so you hoped he’d take the hint of you not striking up conversation as an indication to leave. You put the pitcher in your portable sink and briskly washed your hands. He’d knocked over the last of the lemonade you’d had, so you went back to work on a new batch before the next round of customers arrived.

“Is it just you here?” Bucky asked, leaning against your work station, watching your hands as you picked up your knife and set about chopping lemons. He seemed genuinely interested and since he didn’t seem to mind talking to you while you worked, you supposed you could indulge him.  

“Yeah,” you said. After a pause, you realized a conversation would mean you’d have to say more, so you went on. “My friend was helping earlier through the noon rush, but she had to go.”

“Do you want a hand now?” Bucky asked. 

You were surprised enough by his question that you paused what you were doing, looking at the man to see if he was being serious. His expression was open and you realized he was actually offering to help. It surprised you how much you wanted to accept Bucky’s help, but you weren’t sure it was a good idea.

“Do you really think I should trust you after you spilled a whole pitcher of lemonade?” you asked, quirking your eyebrow as you turned to him, a hand on your hip. The corner of your mouth flickered with a barely restrained smile, waiting to see what he had to say for himself. You didn’t know where the urge to smile came from, but you tamped it down.

“Hey now,” Bucky started, looking affronted. “I make a mean lemonade.” It startled you when a laugh bubbled up your throat and burst from your mouth. Bucky looked triumphant for a moment, before his face turned serious again. “Just give me a chance,” he said, his expression was pleading. He pressed his hands together in front of his chest.

You could feel yourself wavering and when he ducked his head and looked up at you, giving you the full effect of his puppy dog eyes, you broke. “Fine,” you muttered, going back to chopping your lemons. “There’s an apron under the counter.”

“OK,” Bucky said, clapping his hands and looking around at the ingredients you had laid out. There was, of course, lemons in a basket, a gigantic mason jar of sugar, jugs of water and coolers full of ice. “Let me grab something and I’ll be right back.” 

He seemed to be waiting for your permission, so you waved him off, telling yourself you didn’t really care if he came back. But the clumsy man was true to his word, and he returned with a small bundle of something. You tried not to look interested, but you watched out of the corner of your eye as he tied on his apron and washed his hands, then set to work on his own lemonade. 

As Bucky chopped lemons and muddled some of them with the herb he’d gotten, you realized from the smell that wafted from his work it was mint. He was making mint lemonade and you couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. You’d always wanted to experiment with other flavors of lemonade, but since it was often just you working the lemonade stall, you figured it was more manageable to stick to the basics. Your curiosity built as you worked side by side in silence, more than half of your attention on what Bucky was doing. It was a good thing the process of making lemonade was drilled into your bones through muscle memory, or you would’ve been in trouble.

You finished your batch of lemonade first and set it back on the front counter, replacing the one Bucky had knocked over, then leaned against the work station to watch him. The clumsiness you’d seen in him during your earlier interaction was gone, as was the smarminess. All that was left was a quiet confidence you realized you found attractive. For the first time all day, you found yourself wanting to make conversation with a customer. 

Before you could think of something to say, though, Bucky was grabbing one of the plastic cups you served your lemonade in and he poured you some of his batch, handing it to you with a flourish and setting the pitcher on the counter with a loud thunk. “A fresh pitcher of lemonade—mint lemonade,” he said, genuine pride in his tone. 

Hiding a smile behind your cup, you took a sip. The flavor of the lemon and mint burst on your tongue, the sugar of the drink cutting through the tartness of the fruit and the mint leaving you feeling refreshed. Your smile bloomed into a full-blown grin as you looked up at Bucky, ready to tell him he’d done a good job, but he already looked stunned. 

Bucky’s face was slack as he stared at your smile for a long enough beat that you grew a little self-conscious, squirming under his intense gaze. He seemed to snap out of it, his expression shifting back into one of attentive interest. “What do you think?” he asked eagerly. 

“It’s really good,” you said, still smiling a little, though you felt a little shy all of a sudden. 

“Do I make the cut, buttercup?” Bucky murmured and you realized he’d stepped closer. Lemon and mint mixed with his spicy cologne and you wanted to bury your face in his neck and breathe him in. You didn’t know where the urge came from, but you didn’t give in to it. Instead you looked up, catching his eye and finding him looking at you with heat in his gaze. 

