AdrianChaseChaser

21 Lee❤️ Any Pronouns

[mrsriddlenott]

Hiiii, my name is Lee!! I’m 21 and I write NSFW, Fluff, Angst and anything I am feeling for my favorite characters. My current obsession is Adrian Chase so hopefully I can get more of him out soon.

I started this account as an HP fic blog but I rarely write for the main characters anymore because it feels weird to me now. But my requests are open rn for Adrian Chase and Clark Kent.

Also, fair warning I am dyslexic so some of my works do have misspelled words I never went back and fixed.

✸ Smut ❀ Fluff ✧ Angst — Work In Progress

Last Updated: 5/18/26

[Kinktober 2025] 8/8 Posted!!

DCU

Adrian Chase

Adrian Trying to Get Reader Past His Mom ✸

Which Is Which? ✸

HCs of Bf!Adrian Chase Lacking Boundaries✸ ❀

Lacking Boundaries!Adrian and His Secret Photos ✸

Adrian Showing Off His Beanie Babies ❀

Knife Kink with Adrian Chase ✸

Adrian x reader x Adrian ✸

Cheater ✧ ❀

Love Language ✧ ❀

Wait, What? ✧ ❀ ✸

Clark Kent

Temperature Play with Clark Kent ✸

Outer Banks

JJ Maybank

Anxious ✧ ❀

BET ✸

JB’s Little Sister ✸

Teach Me, Please || Another Lesson? ✸

Rafe’s Girlfriend ✸

Prove It ✸

Oh, It’s You (Series Masterlist)

Rafe Cameron

Fratboy!Rafe ❀

Manipulative ✸ ❀

Harry Potter

Mattheo Riddle

Caught (1 ✸)(2)(3 ✸)(4)(5)(6 ✸)(7) (on pause indefinitely)

Everyone Who Falls In Love ✧ ❀

Patience (1)(2)(3) ✸

Flu-Shot ❀

Needy ✸

It’s Okay To Love Them Both ✧ ❀

Theodore Nott

First Time ✸

Comfort ✧ ❀

Costume? That’s Barely Clothes ✸

Enzo Berkshire

It’s Okay To Love Them Both ✧ ❀

Harry Potter

Angry Harry ✸

Draco Malfoy

Mistakes ✧

Ron Weasley

Breakn’ Promises ✧

Marauders Era

Regulus Black

Rivalry: Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3 (on pause)

Remus Lupin

More Than Friends ✸

The Vampire Diaries Universe

Niklaus Mikaelson

His ❀

divider creds: @reevesoc and @dividers-are-us

[mrsriddlenott]

Hey y’all!! Bit of a rant about my life. I have been pretty busy because my house decided to fall apart and start leaking rain down two of my walls, and there might be raccoons in my ceiling….😐 It literally feels like every time I get out of my depression and anxiety something happens to bring it back.

I have a few things done and unedited but no time to edit them, including the impromptu smut chapter for Wait, What that I did a poll on a while back. So hopefully I will find time now that I am getting the chance to settle again but I also may need to move soon. I miss writing so much but I genuinely can’t find time🥲

At least I just hit 2,700 Followers, that helped me get a little joy during all this stress

[aquaticmercy]

Grace Under Pressure

Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 13.7k

Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!

You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.

“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.

Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.

“They are primitive.”

“Cars are cool.”

“Cars are slow.”

“They have music.”

That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.

Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”

Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.

From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”

You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.

Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.

You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).

Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true. 

Why would you even think that? You looked so different.

By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.

Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.

You and Peter were… batteries.

And then Yondu died.

What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?

That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.

For a while, neither of you joked about anything. 

Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,

But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.

The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter. 

And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.

Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.

The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals. 

You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.

For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.

Then came Thanos, and Titan.

Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.

The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.

You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.

But it was not enough.

The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning. 

Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.

You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would. 

Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together. 

But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless. 

Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.

Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.

At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it. 

You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.

Peter saw it happen.

One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you. 

“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”

You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there. 

That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.

You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.

Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too. 

Then you were both dust.

—

And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.

One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you. 

There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.

So you fought him again, and this time, you won.

Earth, as it turned out, was not boring. 

Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.

Earth also had Bucky Barnes.

Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.

Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories. 

“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.

“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.

Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.

“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”

You looked up.

And fuck.

Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.

He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh. 

Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”

The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”

You blinked. “Bucky?”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”

From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”

You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.

“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.

You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”

Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”

“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.

Bucky actually smiled then.

And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.

—

You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.

It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.

Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.

Your fingers moved absently over your arm.

The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home. 

Behind you, the roof access door creaked.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”

You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”

Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.

He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.

“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.

You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”

You blinked. “About what?”

“That was pretty much my response.”

You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.

“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”

“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”

“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”

You stared at him. “Do you?”

“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.

He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”

You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”

“Not sure that means much.”

“No?”

“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.

So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing. 

You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.

Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.

You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”

“What is it?”

You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”

Bucky turned his head toward you.

You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”

Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”

His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”

You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”

“Usually no.”

“Usually?”

“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”

While I was gone. 

Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had

So you pushed your door open first.

You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.

You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.

You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.

Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.

Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.

You looked down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.

People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.

You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”

Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”

And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.

Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.

He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold. 

You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing. 

You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”

Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.

“Are they dead?” you asked.

That made him look at you.

You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”

Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”

“Most is not all.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“Do you want help?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.

Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.

Bucky seemed aware of it too.

“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”

You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”

“One-night stands.”

You stared.

He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”

“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”

“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”

“No.”

“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”

His smile lingered, and so did yours.

The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.

Maybe it did.

Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.

“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”

His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”

“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”

That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.

“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”

You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.

You leaned closer anyway.

“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”

“No?”

“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”

Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”

“Yes.”

You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and  the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.

“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.

Instead, it was recognition.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”

When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.

His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt.  His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.

It was infuriatingly sweet.

So you fixed it.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.

Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.

You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.

This did not feel like that.

Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.

He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.

Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”

You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.

“You don’t have rust.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”

You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”

His eyes dropped to your hand.

It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.

By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you. 

It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.

You were.

So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon. 

You just made each other feel good.

—

In the morning, someone knocked on your door.

It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.

You opened your eyes slowly.

For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.

Oh.

Right.

The knocking came again.

Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before. 

“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”

“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”

“He okay?”

“He’s asking about breakfast.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.

You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”

Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.

It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.

“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.

You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.

Oh, shit.

Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.

You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.

Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”

Your entire body went hot.

“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.

Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”

From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”

You dropped your face into your hands.

Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.

“I am Groot,” Groot said again.

“I know,” Rocket said. “We’re going to IHOP. Quill’s handling it.”

“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.

“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.

Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”

“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.

Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.

Peter.

“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .

Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”

You froze. Bucky froze.

You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”

Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”

Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”

Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”

“Oh my god,” you said.

“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.

Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”

You turned to him in alarm. “No.”

Bucky looked between you and the doorway.

“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”

“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.

Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.

Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.

“I’ll see you around?” you said.

“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.

“Big fan,” Peter said.

“Pete!” you groaned.

Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”

Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.

Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.

Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.

By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.

It had one number saved: Bucky. 

—

You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.

It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra  week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.

Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.

Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.

So one week became five months.

And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.

Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.

The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.

It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual. 

It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted. 

Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.

Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.

There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.

But there he was.

Things happened.

There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive. 

There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”

You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.

It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.

That was what you kept saying, anyway.

Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.

Casual meant you could leave when you had to.

Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.

“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.

Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.

“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”

Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”

“Pete loves that song.”

“Of course he does.”

You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”

He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”

“No. Music.”

He looked so offended you had to kiss him.

That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.

The Benatar was fixed eventually.

Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly. 

Bucky didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.

—

The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.

It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.

His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode  him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”

You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.

When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.

His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.

You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.

You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.

Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”

It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.

You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”

You had kicked Drax under the table.

Bucky had not laughed much after that.

Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.

After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.

“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out

“Bucky...”

“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”

You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”

His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.

“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”

“You don’t blend in anywhere.”

“That’s fair.”

You tried to smile. 

Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.

“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”

You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.

You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.

How could you ask him to leave that?

And how could he ask you to stay?

Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians. 

Earth had Bucky.

Space had everyone else.

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.

His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”

He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.

He kissed them off your cheeks.

