Patching Up (one-shot)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Words: 4045 Summary: Summertime, and the living is… interrupted by an injured Bucky Barnes falling face-first through your window. You’re not a nurse yet, but you’ve still got a duty to take care of him. And oh, you do. Warnings: NSFW (language, smut), 18+ A/N: Prompt from an anon! Nursing student!reader x hot mess!Bucky, although it’s hard to tell how much of a mess he is when all I can focus on is the ‘hot’ part. And bonus—it’s also @the-ss-horniest-book-club‘s Thirsty Thursday, so I’m just on time XD Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy :3
It’s stifling out. May shouldn’t be this hot. Shouldn’t be this cold, either—the weather is flip-flopping more than the primary polls, fifty one day and eighty the next. You’d had to pull your pea coat out from under your bed. Silly you for thinking spring had finally settled in.
Nope.
You’ve got every window in your apartment wide open, but the evening air is slow to filter in. If you weren’t a broke student, you’d turn on your AC. Not that you’ve even gotten around to putting the window units in yet. If only you could’ve gone with your roommate to her family’s beach home on the cape, but no, you’ve got your work at the school clinic. Not to mention a distinct lack of a nice enough bathing suit.
So instead of fun in the sun, you’re overworked and overheated, alone and surly. At least school’s done for the spring, and you don’t have to worry about summer classes now that you’ve finally passed A&P.
Thank goodness.
You fiddle with your phone as you lie spread-eagled on your bed, the oscillating fan on your dresser trailing up and down your body. It’s nice. You’ve just got on a cami and boy shorts as you wait for the room to cool enough for you to sleep; then you can crawl under your blanket and escape into a dream where, hopefully, you’ll be rich and famous and done with nursing school.
As if.
Well, at least there’s summer.
Summer with its heat and its smells and… the banging outside? You sit up slowly, confused. It’s nine-thirty PM, not AM. But it sounds like garbage trucks are rattling around the trash cans downstairs. A few steps to your open window, and you yelp, careening backwards as the screen rips and an unpleasantly familiar face topples inside.
“What the fuck!”
Bucky Barnes, sort-of superhero, groans into your scuffed wooden floor. His legs are bent, shoes halfway up your wall, shiny stains littering his black uniform. A metallic scent floods your senses; you wrinkle your nose before realization sets in.
It’s blood.
OMG OMG OMG