“S-sure,” you said, stumbling over the word. Your lips tingled with the desire to kiss Bucky and they felt clumsy doing anything else, but you forced the words past your tongue. “You’re better than I expected.” You winced a little when you heard what you’d said, realizing it sounded like you were complimenting more than his lemonade-making skills 

Before you could correct yourself, Bucky asked, “So I can stay and help out then?” A happy grin spread across his face as he waited for your answer, hope in his eyes.

His question knocked some sense loose and you stepped back, shaking your head. “You don’t have to,” you started to say, but he cut you off.

“I want to.” He looked so earnest, it shattered your defenses. You didn’t have any good reason for him not to help you, especially since he was already so good at making lemonade. Still, you weren’t getting your hopes up that he’d stay for very long.

“I’ll have to pay you,” you said grudgingly, but it didn’t have the discouraging effect you were hoping for. You’d hoped he might interpret the statement as him inconveniencing you, but instead, Bucky looked more hopeful.

“I’ll take whatever you give me, buttercup,” he said, reaching for your hands and squeezing them gently. “Just say I can stay and help.”

“OK,” you said, shrugging like you didn’t care one way or the other. But, in reality, it was a relief to have some help. The festival had been busier than expected, and ever since your friend had left, you’d barely been able to keep up with making the pitchers of lemonade you needed to serve all your customers—not to mention dodging the attention-seeking flirting of every jerk that walked past your stall and saw the “Pucker up!” sign.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw three men approaching and you stepped back, ready to let Bucky handle them. You figured there was no time like the present for him to get a crash course in serving lemonade. But, to your surprise, they seemed to already know your newest helper.

“Barnes, we sent you over here to get drinks from the pretty lemonade stand girl, not get conscripted to work for her,” said the Black man in the group, his face screwed up in an angry, annoyed look. It was similar to how you must’ve first looked at Bucky, and that realization almost made you laugh, but you bit it back. 

“Ignore him,” Bucky said to you, rolling his eyes at his friend. He introduced you to his friends—the man who had spoken was Sam Wilson, the tall blonde was Steve Rogers and the third was Joaquín Torres. When Bucky was done, he looked at you expectantly and you finally gave him your name, letting him introduce you to his friends. Bucky turned your name over on his tongue, seeming to like the way it sounded. If you were honest with yourself, you liked the way it sounded in his voice, too.

“So what can I get for you guys?” Bucky asked once introductions were done, addressing his friends. “We’ve got lemonade and mint lemonade.”

While Sam and Joaquín were giving Bucky a hard time over what exact ingredients were used to make the lemonade—“Water, sugar and lemons,” he answered exasperatedly—Steve caught your eye and leaned in. He darted his eyes to your “Pucker up!” sign and back to you before speaking. “Please tell me Buck didn’t use a pucker up pun on you,” Steve muttered, keeping his voice down so the others didn’t hear. 

You pressed your lips into a flat line and just stared at Bucky’s friend without responding, letting him read the answer on your solemn face. Steve sighed, running his hand through his short blond hair. 

“Don’t hold it against him,” Steve said, his tone pleading while his expression remained open and honest. “He’s a good guy, he can just be an idiot sometimes.”

Glancing at Bucky, who was arguing with his friends—it sounded like they were trying to haggle for the lemonade and Bucky was increasing the price every time they tried to go lower—you realized you believed Steve. Bucky wasn’t as much of a jerk as you’d first thought. It surprised you a little, but you actually liked him and you hoped he stuck around your stall for the rest of the afternoon, though since his friends had shown up, you weren’t sure he would.

“Have you gotten a lot of pickup lines because of the sign?” Steve asked, drawing you out of your thoughts.

Before you could stop yourself, you grimaced. “Too fucking many,” you muttered, casting a glare out at the crowd of the festival, hoping to deter any prospective jerks. No one looked your way, and you couldn’t help but be thankful for Bucky’s friends, who were all big and broad, taking up most of the front of your stall and hiding the “Pucker up!” sign.

Steve made a sympathetic noise, drawing your attention back to him. “Well, now that Bucky’s here, he’ll scare ‘em off,” he offered.

You didn’t want to admit how much you liked the idea. You were a strong, independent business owner, you could run your own stall and deal with customers. But, if you were honest, you were tired, and you wouldn’t mind if Bucky could help you avoid all the unwanted attention you’d been getting. Still, you kept your face impassive as you responded to Steve. “I figured you guys would want him to go hang out with you,” you said, trying to tamp down the hope that Bucky might stick around longer. 