You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.

Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.

For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.

His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.

You blinked up at him.

Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.

Your lips parted.

He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”

You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”

He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made  your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.

Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.

But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.

He laughed too, quieter.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”

You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.

It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.

You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Bucky opened his eyes.

You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”

He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.

He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at.  It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.

This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.

Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.

“Don’t,” you gasped.

He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hold back.”

His eyes darkened.

Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”

Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.

You let yourself have it.

For once, you didn’t try to make it funny. 

You just let him have you.

And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

Good.

You wanted it to fucking ache. 

For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.

The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.

Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”

His hand stilled in your hair.

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.

You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.

You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”

You placed it in Bucky’s hand.

He looked down at it. “What’s this?”

“A communicator.”

His brows lifted. “This works in space?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”

Bucky stared at you.

You sniffed. “But it works.”

His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”

“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”

Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.

“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”

“From time to time,” he repeated.

You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”

Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.

He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.

You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.

“What is this?”

“My dog tags.”

You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”

He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”

“Then why are they called that?”

“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”

You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up. 

His smiled.

Oh.

“They’re important,” you realised.

Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”

And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”

You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”

“You gave me a space phone that might explode."

You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.

You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.

Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.

You went very still.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you said.

He looked at you.

You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.

“Good,” you whispered.

Then you kissed him again.

By morning, your body ached everywhere.

When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.

Stay.

Come with me.

Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.

You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.

—

You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.

Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between. 

Still, you messaged him when you could.

Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.

Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.

Still alive?

That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.

You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?

Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.

Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.

Then he looked out of his window.

Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.

He wondered where you were.

He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.

—

The first time you came back, it was only for two days.

You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once. 

He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.

You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.

“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”

He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket. 

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”

“I know.”

“It’s not enough time.”

“I know,” he said again.

His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.

You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.

“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.

He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”

“Terrans love boxes.”

He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood. 

That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.

Bucky stayed awake.

He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.

“You still wear them,” he murmured.

You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”

“To me.”

“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”

He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”

“Yes.”

“Where would you misplace me?”

“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”

A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.

After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”

You turned your head slightly. “What does?”

“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”

You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”

“Yeah.”

“And what are you?”

You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”

You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”

“Every few months, apparently.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.

—

The second time you came back, it was for five days.

Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.

Also because Bucky was there.

Not that you said that.

You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”

You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.

This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.

Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.

Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.

“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.

He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”

He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.

Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”

He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.

You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”

“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.

You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”

“Nice is good.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty?”

He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”

Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.

You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”

“I know.”

“You can date.”

“I know.”

“Then how was it?”

“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”

Oh.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him. 

Instead, you reached for his hand.

He let you take it.

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked at him. “But?”

Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”

—

The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week

That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.

Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”

You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”

“Yes.”

“What do they know?”

He looked uncomfortable.

You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Oh, now it’s the full name?”

“What do they know?”

“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”

So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.

The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air. 

You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.

Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.

“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”

Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.

You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.

“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”

Sam choked.

One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”

“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.

Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”

You wanted to take it back.

You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him. 

But you didn’t say any of that.

Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.

You mouthed, stop.

He smiled faintly.

Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.

Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.

“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.

“That makes it worse.”

“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”

Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Your face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. But I want something.”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”

Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”

Oh.

He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.

Soon.

As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.

“Bucky…”

“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”

You swallowed.

“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”

You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…

You reached across the table and took his hand.

“I’ll try,” you said.

—

The fourth time, you came back two months later.

He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here. 

You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”

His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.

You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”

He let you in.

The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.

You told him about Mantis on the second night.

You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.

So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.

“Mantis is my sister,” you said.

Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”

You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”

“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.

“Yes.”

He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”

You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”

Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”

You believed him.

And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.

But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.

Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.

And what did Earth have?

One soldier in Brooklyn. 

And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window. 

He wondered where you would be in a month.

He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.

He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.

Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.

—

Months later…

Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either. 

Rocket actually almost died.

You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon. 

For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow. 

Then he came back.

Against all odds, Rocket lived.

The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces. 

Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights. 

And now, your family was changing.

Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck. 

Which was fair 

But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.

Then Peter said he was leaving, too.

He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.

Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.

He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.

And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too. 

“I could come with you,” you said.

Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”

You smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”

Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.

His eyes changed.

“Ohhh,” he said.

You looked away at once. “Don’t.”

Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”

“Peter.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”

Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”

Your face went hot.

Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”

“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”

The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it. 

Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.

You turned. “What?”

He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.

Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”

You looked at Groot in betrayal.

Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.

Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”

“I don’t.”

“You are touching them now.”

You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.

“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”

“He’s not old.”

Nebula finally looked up.

Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It means old.”

“He looks fine.”

Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything”

Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”

“They are called dog tags.”

“You are not a dog.”

“That is what I said!”

Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”

Well, when she said it like that…

Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”

Finally, everybody shut the hell up. 

Because yes. He did.

Right. 

Rocket looked away first.

He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.

Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.

Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”

Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”

“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”

Rocket didn’t look at you.

He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.

“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”

You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.

The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay. 

“I am groot,” Groot said, finally. 

I love you guys. 

—

Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.

He should have been, probably. 

That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM. 

He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.

So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.

He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up. 

He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.

Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.

You were standing in his hallway.

You.

You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.

Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet. 

Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.

You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.

“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.

“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”

For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or  space. Just you.

Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.

You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.

Bucky closed his eyes.

His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.

“How long?” he asked.

Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”

Oh.

Oh, stars.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.

“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”

Bucky kissed you.

He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.

Yes.

Yes, stay.

Yes, here.

Yes, with me.

You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.

When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”

Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”

You sighed then. 

Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.

—

And then life kept going.

You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.

Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.

He won anyway.

By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.

The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines: 

Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.

James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.

Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.

That one was your favourite.

You framed it.

Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.

You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.

He stared at the headline.

“You framed it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”

“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”

Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.

The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.

You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and  monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.

Bucky said the place made sense for security.

When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”

“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use. 

“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.

“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”

Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.

And slowly, it became yours.

You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair. 

When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.

He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”

Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.

“Your sister likes windows,” he said.

He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.

Mantis smiled.

Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.

Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”

You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.

And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.

Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.

“I like Earth,” she said.

You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.

“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”

—end. 

Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?

[redheadedflag]

me when im on "x reader tag" looking for fics at 3 am BUT all i find is memes and all the funny posts under the world EXCEPT the fics abt the character :

[lunexiax]

𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 (𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠)

𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑏𝑛𝑜𝑥𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑙 𝑖 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢

pairing: college!bucky barnes x f! reader

summary: You're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. It's too bad that Bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. When you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before?

warnings: au, angst, yearning, friends to lovers, miscommunication, idiots in love, jealousy, reader waxes poetic about unrequited love for way too long, angst with a happy ending, no use of y/n, no smut but references to sex

a/n: i promise i’m not part of the forgive men agenda i just love angst with a happy ending :( also i think this might lowkey be buns but we roll! no smut in this one (just melodrama) but the next one will be horny again, promise <3

not proofread - if you see any typos, no u didn't <3

You suppose it’s probably about time that you develop some self-respect. Or at least some fucking boundaries.

Wanda knows it, too - it’s why her eyes are narrowed at you in open disapprobation. She twirls a pen around in her fingers, movements abrupt and irate. You figure the tense hush of the library is the only reason you’re not getting an earful right now.

September is streaming in, dull and cold, through the ceiling windows. There’s something a bit eerie about it at this time of year. Most students won’t make an appearance until exams begin to loom over them in about a month’s time. Right now, however, it is shrouded in a bleak sort of emptiness. A student mills about in search of a particular volume every now and again, but yourself and Wanda have the table to yourselves.

You fix the sleeves of your sweater and try to immerse yourself into the article open in front of you, but you can still feel her stare.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, voice low. 

“You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Well, I lied.”

You wince. “I know. Like, I really know. It’s just so hard to say no to him sometimes.”

Wanda’s expression shifts to something like pity and you think that might actually be worse because you can actually picture how pathetic you must look to her - the girl who takes absolutely no shit and never has. The pen falls to the desk as her hands reach forward to grab yours. She pauses until she coaxes your gaze over to her, fingers padding over your cold knuckles affectionately.

“I know, darling. But I want you to listen to me. This is going to be the last time I ever say this, because I’m really not sure that it’s having any effect and, to be honest, I’m tired. Maybe this is a lesson that you’ll only learn after you have been hurt one too many times, but I am going to try one last time anyway.”

Something about the finality in her tone takes you by surprise. Actually - it does more than that, it terrifies you. 

You have probably stretched the limits of what’s socially acceptable when complaining about your situation with Bucky and Wanda has put up with far more than she should have - always giving solid advice that is never taken. And you know that you need to stop talking about it. You have known for a while now.

But you can hear her loud and clear now; if you want to keep torturing yourself, you can do it alone.

“That boy is making a complete fool of you. We’re going into our third year of college and you’ve been on how many dates? You’ve slept with one person and came home crying afterwards because you felt like you betrayed Bucky. Meanwhile, he has a new girl attached to him at every frat party.”

She is gripping your hands tighter now, leaning closer with intense focus.

“And really, your feelings for him are just a symptom of one of the best things about you. You love hard, and I love that about you, darling. The right person will love that about you too - not take advantage of it. I mean, seriously, coming in to cuddle after messing around with another girl? That’s not being just-friends, it’s not normal and it’s not fair.”

Shame floods your stomach and finds its way to your face until you are sure you are the colour of plums. She hesitates, eyes flicking away briefly, before her face steels. 

“And- I’m not sure how to say this without being cruel… it’s getting a bit embarrassing, watching you accept it.”

You feel deflated. Like she had just pricked a hole in your skin and watched all the air hiss out. She look at you as if she had just imparted some words of comfort, eyes sympathetic and brows pinched, while you attempt to blink away tears.

You can’t be mad at her, even if you wanted to. Because she’s right.

You know that Bucky walks all over you. And you know that you let him. He doesn’t even need to ask for the notes for a lecture he has missed anymore - you email them to him before even leaving the theatre. When he pulls you onto his lap, you curl up, head lolling gratefully on his shoulder, even when you know that it’s just because there’s no other girl around that he has an interest in. When he calls you at 2am because he’s leaving a one-night-stand’s house and doesn't want to crash alone in his room, you open the door and the duvet to him with a smile.

But you are ‘just friends’. Always will be.

He kisses you, but never on the lips. He says he loves you, but in that dismissive, buddy-ish way. He stays the night, but never in the way you want him to. He calls you that weirdly affectionate pet name, sounding like your goddamn husband from the 1940s, but it never means what you want it to.

Meanwhile, you tell all your friends that you ‘don’t date’, because going out with anyone else feels wrong. It’s pathetic.

You feel Wanda’s words rattle through your head and you know you will think about them late into the night. But it’s not her words alone that let you know for absolute certainty that things have to change.

It’s a giggle. Sweet and playful. Coming from across the library.

And of course it’s Bucky, because somehow it’s always Bucky. He’s whispering something to a blonde girl you think you recognise from your module on the Byzantines. He’s standing behind where she sits, one hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair back so he can speak softly to her in that beautifully tempting way you had seen a million times before.

He catches your eyes for just a beat and you watch surprise flicker over his face before his mouth curls into a smirk and his eye drops into a soft wink.

And that is it. The nail in the coffin.

Your first real act of defiance is a text. It feels rebellious and subversive, even though you know it’s not.

YOU: Sorry, Buck! Was asleep.

You put the phone down, feeling very satisfied with yourself indeed. In truth, you never usually turn Do Not Disturb on and keep your ringer up full volume, just in case Bucky decides to call. And when he does - the feeling of his body against yours as you both drift off to sleep makes each time you had woken up to marketing texts from Dominos worth it. 

Last night, however, you tapped the Do Not Disturb button extra hard, as if proving a point. And, you think smugly, that point was now proven.

BUCK: no problem doll 

BUCK: found another place to crash

Your heart sinks before you can tell it that it is no longer allowed to do that. This new version of you can guess very well where ‘another place’ might be, but she no longer cares. At all. Even a little.

You leave the phone down and amble out of your room, kicking rogue clothing items out of your path. 

The flat is still in chaos from the night before. Beer bottles littered everywhere, a random body splayed unconscious across your sofa and a pouch of cat food open on the table for reasons you don't want to know. You are about ten minutes into clearing up the mess with a trash bag and microfibre cloth when Nat stumbles in, hair sticking up and makeup streaming off her face.

She looks so like something out of a comic that you can’t control your giggles. Nat rolls her eyes but she is smiling as she roots through the cabinet for some ibuprofen. 

“Big night?” you ask, looking warily at what you think might be someone’s underwear in a wet heap on the floor. You pick out a pair of gloves from under the sink.

“Yup. And another one coming up tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her drinking glass. “Steve’s birthday. You’re coming too.”

“Oh.”

You pause for a second before returning to your task, now much more interested in the various beer bottles than before. You study them intently before tossing them, feeling her eyes burn through your skin.

Actually, you are planning on being sick tonight, but you had forgotten about that. You wonder what illness could suddenly seize you between now and this evening. Telling everyone you have diarrhoea wouldn’t be your preference, but it is starting to look like the obvious choice.

“Wanda told me about the whole Bucky thing. Says you seem to be taking it seriously this time, going on dates.”

Your throat contracts. You can only manage another “Oh.”

“You can’t just ignore him, you know. It won’t work like that.”

Yes, you know this. Of course you do. You met Bucky on the very day you started classes and since Steve and Nat started dating almost two years ago, your life had been inextricably linked with his. Scarcely a day goes by that you don’t see him, whether at lectures, in Steve’s flat or in your own. He is as inevitable in your life as death or taxes and even trickier to avoid. Which has made the last week a living nightmare.

You are aware there’s only so long that you can keep this up. But you’re not quite sure you’re ready to see him again. You’re not sure you won’t fall in hard again, the way you always do.

“You have to trust yourself. I do.”

Nat has a somewhat unnerving but mostly constructive habit of telling you exactly what you need to hear.

When Bucky sees you, it is as if he’s seen the sun after a month of darkness. Moments like this would have made the old you doubt herself, wonder if maybe there was something soft and secret lurking under that libertine exterior. 

The new you keeps her distance.

You walk into the kitchen with Wanda and Nat to pregame the pregame, as instructed by Steve.

Despite the fact that the new you totally, categorically does not care what Bucky thinks of her, you still made a little extra effort with your appearance, fixing up your hair and applying your makeup with a bit more precision than usual. If you can’t get Bucky’s attention in the way you want, you would make damned certain to get someone’s.

You purposely don’t see Bucky making those eyes at you - the ones that demand your complete attention. You can feel them on your skin, but you won’t look. 

Instead, you make idle chat with Sam, who doesn’t try to hide the way he is admiring you, eyes traversing your form leisurely. It makes you feel warm and giddy and pathetic. Because you know that excited feeling is just another symptom of your feelings for Bucky. Your body’s way of screaming, See, Bucky! Someone thinks I’m worth looking at!

You jolt when you feel large, warm hands on your waist, pulling you onto a familiar lap.

“Ignoring me?” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “Haven’t seen you in about a week, doll. Where you been?”

You fly into a standing position, perhaps a little too abruptly. Bucky’s chin jerks back in surprise, his arms raising involuntarily into a surrendered gesture.

“Forgot to get a drink!” you stammer out, stumbling away. All eyes are on you, now. The boys are confused, but you can feel pride rolling off Wanda and Nat in waves and it steels you. 

You read the bewilderment on Bucky’s face as he questions whether he did something wrong - but when you shoot him a warm smile for reassurance, he returns it. He leans back in the sofa, probably assuming you will be back on his lap in two minutes flat.

“Don’t take it personally Buck,” Nat says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “She’s been a busy girl. Barely has time for us anymore since she started going on dates. She’s in high demand.”

“You’re dating? Since when?” Bucky’s voice rings out and you hate that you can hear the hurt festering there. He’s your best friend, up there with Wanda and Nat. He should know that you had made the decision to start dating again. You should have told him. But how could you? You weren’t even sure you could look at him until this morning.

“She’s making it sound like I’m some nympho,” you laugh, but it’s shaky. “I’ve been on one date.”

“Who with?” Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t even smiling.