Shaking his head, Steve glanced at his friend behind the counter. “Nah, we just wanted to see what was taking so long,” Steve explained. He turned back to you, his eyes sparkling—reminding you of the calm blue of Bucky’s eyes. “I don’t think he’d let us drag him away from you.” 

Before you could ask Steve what he meant by that, Bucky edged in beside you and gave the blond a hard look. “Anything for you, Stevie?” he asked pointedly. “Or are you just gonna flirt with my girl?”

Your heart thumped and butterflies suddenly took flight in your stomach at the possessiveness in Bucky’s tone when he called you his girl. You were so stunned by your body’s reaction to it, in fact, that you didn’t protest, the words dying in your throat as you looked up at Bucky, your eyes trailing over his profile while he stared at his friend. 

Bucky’s jaw was gritted and you had the insane impulse to press a kiss to it in an effort to soothe the tension away. But you just stayed frozen in place, staring at the man you’d only just met and wondering when you’d started liking him so much. Or, for that matter, when he’d decided you were his girl.

Meanwhile, Steve scoffed. “You know I can’t flirt for my life, Buck,” Steve said, rolling his eyes and rocking back on his heels. “Let me get a regular lemonade.”

As Bucky turned to grab a cup for Steve, he looked at you. “Can you give Sam and Joaquín their change, buttercup?” he asked, his hands moving swiftly and assuredly as he filled the cup with ice and started pouring the lemonade. “I figured you wouldn’t want me going into your cashbox.” 

Bucky’s blue eyes were bright in the dimness of your stall and you were captivated for a moment, watching the tall, handsome man pour lemonade in a burlap apron that matched your own. In that instant, you could picture your future so easily. 

You’d laugh together as you ran the lemonade stall, Bucky occasionally knocking things over, but you’d learn to anticipate his clumsiness and would save the pitchers or whatever else he’d bumped into. Bucky would insist on branching out with new flavors of lemonade and he’d experiment with other fruits and herbs, until you had all kinds of drinks on the menu. Bucky would join you in the lemonade stall on the weekends, helping you pack up, then going home together and curling up on the couch, your bodies entwined.

That potential future unfurled in your mind’s eye and you let yourself indulge in it. It seemed almost too good to be true. Shaking yourself free of your thoughts, you reminded yourself that you weren’t sure how long Bucky was planning on sticking around at the stall, let alone if he had any interest in you beyond that. “Right, yeah,” you muttered, dodging around Bucky to get to your cashbox beneath the counter. You kept your head ducked as you counted out Sam and Joaquín’s, then Steve’s, change.

Joaquín shoved a generous amount of bills in the tip jar and caught your eye. “For your trouble, buttercup,” Joaquín told you, a barely restrained grin on his face as he winked at you and darted a glance at Bucky. 

“Alright, that’s enough, Torres,” Bucky barked, crowding into you from behind, his chest pressing to your back. 

You couldn’t help but enjoy the feel of him, warm and firm and steady behind you. He made you feel safe and comfortable in a way you hadn’t for much of the day, with so much unwanted attention being thrown your way. So you finally shot back with a retort of your own. “Yeah, only Bucky can call me buttercup,” you said, a smile flickering at the corners of your mouth, softening your words a little so Bucky’s friends knew you were just teasing. 

Joaquín laughed happily, not even a little bit miffed about being put in his place. Steve, too, looked pleased as he took a drink from his cup to hide his smile. Sam chuckled, dropping a tip in your jar. “I like you,” he said, pointing at you, laughter in his brown eyes. “If Barnes gives you any trouble, you just let us know, and we’ll set him straight.”

“Nah,” Joaquín jumped in, tugging Sam back from the stall playfully. “She can handle him, can’t you, lemonade girl?” All three of Bucky’s friends looked at you, waiting for an answer. 

You didn’t think Bucky was going to give you any trouble in the way Sam was implying. If anything, you were in trouble of losing your heart to Bucky, whose hand had come to rest on your hip, anchoring you from where he stood behind you. Your heart flipped and those butterflies continued their never-ending flight in your stomach. You tried not to let the thought of how much you already liked Bucky scare you—and found it was easy with him so close to you.

“I can,” you replied, sounding more confident than you felt. It helped that Bucky was still there behind you, his hand resting on your hip letting you know he was with you. 

Bucky’s friends laughed and said their goodbyes, melting back into the crowd to check out the rest of the summer festival. More customers stepped up to the counter and you and Bucky were pulled into a dizzying dance of serving lemonade, making change and, between it all, making fresh pitchers to replace the ones sold. It wasn’t long before Bucky used up all the mint he’d gotten and he had to duck out to get some more from a farmstand down the row. 