“Tony Stark,” Wanda says, matter-of-fact and cold. “Not that it’s any of your business, Barnes. She can date whoever she wants.”

Bucky usually takes the bait when Wanda taunts him like this and they bicker like siblings for at least ten minutes. Not this time. He has turned around fully on the couch to look at you, eyes blazing. You avoid his gaze, busying yourself with picking out a drinking glass.

“Tony Stark? Jesus Chr- are you being serious, doll? That fuckin’ guy?”

You bristle, defensive. Leave it to Bucky to make you feel shit about the men you choose to help you get over him.

“Yes, I’m serious. I mean, there won’t be a second date… he was a bit of an ass, actually. Had a god complex because of his daddy’s money. But he asked me and I said yes.”

Sam takes over from you to mix your drink. He gives you a wink, smooth as butter. “You should’ve told me you were dating now, angel. Woulda been first in line.”

“Not too late, Wilson,” you say, smiling cheekily.

Bucky is quiet and his arms are crossed. This time, when you sit on the other side of the sofa, he does not try to pull you onto his lap. It lasts about ten minutes.

Wanda is watching you give a masterclass in self-control with a tight, satisfied smile as the hours tick by. You are skilfully dodging Bucky’s approaches like they’re landmine, wounding out of the group conversation when he feels a bit too close for comfort and winding back in when you figure it’s pretty safe.

At the start, he brushes it off. When you wiggle out of his grasp or softly brush his hand from your back, using excuses like needing the loo or topping up your drink or having to speak to Wanda privately, he believes you. But as the flat fills up for the actual pregame, the attractive little line between his brows grows deeper. His attempts grow more desperate. When you announce your third ‘private chat with Wanda’, he sighs, only pulling you tighter to him. 

“What are all these private chats about, huh? Can I not be in on the secrets?”

“Girl stuff,” you say, shooting him an apologetic smile and shooting out from under his arm before he has the chance to stop you. His arms reach out to grab you but they find only air. You are walking away.

Wanda links your arm with her nose in the air and the two of you walk off to an uninhabited corner. She can scarcely wait until you are out of earshot before she’s laughing.

“Stop!” you whine. “This is really hard. I didn’t think pulling away would make him try harder.”

Wanda doesn’t stop laughing, but she brushes a lock of hair behind your ear softly to compensate.

“I’m sorry, darling, but this is just perfect. I mean, look at him. He’s so confused he can’t even focus on the girls in the room.”

It’s true. Bucky had flopped down on the sofa after you left his side. His eyes are downturned and his mouth is set in a hard line. He is the picture of confusion. You can’t help it; you giggle a little bit too.

He clearly doesn’t linger on it very long. By the time you all make it to the bar, Bucky is talking to someone new - this time, a tall, brunette stranger.

You are used to this, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. She is swooning, inching closer to him, and you swallow down the resentment that threatens to spill out of you with an awareness that you would be no different to her, if you were in her place.

You gossip with Wanda, examining those in the room to guess who is getting with each other in secret. You sit down with Bruce and listen to him with genuine wonder as he describes what he is currently working on, even if you can’t fully understand it (science was never your forte). You flirt with Sam and feel a rush of satisfaction when he focuses his undivided attention on you, lighting up your skin with his approving gaze. And you can almost forget about Bucky.

It’s rare these days to have everyone in the group come together on the same night, now that life has become a bit more serious and coursework is no longer a mild suggestion but a real and consequential requirement to unlocking your futures. You feel guilty about the fact that your heart isn’t really in it.

“You’ve been really brave,” Nat murmurs, not looking at you but gripping your hand with a sort of maternal protectiveness. It makes you feel like a child, but you don’t mind it, really. “You don’t need to stick around any longer if you’re not feeling it. Thank you for coming out.”

You don't say anything but give her a grateful smile as you leap up to give Steve a hug and wish him a happy birthday once more. You’re deep in thought when Bucky appears beside you. You jump out of your skin.

“You’re going?” he asks, frowning. He grabs your coat from your hands and opens it in front of you to step into. You do as instructed, turning your back to him and looping your arm into one of the sleeves.

“Jesus, Buck,” you murmur. “Didn’t even see you coming.”

“Sorry.” He flashes you a pretty grin when you turn back around and you melt to liquid. Your insides feel gooey and warm. They always do when he looks at you like that.

“You’re going home?” he repeats and you nod once, attempting to snap yourself out of it. He was just chatting up another girl less than five minutes ago. You could hear Wanda’s voice in your ear, telling you to pick your dignity up off the floor.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, chipper as a kid. “Think Steve won’t be hanging around very long anyway.” He gestures over to Steve, where he is making out with Nat against one of the tables. Your nose wrinkles and Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich. The sound makes you smile but it doesn’t make you forget your mission.

“Um- actually…” you stammer. “I’m pretty tired tonight, Buck. Think I’ll go home alone.”

Bucky is astonished. Like, he actually blanches. His eyebrows raise up to his hairline and his lips part ever-so-slightly.

And it lights a fire inside you. You know you let him walk all over you, that you had never turned him down before. You have always been over the fucking moon on nights like this, when he would choose to hang out with you instead of taking home another girl. You can’t usually turn him down when he asks for something so prettily. In fact, he didn’t even need to ask. He just… just told you he would come with you, with the reassurance that you wouldn’t deny him.

And now that you have, he’s gobsmacked.

God- are you really this pathetic? Are you so predictably desperate for his attention, that you saying no to him just one time is enough to elicit this reaction? You feel a dull, simmering kind of rage bubbling in your stomach. You know it should be directly mostly at yourself, but instead you find yourself wanting Bucky out of your sight.

“But- doll, I haven’t seen you in a while. Missed you. I thought…”

“Sorry, Buck. Maybe another time.”

Or maybe never. Fuck this guy.

He's looking at you with thinly veiled hurt, but for once in your life, it does little to move you. Even his admission that he missed you doesn’t override your temper.

“At least let me walk you back,” he says reaching out for you.

You give him a tight smile and evade his grip. “No really, I’m okay. You have fun.”

You don’t give him the chance to argue again, spinning on your heel and zipping out of the bar before he has time to react. You can feel his eyes follow you out.

You delete the Instagram app when you get home, unwilling to see Bucky and his latest conquest in the background of some group picture. You finger hovers over his contact for one second of weakness, before you lock your phone and toss it away.

You comfort yourself with whatever you can scavenge from the kitchen. Most of the snacks you had bought for yourself are gone, as they often are, but you manage to find some semi-stale popcorn and figure it will have to do. You flick a 90s romcom on your laptop and lie horizontal, coaxing your thoughts away from Bucky and towards Hugh Grant to the best of your ability.

You hear Wanda stumble through the hallway to her room with an unidentified male who whispers louder than most people shout. Steve and Nat come in not much later. When the first moan rings out, you decide to continue watching your movie with headphones and try not to sulk.

BUCK: hey doll

BUCK: you awake?

You know what Wanda would tell you to do. But there’s some sick part of you that wants to twist the knife.

YOU: Yup. What’s up?

BUCK: you sure i cant come over? 

BUCK: steve and sam are still out

BUCK: house is lonely

You’re mildly surprised that he didn’t go home with someone. You’re not sure if you can remember him striking out before.

YOU: Steve isn't still out, he’s here. Trust me when I say you don’t wanna be here right now.

BUCK: damn that sucks lol theyre like rabbits

BUCK: why dont you come over here then?

You pause for a moment, reading over the last text a few times. He doesn’t usually invite you over there, but then again, you don’t usually turn him down.

YOU: Not feeling it tonight, Buck.

YOU: Sweet dreams <3

BUCK: sweet dreams. love u

You turn your phone off, along with the movie. You can’t focus on anything anyway. 

When you arrive at the boys’ apartment for board game night, you aren’t sure whether you need a drink, a deep tissue massage or a gun to fire at a passerby. 

“Woah,” is all Sam says, immediately stepping aside as if you would steamroll him if he stood in your way. 

Nat winces. “Guessing the date didn’t go well.”

“Understatement of the year,” you say, taking your shoes off and stomping further into the room.

In truth, it wasn’t just the date. You received an email first thing this morning, informing you that you received an about-average grade on an essay you had spent far too many hours on to justify the mark. Then, just as you were about to leave the house, the dishwasher flooded the kitchen with sudsy water. You had to skip two lectures while waiting to let someone in to fix it. You were informed that the company you had been planning to backpack through South-East Asia with this summer went bust, and your summer plans and deposit went swirling down the toilet with it. And, to top it all off, the only person you wanted to vent to about all of this was Bucky… whom you had hardly been speaking to for the last month.

So, overall, the odds of the date going well were probably not great in the first place.

“What happened?” Wanda asks, wrapping a gentle arm around you when you flop down beside her on the sofa. You laid your head on her shoulder and sighed. 

“Literally the first thing he asked was whether I had an Only Fans. Which, like, already super weird.  But whatever. So then we started talking about our families and stuff and when he found out I wasn’t from some super rich family, he accused me of having an Only Fans again to afford school. So I was like, ‘Uh, no, I’m literally on a scholarship, dude’. But by that point I wanted to get the hell out of there. So when the bill came, he asked to split it and I was like, ‘Yeah, totally fine’ and he accused me of having one again because I could afford dinner. So then I was like, ’If I was hot enough to make money on Only Fans, I would not be sitting here on a date with you’, and then he was like-”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans. “I can’t listen to any more of this. Where the hell do you find these guys?”

“The market is tough right now, Steve.”

“I can’t believe he asked you to split the bill, but I guess that’s what you get for going out with John Walker,” Bucky says, dripping with superiority. “I would never let a girl even see the bill on a date.”

You feel annoyance prickle at your skin, because of course he would be rubbing this in.

“Yeah, you just leave their beds at 2am instead. Like a real gentleman.”

Any satisfaction you might feel from the laughter that rings out across the room is instantly wiped out by the wounded puppy expression on Bucky’s face. 

The conversation takes off around you. Steve is teasing Wanda for her taste in men and in response, she is mimicking the vulgar noises she hears from Nat’s room, which makes Sam cackle and Steve burn red.

But Bucky is still watching you with pinched brows and a small pout and it makes you feel so guilty that you don’t think you can put up with it much longer.

You leave the room, mumbling something about going to get some water, and you can sense that Bucky will follow before you even see it.

“Everything ok, doll?”

You give him an affirmative hum while you pluck out a drinking glass, hoping to god that Bucky will let you get away with avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t.

He holds your shoulders, grip impossibly gentle, and pauses until you meet his gaze. “You’ve been off with me, recently.” It’s not a question. It’s a cold hard fact and he’s waiting for you to explain why.

“Have I?” you ask. “Sorry. I didn’t notice.” You’re being purposely obtuse and it’s obvious, but you’re just not ready to have this conversation dammit.

“Yeah,” Bucky nods and his eyes are focused on you, glassy and intent. His hair is tousled and his brows are furrowed and god- he doesn’t even look confrontational, just worried. “Is it something I did? You can tell me, doll. Whatever it is, I know you’re right and I know I’m one sorry son of a bitch.”

You sigh, melting into his grip. You wrap him in a hug, mostly because you don’t want him looking at you like that anymore, all dejected and apologetic.

Because Bucky has nothing to be sorry for. Not really.

You are the one who caught feelings. He doesn't know how you feel, you never told him. And even if he might have a sneaking suspicion that you have a crush on him, he can’t possibly know just how deeply it runs. You are sure he never would have played with your feelings if he did. From his perspective, this relationship is no more than a close - and according to Wanda, deeply inappropriate - friendship. Nothing deeper.

He pulls you in tight to his chest, one arm wrapping tight around your shoulders while the prosthetic one brushes through your hair. He presses a kiss to your head and your heart seizes. It would be so easy to fall right back in if you allowed yourself. You can almost feel yourself slipping.

“Sorry, Buck,” you murmur. “Things have just been a lot. I don’t have as much time as I used to and I’ve been really tired. Didn’t mean to be off with you.”

“That’s ok, sweetheart,” he says, practically cooing at you. “It’s all those damn dates you’ve been going on. You should give it a rest.”

You freeze and Bucky notices, the hand in your hair pausing mid-stroke. You look up at him. He’s caught off guard, watching you watch him - searching your face to identify the misstep he knows he must have made.

“Give dating a rest? I’ve been on four dates, Bucky.”

“Yeah but… doll, those guys have sucked.”

“Most men do,” you snapped, pulling fully out of his grip. His face falls completely, hand reaching out for you. “Doesn’t mean I can’t look for one that doesn’t. I’m not gonna just sit around and watch everyone else around me date anymore And don’t act like such a Puritan. You’ve gotten with far more than four people this term.”

“No! That’s not what I was trying to say. I just… I wanted to…”

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Wanda is standing at the door to the kitchen, a hand on her hip as she appraises the two of you, eyes narrow and suspicious. You take another step back from Bucky for good measure.

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Why don’t you let Sam take you out?” Nat asks, swirling a piece of spaghetti around her fork.

The bolognese has gone cold, the evidence of a conversation that is more engrossing than your feeble attempt at cooking. You end up like this with Wanda and Nat very often; letting time slip away unnoticed while you chat and laugh over the kitchen table. This time, you are joined by Steve.

In recent weeks, those laughs have been directed at your pathetic excuse of a dating life. You had just been describing date number six in great detail; Brock, who asked you out at the gym, revealed five minutes in that he was a full-time YouTuber, pedalling incel content. His channel was called Crossbones and it had a grand total of 63 followers. You couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry when relaying it.

Nat bumps your shoulder with hers. “You know he’s been dying to. Put the poor guy out of his misery.”

You scoff. “Sam is not dying to take me out. That’s just an inside joke we have.”

“No, it’s definitely not.” Steve says. “Like, unquestionably. He’s into you.”

Your brain goes for a bit of a spin, face flushing with heat. This can hardly be how you find out that Sam has feelings for you. 

“Relax,” Nat laughs. “He just thinks you’re cute and he’d like to take you out. He’s not, like, in love with you.”

You slacken. This is familiar territory. Because, yeah, you kind of know that.

Sam had never made it a secret that he finds you attractive and recently, with you returning his advances more than ever before, he has stepped it up a bit. He hardly leaves your side at group events and flirts just a little bit more than a joke would call for.

He has asked you out on a date before. Three times, in fact - all in your first year of college. You said no every time, not just because you had tunnel vision on Bucky, but also because you knew that dating his friend was probably the most effective way to make sure that Bucky would never even think about dating you. 

But, as it turns out, Bucky never even thought about dating you anyway. And you still have tunnel vision for him, but maybe one good date with Sam could help fix that. 

But, still. 

“I don’t think I can,” you say, hesitantly. “We’re friends. It’s weird.”

“Well, keep flirting with him the way you are and he’s gonna ask you,” Wanda says. “I think you guys would be good together.”

You fumble for a bit, looking to Nat for help you don’t receive.

“I think he will eventually,” Steve says eventually, stretching back in the iron chair that is ridiculously too small for his giant frame. “But in the meantime, let me set you up with another buddy of mine. I think you’ll like him.

You are going to kill Steve. And bury him. And exhume him. So you can kill him again.

“And then she just… ended it. Out of nowhere.” Scott blubbers over his entree. You watch with mild discomfort as his teardrops slip into the thin soup in front of him. “Well, not out of nowhere, I guess, because I did get arrested. But it was a misunderstanding. It wasn’t, like, a proper gang. Nobody died.”

Steve had promised you Scott was one of the good ones. And it really seemed like he was, at first. He was handsome and polite and just so funny. He had you laughing so hard, you almost forgot about Bucky for a minute.

But you, of course, had to go ahead and ask him about his studies. Which led to him telling you he was taking a gap year due to an arrest half-way through the term. And, hey, you’re all for rehabilitation - who were you to turn someone down for their past mistakes? But the subject moved swiftly to his ex. Which resulted in… well, this.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, shifting awkwardly in your seat. You aren’t sure whether it would be considered insensitive to continue eating your bruschetta. “What’s her name?”

“Hope,” he sniffles.

How fitting. You hope that a semi-truck swerves into this restaurant right now and takes you both out. 