True to Steve’s words, Bucky was happy to scare off anyone giving you unwanted attention. Soon after his friends departed, an arrogant jerk who looked to be in his early twenties swaggered up to the counter and whistled while you were bent over, getting more lemons from a cooler. “Don’t worry, your main squeeze is here, baby,” the man said in a sleazy tone, making you stand up quickly and turn with a pinched look on your face. “Why don’tcha pucker up for me?” he asked, clearly not noticing your disgust over his pickup line. 

A growl erupted from Bucky, getting the man’s attention, and all the blood drained from his face as he took in your six-foot, broad-shouldered helper. “What did you just say to her?” Bucky demanded in a low tone, barely leashed rage in his voice. 

“S-sorry, man, I didn’t see you there,” the guy stammered, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I just want some lemonade—I heard it’s good.” 

The stranger’s attempt to pacify Bucky with a compliment didn’t work and Bucky stepped up to the counter, leaning forward and showing how much he towered over the guy. “You’re not getting any lemonade, get out of here,” he said, his expression and voice so dark, you understood why the man cowered the way he did. “And if you ever talk to a woman like that again, I’ll find you and make you regret it—got it?”

Nodding frantically, the man squeaked and darted back into the crowd. Bucky’s face cleared of all anger as he turned to you, his expression scrunching up into one of concern. “Has it been like that all day?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty much been an endless stream of assholes and their lemon puns,” you confirmed, shrugging and dumping the lemons you’d grabbed onto your work station. “Except for one,” you said, shooting Bucky a smile over your shoulder. 

He stepped up behind you, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I’m sorry I was one of those assholes, buttercup,” he muttered. 

You patted his arm and tried to hold your laugh in, but you couldn’t help it. “It’s OK,” you told him. “You redeemed yourself.” That made Bucky laugh slightly, though you could tell he still felt a little guilty. But he settled a hand on your waist, giving you a soft squeeze before returning to what he was doing. 

In between customers, Bucky would make conversation as much as possible, asking you how you’d started the lemonade stall, what you did for fun and all kinds of other questions about your likes and dislikes. You asked about him too, at first trying to seem like it was only polite, but you found you were greedy for his answers, wanting to know all you could about this man that had crashed into your life. 

More and more, you could see yourself and Bucky falling in love and building a future together, working at the lemonade stall and having both your friends over for a dinner party. It surprised you how easy it felt, how comforting the thoughts were when you anticipated being scared of the potential of being hurt. But Bucky had a way of grounding you and making you feel safe, and it occurred to you that that was one of the things you liked most about him.

As the sun dipped low in the sky, you collapsed against the back counter of the stall, heaving a sigh of relief as the latest customers—a large family with a bunch of kids—went on their way. You noticed that the crowd of the festival had thinned and you realized it was close to closing time. There were some vendors who would stick around throughout the evening, but in your area that was mostly a farmer’s market, everyone would begin packing up soon. 

“So, I was thinking,” Bucky said from where he was leaning on the front counter of the stall. You looked to him, noticing he had a sheen of sweat on his face and his swept back hair was a little unkempt. When he wiped at his jaw, he left a streak of sugar. You bit back a smile, thinking he’d become a true lemonade stall employee, nodding at him to go on. “Instead of paying me for helping out today, I was hoping you’d let me take you out on a date,” he said, his blue eyes hopeful.

To distract yourself from the way your heart soared in your chest, you stepped closer to Bucky, using your thumb to wipe away the sugar on his jaw, your finger brushing over the stubble on his face in the process. Bucky’s blue eyes darkened as he stared down at you, waiting patiently for your answer. He was so warm and you’d moved closer than you thought so you felt a little overwhelmed by his presence, but it didn’t even occur to you to retreat.

“That sounds fair,” you murmured, the edge of your mouth pulling up in a half smile.

“Just fair?” Bucky rumbled, his voice deeper than you’d heard it before. He pushed off the counter, standing up straight and suddenly your bodies were so close you had to crane your neck back to keep looking at his face. He pressed closer until your chests brushed, his hands falling to your hips. Your heart pounded in your chest, excitement pumping through your blood, making you feel daring.

“A date sounds good, but I was hoping you’d ask for something I could give you tonight,” you admitted, letting your eyes drop to his mouth, hoping he’d take the hint. 