“Why don’t you just text her?” You can’t believe you’re giving your date advice on how to get back with his ex. This must be a new low, but you’re trying not to think about it.

“She blocked me. Like I meant nothing to her.”

Your wish of a semi-truck doesn’t quite come true. But Bucky Barnes, who you consider to be equally as destructive, walks through the doors of the restaurant at that moment.

Maybe it’s because you had been looking wistfully towards the exit, but you sometimes feel like you have a radar for him. Like he could be in a room of one thousand people and your eyes would automatically find him, like magnets. A ridiculous idea occurs to you because you think briefly that he might have the same radar for you. He doesn’t even have to scan the room to find you. 

You sink deeper into your chair, but you know he’s on his way over to your table, no matter what you do to try to prevent it. His eyes are dark and grave until he sees Scott’s miserable state.

“We ok over here? Scott, what did she do to you?”

Seeing him light up at your snivelling date sets you on fire. One side of his lip curls up in thinly veiled amusement and his eyes crinkle. He was laughing at him - and maybe at you too.

“What are you doing here, Bucky?” you ask.

He can’t even pull his eyes away from Scott who hasn’t stopped weeping, smile growing wider by the minute. “I love this place,” he says, distractedly.

That’s a lie. You know it is, because Bucky has never been here before. He goes to the same Thai restaurant every single time unless you force him to expand his horizons.

You’re growing bristles, each whimper from Scott adding fuel to a fire that’s already burning bright. Is he here to witness your car crash of a date? 

You’re furious at the intrusion, but mostly you’re just fucking embarrassed. You’re happy to joke about your failed dates with friends, even with Bucky, but him calling over to witness it with his own eyes is crossing a line. He really wants to bathe in how much of a fucking disaster it is, trying to get over him? You hope he’s enjoying his front row seat.

“She didn’t do anything,” Scott manages eventually. “Sorry, this is so weird of me. I just- we started talking about Hope and I lost it. I was just saying that she blocked me.”

You think it’s a bit inaccurate for him to say that ‘we’ started talking about Hope, but you let it slide.

“Maybe she needs space, man,” Bucky says, sliding into the booth beside you without invitation. “I mean, you fucked up bad. You were interning with her dad before you got arrested, right? Maybe you should go make it right with him first. She would probably appreciate that.”

Scott looks down, mulling over Bucky’s words as if they were a riddle to solve. 

“You’re right,” he says eventually. “You’re so right. I need to speak with Hank. I’ll go do that right now. Thank you, Bucky.”

He’s jumping up and out of the booth then, apologising profusely and throwing down fifty bucks before jogging out. You don’t bother telling him it’s too much - he probably stole it anyway. 

“Good kid,” Bucky laughs, tossing a casual arm around your shoulder. “Guess I’m your new date for the evening.

That is cruel. You shove his arm off with a bit too much force, rage rising its way up your gullet. “No you’re not. I’m leaving.”

“Woah, woah,” Bucky grabs your arms while you struggle to push him out, still chuckling softly. “What’s so bad about me, huh?”

You hadn’t really thought about how difficult it would be to get out of the booth with a mountain of a man sitting in the way. And there is a danger that you end up on his lap. So you stay put, huffing dramatically for good measure.

Bucky says nothing for a moment, doesn’t bait you into a response. He picks at your bruschetta, even though it has now gone cold.

“You give good relationship advice for someone who is chronically single,” you say eventually.

“I could be a good boyfriend for the right girl.”

And god, don’t you know it. It’s what is making this whole thing so much more painful. The way he had been able to read what Scott’s ex needed just by hearing about the situation is so him. You love how thoughtful he is, how he really thinks about things before acting. The way he makes you feel like you’re his first priority, even though you know it’s not true.

“Did Steve tell you I would be here?”

Bucky looks at you, as if weighing up whether or not to tell the truth. “Yeah,” he admits finally.

“And why the hell did you show up?”

The waitress comes to clear your starters then, a tall, pretty girl with a cute uniform. She is sneaking glances at Bucky out of the corner of her eye but he doesn’t see. He’s looking right at you.

“Don’t act like you didn’t need saving from that train wreck.”

“I didn’t,” you snap. “I don’t need you to save me from dates, Bucky. I can handle myself. This date was probably one of the best ones I’ve been on, actually.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to laugh at the sad truth you just shared. Your face softens involuntarily, a smile creeping onto your face before you can stop it. And a beat later, you’re both laughing, all the fight dissolving from you. You hate how difficult it is to stay mad at him.

“Why do you keep going on these stupid things? These guys are losers. Scott is a great guy but, doll, I would kill you if you started dating him for real. He doesn’t even come close to deserving you. None of them do.”

“What do you want me to do, Bucky? Stay alone forever?” you ask him, absently ripping up the napkin in front of you. “I just gotta go on enough of these things till I find someone decent.”

Bucky pauses, clearly deliberating his next words. The cold mental of his pinky finger brushes against your hand. “Would you date someone you already know is decent? Like, a friend?”

You sigh. “Steve and Nat already had this conversation with me.”

“Yeah?” Bucky is looking at you seriously now, eyes traversing your features while you twist uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, but… I don’t wanna make it weird.”

“Why would it be weird?” he asks, voice strangely soft. “I think…. I think it could be a good thing.”

Your face is flooding with heat and you mind begins racing, guilt flooding all circuits. You don’t look at Bucky. Even though you have now accepted that there is nothing between the two of you and never will be, you still feel weird talking about other men in front of him - especially Sam. As if you’re cheating on the Bucky that is your boyfriend in all the scenarios you imagine to help you fall asleep.

“Yeah, I mean, maybe. But I dunno. I feel like maybe we’re just friends. Sam’s obviously amazing and I know he wouldn’t be like any of these guys but-”

“Sam?” Bucky has been electrocuted, his eyes wide and concerned. “I thought all of that stuff was just a joke!”

His tone is surprises you for a moment, abrupt and forceful. You don’t take any notice of the waitress quietly putting out the main courses yourself and Scott ordered because Bucky is looking at you like you had just told him you were about to run off and join the travelling circus as one of the monkeys.

“Well, so did I, but Steve says he’s probably going to ask me out for real soon,” you say slowly. “Why? Who were you talking about?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything - just continues to stare with that same urgency, brows pressed together and mouth parted. You’re frowning right back.

“You can’t date Sam,” he says at last.

His voice is laced with such certainty, such finality, it pisses you off. Who the hell does he think he is? You’re aware that you have allowed much more than you should have throughout the years you have been friends with Bucky, but where the hell is he getting the idea that he can tell you who you should or shouldn’t date? In fact, who the hell does he think he is - barging in on your date, telling you that you shouldn’t date at all?

“What the hell are you talking about? I can date whoever I want, Bucky.”

He looks at you for just a second longer, brushing a frustrated hand through his hair.

And then his lips are on yours. 

You almost short circuit. You can’t stop whatshappeningwhatshappeningwhatshappen- from running through your brain. Bucky tugs your frozen body closer to him, as if begging you to respond to him.

And you can’t help it. The way you melt to goo around him.

Your hands reach up frantically. You’re pawing at his neck, tugging at his collar. You need him closer. And far be it from Bucky to deny you what you need.

His lips press softly to yours and his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You know what it feels like to be close to Bucky - you have fallen asleep with his body wrapped around yours - but kissing him is better than you had ever imagined, like he is moulding himself to you totally and completely. Like he is giving himself to you.

Except, when he starts rubbing absentminded circles on your hips, you go still, your brain conjuring the image of a blonde stranger at a dive bar a few months back. The one he was talking to instead of you. The one he was touching, just like this.

And suddenly you feel sick. You pull away from him and he’s looking at you, eyes bleary and dazed, like he had become drunk off the feel of you. He takes you in for a moment, eyes drifting to your swollen lips, before leaning in again.

Your right hand comes up between the two of you, reaching his chest - like a curtain falling between you. Bucky stops, watching you with some curiosity, an adorable little wrinkle forming between his brows. 

But you don’t move it. Because you’re thinking about the timing of this, putting everything together like puzzle pieces in your head. 

You start dating. And then Bucky kisses you.

Because he is annoyed at your sudden lack of attention to him? Or perhaps because he thinks you’re fair game for a one-night-stand now that you’re dating? You can’t decide which one is worse. Either option makes your stomach curl and your face blanche, because you thought you might have meant more to him. You thought that, despite all the one-night-stands and the manwhore tendencies, there was a place in his heart specifically for you - that you were somehow more important to him than all the other girls he fucked and dumped. Obviously not.

You climb swiftly onto his lap and Bucky gasps, clearly not expecting you to make such a bold move out of nowhere. But before he can react, you are clambering over him and out of the booth. He’s watching you like this is all moving much too fast for him.

“You’re a real asshole, Bucky. Leave me the fuck alone for a while,” you say, and you’re storming out of the restaurant before he has time to catch up.

BUCK: please doll can we talk about this?

You throw your phone back onto your nightstand and, just to stop yourself from replying to him, you gather your things and head over to the bathroom for a shower.

You’re vibrating with anxiety when you turn the dial and step under the warm stream of water, trying to manoeuvre your thoughts away from Bucky but coming up short.

You know you can’t keep avoiding him. The last four days have been hell - you’ve had to decline every group hangout, get your groceries delivered and even steer clear of the fucking library, safe in the knowledge that he was probably hanging around there to catch you.

Your hands are rubbing soap onto your body and massaging the shampoo into your hair a bit too aggressively. Truthfully, you are spiralling. You want so badly for that kiss he gave you to wake you up - snap you out of that sad delusion you have been harbouring since you first met him. But all it really did was make you fall twice as hard. You can’t stop picturing the way his lips felt on yours. You fall asleep to the memory, mind conjuring up the sensation of him sucking softly on your bottom lip and hands caressing your hips. Your subconscious doesn’t care that he had done that to a hundred girls before you, just that it had happened and it was real.

Wanda and Nat are getting worried. You recall the glances they give each other across the table when you tell them that you’re just going to stay in again tonight and study from your room as you let the warm water wipe away any traces of shampoo and replace it with this globs of conditioner. You have been pretending to not notice their concern so you don’t have to acknowledge it, but you know it’s just a matter of time before you’re confronted. 

You hadn’t said a word to Wanda or Nat about what happened in the restaurant. Not to Nat because you know she will just tell Wanda. And not to Wanda because you’re certain she will be so disappointed that you gave in and kissed him back, even if it was just for the briefest of moments. The logical part of you is screaming that she will understand and commend you for sticking up for yourself and leaving, but she had been so clear about what she expected from you that another part of you doubted it.

Mostly, though, you’re just afraid of what her reaction will be towards Bucky. Their relationship is already fraught - in no small part thanks to you. You think this might be the last straw for her. She may never speak to him again. 

You realise dully, as you dry your body and step into fresh pyjamas, that you are still protecting him. No matter how much he hurts you, you’ll still protect him. You’ll still want him.

By the time you leave the bathroom again, you’re feeling pretty refreshed. You still can’t stop that same scene from playing over and over again like a film behind your eyes, as if you’ve lost the remote for your brain. But at least you’ve finally gotten out of bed - your hair is clean, your teeth are brushed and your muscles are relaxed.

Until you take a step inside your room. Because there sits Bucky Barnes on the edge of your bed, fingers laced together and knee bouncing. You stop dead when he looks up at you.

“I did knock,” he says with a bashful grin and you spin on your heel to walk right out.

“No, wait. Sweetheart, please.”

You hesitate for just a moment, but it’s long enough for Bucky to make his way to you and coax you over to the centre of the room, hands gripping your wrists firmly. 

“Who let you in?” you ask, but you already know the answer. Because it sure as hell wasn’t Wanda.

“Nat. Don’t be mad at her, she’s worried about you.”

You keep your mouth shut, but you will so be giving Nat shit later on.

“How have you been?” he asks, shifting his weight to his right foot.

Really?

You give him your best unimpressed glower, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t respond.

“Doll, I’m sorry for what happened. It was too sudden, I get why you ran off. I should have spoken to you properly first. I’m sorry. But please, just talk to me.” His pretty blues are looking at you nervously for any trace of emotion, but you’re keeping it locked away.

“What do you want to talk about?” you say and even you can hear the frostiness in your tone.

“I want you to tell me why you ran away. Why you’re so angry at me for kissing you.”

Heat blooms in your chest for just a second. There it was - verbal confirmation that he had kissed you, that it wasn’t just another one of your dreams. You breath is stuttering.

“Because it’s wrong, Bucky. It’s not fair.”

“Why?” he presses, hands moving from your wrists to grip your hands. “What’s so wrong about it? Maybe if you just gave it a chance-”

“Give it a chance? Bucky, I’m not gonna be one of those girls. I’m actually really fucking offended that it even crossed your mind.”

“One of what girls?”

“One of your girls!”

Bucky pauses. He’s frowning to himself, as if mulling your words over again and again in his mind. It’s a strange thought, but you wonder briefly if things will ever be the same between you again. Maybe this is when you find out that Bucky never really saw you as more than a conquest. Maybe this is the end of what has been the most beautiful but unkind friendship of your life. 

When he finally speaks, he’s speaking so gently you almost don’t hear him.

“I don’t want you to be one of my girls, doll. I just want you to be… my girl. My only one.”

Your heart begins to gallop, something deep and sweet thrumming through your bloodstream, mixed with a sense of dread you can’t quite describe. Because what the fuck did he just say to you? And what the ever-loving fuck did it mean?

You had thought about this moment so often - every day, nearly. You had pictured every possible scenario, every possible monologue he could have put to you - overflowing with explanations and promises to change. But you had never imagined anything like this; Bucky standing in front of you, hands on your yours, fingers brushing over your knuckles. Eyes brimming with hope and desperation. Knocking your world off its axis with just one sentence.

You relish in this with a hammering heart and a guilty conscience. Because you know something isn’t right here; that this all backwards and wrong. You’re acutely aware that Bucky is acting out of desperation. He has felt you slipping away from him in the last few weeks, has complained about it to you and everyone else who will listen endlessly. This is his way of holding onto you in whatever way he can, even if it doesn't align with his real feelings. And you know you’ll have to acknowledge that once you begin speaking again, so you take liberties. You just watch him, living in this moment where you can still dream that you might say yes to being Bucky’s girl - his only one - for as long as you can.

“Please say something,” he mutters, shy and skittish.

“I’m not going to be your girl, Bucky,” you say and his face collapses. His hands let your own ones go gently and they drop to your sides. You try not to take notice. “You don’t want me to be your girl. You want me to be your friend that happens to do a lot of girlfriend stuff for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Something like frustration is creeping onto his features.

“You’ve had two years to say this, Bucky! Is it a coincidence that you suddenly bring up this shit once I start dating other people? I know you miss having my full attention, but this is a cruel tactic. It really is.”

“I’m not using any fuckin’ tactics, doll,” he fires back. “You really think that low of me?”

“What am I supposed to think? I’ve watched you fuck around with girl after girl for the last two years, Bucky. And now I’m supposed to believe that you’re, what-”

“In love with you, yes.”

He nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The annoyance never leaves his expression and there’s a bite to his tone - you think it might actually be fuelling his candidness. The room spins a bit and you feel lightheaded and sick- maybe lovesick-

“Fuck you. I don’t believe you.” You don’t register that you’re close to tears until you hear the sound of your voice - thin and wobbly.

“Doll,” he breathes, softening at the sound of your voice. You want to bury your head in the sand. You hate how frail you must look. You hate that he is making you refuse the thing you want more than anything else in the world. “I don’t know what to tell you. I love you. Always have.”

“That’s such bullshit, Bucky,” you spit and you do your best to ignore the rogue tears that you feel escaping. You watch his fingers twitch, fighting the instinct to wipe them for you, but he knows by the furious look on your face that it is not a good idea. “You don’t make the person you love watch you get with other people, night after night. You don’t only ask them to be yours when you’re scared they might start dating someone else.”

You feel so idiotic and childlike, standing in front of him and letting two years worth of heartbreak ooze out of your voice and eyes and skin. It’s all flooding out and it’s too late to close the gates. It’s so fucking humiliating that it takes you a few beats to even look at him.