A surprised sound rumbled in Bucky’s chest and he walked you backward, pinning you against the back counter of the stall. His broad body blocked out the dwindling crowd of the festival so it felt like you were the only two left in the world. “Were you hoping I’d ask you for a kiss for my troubles, buttercup?” Bucky rasped, ducking his head until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth away from yours. 

His breath smelled like mint and lemons and your entire body throbbed with excited anticipation. Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging on to him and holding yourself back from closing the distance between your lips yourself. “Yes,” you answered on a soft exhale. 

“Would you have said yes if I had?” Bucky asked, tilting his head and teasing you with the soft gust of his breath. An excited shiver raced down your spine, your entire body tensed with acute awareness of Bucky’s mouth. 

“Yes,” you whispered, tugging on his shirt impatiently. He didn’t budge right away, though, making you wait a moment, his lips curving in a smirk as he teased you. Your mouths were so close you felt rather than saw his smirk and you tugged on his shirt again insistently.  

“Pucker up, buttercup,” Bucky murmured before slanting his mouth to yours, finally pressing a kiss to your lips and giving in to the tension he’d built up. 

Bucky swallowed the laugh that threatened to spill from you, kissing you so thoroughly, you forgot his words entirely. His mouth was tentative at first, but quickly turned ravenous as you pressed into him, eagerly giving in to his kiss. It felt like relief and salvation to finally kiss Bucky after spending so much of the afternoon trapped in the tight space of the lemonade stall with him, unable to stop yourself from noticing again and again how handsome he was, how attractive it was to see how competently he could help you run the stand. Your hands slid from his shirt and buried into his hair, feeling the soft strands slide between your fingers as you clung to him.

Groaning into the kiss as you tugged on his hair, Bucky’s hands cupped your face, his thumbs beneath your chin tilting you gently to the angle he wanted as his lips devoured yours. When he licked along the seam of your mouth, you opened for him with a soft moan, melting in his arms. He surged forward, deepening the kiss until you felt consumed by him. His taste, the heady strokes of his tongue, the rumbling groans in his chest, it was overwhelming in the most delirious and delightful way. 

It wasn’t until your lungs were gasping for air that Bucky pulled away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “You even taste like lemons and sugar,” he said dazedly, a little bit of awe in his tone. 

You couldn’t stop the giggle the burst from your lips and you buried your face in his shoulder. “You taste like lemons, too,” you said around your laughter. “That’s what happens when you drink lemonade all afternoon.”

Bucky’s mouth pressed suckling kisses to your neck and you tilted your head to the side, giving him better access as you moaned softly into his shirt. “Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced. “I think you always taste like that, buttercup.”

Laughing, you murmured, “I really don’t.”

He hummed again, trailing his lips up to your jaw, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Well, I guess you’ll have to let me stick around and find out,” he rumbled in your ear. “Let me find out if you taste like sugar everywhere, buttercup.” He punctuated his words by pressing another suckling kiss to your neck, making your head tip back and a breathless moan spill from you. 

“OK,” you said on an exhale. 

Bucky chuckled against your skin. “C’mon, buttercup, let’s clean up and go watch the fireworks.”

“OK,” you repeated, making Bucky laugh again as he pulled away. His eyes were sparkling and he was looking at you with so much affection, you knew in that moment you were both in danger of giving your heart to the other. Instead of being scary, though, it was comforting to know you were in it together. 

Dropping one last kiss to your lips, Bucky extracted himself from where he’d been curled around you. As you turned to start cleaning up your work station, you noticed him readjusting himself in his pants and you could’t help but smirk to yourself. 

Suddenly, you couldn’t wait for the date you’d agreed to go on with Bucky—and especially what would come after. If his kiss was heady and all-consuming, you could only imagine what being with Bucky more intimately would be like. You had to shake those thoughts away, or else you wouldn’t get anything done, and you were excited to go watch the summer festival’s fireworks with Bucky. 

The work of closing down the lemonade stall went quick with the two of you, and it wasn’t long before everything was packed up in your car. When it was done, Bucky threw his arm around your shoulders and led you to the grassy hill where everyone was gathered to watch the fireworks. You found his friends on a blanket with some others, and were handed a drink as you sat down. Bucky sat behind you, his legs on either side of your hips as he pulled you into him until your back rested against his chest. 

While his friends chatted, you tilted your head back to look up at Bucky. “I could get used to this,” you said, smiling up at him. Once the words were out, you realized you meant more than just sitting curled up with Bucky. You meant spending time with him, getting to know him, fitting into each other’s lives. You meant you could get used to him being in your life. 

You weren’t sure if Bucky understood the full meaning of your words, but his gaze softened as he looked at you with so much fondness, it made your heart flutter. “I could get used to this too, buttercup,” he murmured, stroking your cheek softly with his thumb. You tilted your face up further, pouting your lips in a wordless plea for a kiss. Bucky chuckled. “Pucker up, buttercup,” he murmured before kissing you softly. 

The fireworks show started with a loud boom overhead, but they were nothing compared to those that lit up inside you at the feel of Bucky’s lips against yours. He kissed you slowly, sweetly, like you had all the time in the world—and you realized you did. When he finally pulled away, you snuggled deeper into his chest and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, holding you close as you watched the fireworks together.

Bucky walked you back to your car at the end of the night and kissed you again against your door before having you put your number in his phone. He waved as you drove away and you heard your phone chime with a text before you got home. He’d asked that you let him know when you were home safe and you replied when you were, though the conversation stretched long into the night.

Later that week, Bucky took you out for the date he’d promised, and at the end of the night, you grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him into your home when he dropped you off. Bucky insisted on kissing every inch of your body and claimed every bit of you tasted like sugar and lemons. Though you weren’t sure you believed him, it made you laugh all the same. Then he pulled you close, your bodies fitting together intimately and you stopped laughing, your giggles dissolving into moans as you reveled in the feel of each other.

The following weekend, Bucky helped you open up the lemonade stall and the first thing he did was take down that “Pucker up!” sign. He grumbled that he was the only one allowed to say that to you, but you knew he was doing it because he knew the attention it brought bothered you. You told him to keep the sign, saying he should hang it up at his place. He agreed with a sparkle in blue eyes, and when he invited you over after your next date, you saw he’d hung it in his bedroom. You laughed as he pulled you in for a kiss, swallowing the sounds down with a chuckle of his own.

It was still there months later when you moved in with Bucky, and he’d wake you up in the mornings by murmuring, “Pucker up, buttercup,” in your ear. Then, when you and Bucky moved together, trading in his apartment for a house, the sign came along with you. It hung in the kitchen, and whenever anyone would ask about it, Bucky would take your hand, kissing the pair of rings on your left hand, and tell them the story of how you met. 

He’d always conclude the story the same way—by turning to you, his blue eyes sparkling with all the affection he felt for you. You’d tilt your face up, pouting your lips, knowing what was coming. Bucky would murmur, “Pucker up, buttercup,” and then he would kiss you. 

And no matter how many times Bucky kissed you, he’d always tell you that you tasted like lemons and sugar. You’d always laugh and shake your head, telling him he tasted like lemons and sugar, too. But what you really meant when you said those words was that he tasted like something better—love.

Friday April 14.

Stop: time for kitty cat facts.

Stop! Arrêtez! Hou op! Спри се! Halt! Pare! Detener! 停止! रुकें!  중지! Dur! やめる! توقف! תפסיק! Imani! Itigil! Kwụsị! Prohibere!

You get the idea. It is of the utmost importance that you stop right there—because it's Friday, and times are tough and friends are few. So, we thought we would both complement and/or remedy this situation with a prescription that goes down smooth every single time: an assortment of the finest kitty #cats combed from the dashboard's discerning cat fandom, as well as a series of fascinating cat facts with which you can show off next time the need arises. Impressing friends? Check. Games night? Check. Dinner party? Check. The International Conference For Interesting Cat Facts (ICFICF)? Check. For all things four-legged, fascinating, and feline, you've come to the right place. We like to think this post has found you for a reason, in fact.

The oldest known pet cat existed 9,500 years ago

Cats spend 70% of their lives sleeping

A cat was the Mayor of an Alaskan town for 20 years

The record for the longest cat ever is 48.5 inches

Ancient Egyptians would shave off their eyebrows when their cats died

House cats share 95.6% of their genetic makeup with tigers

Cats walk like camels and giraffes

Isaac Newton invented the cat door

In 1963 a cat went to space

A house cat can reach speeds of up to 30mph

The oldest cat in the world was 38 years old

The richest cat in the world had * seven million dollars *

That, as they say, is that. Call us The Post—because we promised cat facts and we delivered. And then some. We will now bid you on your merry way towards not just the Friday you need, but the Friday you deserve. With some #cats.

Guys I have an idea for a fic with the theme being the game ‘never have I ever’ but idk who to write it for so lmk!!!