When you do, you see that Bucky is frozen to the spot. There’s something uncertain there - in his eyes, in the line between his brows, in the small wrinkle by his lips, which are pressed in a hard line as he watches you. It disappears as soon as your gaze meets his. His jaw slackens, lips parting ever-so-slightly. He puffs out a breath and you know he sees it - sees the way you’ve suffered over the last two years.

And you realise you were right. Because nothing will ever be the same. You can never again pretend to be ok with him sleeping around. You can never again sleep in the same bed and pretend it means nothing. And you think maybe it’s about time - that this is all ridiculously overdue, even. You’re simultaneously mourning the loss of your old relationship with Bucky, while breathing out a sigh of relief. You’ll never have to play the part of yourself - the cool girl who is totally ok with being second priority in his life - ever again.

“I didn’t know!” 

He’s grabbing you again, hands clutching yours as if you’re about to slip away. His eyes are glossy and pleading, voice cracking. His intensity startles you. You don’t know how to think with him this close.

“Stop.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Fuck- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Stop it.”

“If I knew, it would have been so different but I didn’t so it wasn’t! You need to understand.”

But you don’t. He’s speaking too fast and you’re still crying and you think he might be too but you’re not sure. He’s talking and talking and he won’t stop, you can’t even hear him anymore. 

You put your right hand up - a silent signal that you need a moment - and he understands instinctively. The room goes silent. He shepherds you over to the bed with all the gentleness and care in the world, like you’re made of glass, and you hate him because why does that make your heart squeeze?

Your mind is spinning but Bucky doesn't press you - just gives you the time you need to recoup in that annoyingly thoughtful way of his. He is shuffling around nervously, stretching so his t-shirt expands against his skin, leg bouncing. You can feel his eyes - guilty, despondent and oh so pretty. They’re lighting up your skin and you wish they would look somewhere, anywhere else but they never move.

You’re attempting to get a grip on how things stand, fighting to get back just an ounce of control. 

Bucky now knows how you feel about him. He’s still claiming to love you - right? Or is that all out the window now that he knows how you’ve agonised over him? And you have absolutely no idea how you two will ever come back from this with any semblance of a relationship intact.

“Can you tell me I haven’t fucked this all up already?” 

Bucky looks stretched thin. He is looking at you like a man ruined, but still deerlike and hopeful. Like his whole future hedges on the next words to come out of your mouth, but he’s not optimistic.

“None of this makes sense,” you landed on after some deliberation. “I think you’re doing this to not lose me. But that’s not going to work, Buck.”

“But I’m not!” and he’s begging you now, crawling onto his knees in front of where you sit - eyes downcast. You like how he looks down there, you decide.

“I didn’t know, sweetheart. I swear I didn’t.” You can tell he’s avoiding using the words - saying outright that you love him, in case he’s wrong. In case he was mistaken about what he could now read clear as day in your eyes. You decide to remove any doubt. It’s all out on the table, anyway.

“How could I tell you that I loved you when you were with a new girl every night?”

Bucky is destroyed. His throat is bobbing up and down and you think it might have something to do with the past-tense you used. That dreaded word - ‘loved’. It’s a lie - you love him as much as ever, maybe even more. You’re just trying to hold on to the final scrap of your dignity.

“You always said you don’t date, doll. I figured if you felt anything for me, you wouldn’t go ‘round saying that. Was just trying to move on. Couldn’t even go through with it most of the time, was too in my head ‘bout you. Ended up leaving and texting you instead.”

Your mouth fills with marbles. You search his face for any hints of doubt or dishonesty but he looks up at you with that unwavering certainty that you have never seen in anyone else. Could that be true?

He squishes his left cheek against your bare thigh hesitantly, like he’s expecting you to throw him off. You don’t. You’re not really prepared for the wave of relief that washes over you after finding out that he hadn’t really been sleeping with other girls before crawling into your bed. You weren’t aware of just how much it had been weighing on you, but you feel ten tons lighter.

“Been trying to tell you for weeks now. Ever since I found out you started dating,” he admits, sheepishness creeping into his eyes which still have yours on lock. “Figured maybe you might be willing to give me a chance. But you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I started dating because I was fed up waiting for you to see me,” you say, and you can hear your voice softening against your will. 

“I always saw you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Always saw you. Never saw anyone else but you.”

You don’t say anything. What can you say?

“Am I too late?”

You want to say no. You want to trust everything that he’s saying is true - that you can forget all about the mess he made of you. But can you?

“I don’t know, Bucky I need to think.”

He nods, like it’s what he had been expecting. But you know him better than that. You know that he’s trying to mask his disappointment, to save you the guilt. Ironically, it makes you feel worse.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

He doesn’t move his chin from your thigh immediately. Instead, he drinks you in with his eyes - as if it’s the last time he will ever see you. When he stands, he presses a kiss, deep and sweet, to your hair. He gives you a small, watery smile. You watch his back as he walks out the door.

In the end, it’s Wanda who is Bucky’s biggest defender.

“I hate to give it to him. Like, as in- I really can’t fucking describe how much I hate to give it to him. But his explanation does make sense, when you think about it from his point of view. Which I will not make a habit of doing, but still…”

You lower your eyeliner pencil, only half way through with your right eye. Nat’s hand freezes, until a light burning smell begins to shroud your room, prompting her to lower the hair straightener.

“You’re… on his side?” Nat croaks. You can’t tell whether it’s amusement or genuine shock on her face.

“No, never,” Wanda defends herself, turning to you. “I’m on your side. Always. And in this particular circumstance, I do think he is telling the truth. So as your best friend who wants nothing more than for you to be happy - even if that must be with the biggest idiot this world has ever known - I think maybe you should consider forgiving him.”

You’re still too stunned to speak. Nat is laughing from somewhere behind you.

“I hope you know what it took for me to say that,” she says grumpily, turning back to the mirror.

“I agree,” Nat says, finally. “I mean he’s a dumbass, obviously. But it does make sense.”

You don’t say anything - continue to work on your eyeliner while Nat and Wanda discuss whether or not Hope and Scott would turn up in a couples costume. Rumour has it that they had made amends. Good for them, you guess.

You are sporting a flirty little yellow dress - Belle from Beauty and the Beast, if the hem of her dress was about 25 inches shorter, with cleavage to boot. You are mildly self-conscious, watching the trimming of the skirt where it sways at your upper thigh. Last year, you had been Abraham Lincoln for Halloween. You had been planning on being Gandalf this year, but the thought of having to face Bucky for a serious conversation with a long, grey beard made you change course at the last minute.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you wanted to impress him.

It’s been a few days since your conversation in your bedroom, and you still haven’t spoken. Not even a text. Nat has been telling you that he has been asking about you - checking whether you are doing ok - but it doesn’t make it sting any less to pick up your phone in the morning and realise he still hasn’t checked in.

Which is ridiculous. Because you wanted this, right? You’re the one who specifically asked him for space to think - how can you be disappointed now that he is giving you what you want?

But you can’t help it. You’re playing reruns in your head of how he told you he was in love with you, how broken he looked when he realised what you feel for him too, the moment in the restaurant when he kissed you. They’re interrupted only by intrusive thoughts that you have of imagining him with other girls. You wonder if maybe he has already moved on to someone else, if he’s warming someone else’s bed while he waits for your answer.

Realistically, you know that’s not true. You know that’s not him. But it doesn’t stop it from running around unbidden in your mind.

You miss the pregame for the pregame this time, too busy adjusting your makeup, fixing your hair, stressing over your outfit. You almost change multiple times, tempted into a safer black outfit with cat ears, but Nat and Wanda wouldn’t hear of it.

You can hear the noise from the boys’ apartment from across the street and it only gets louder as you approach. The music is so loud, some rap song with a beat so heavy that you can feel it reverberating inside your ribs. You’re sure they’re probably ignoring multiple complaints. Many loud voices are chatting and giggling and shouting - an equal measure of boys and girls, you note against your will.

Nat walks into the apartment without ringing the bell as usual. You almost wish she did so you would have another few seconds to compose yourself. Wanda sends you a reassuring smile, bumping your shoulder with hers lightly, and the two of you follow her in.

The lights are low, retro neon lights flickering off the plastered walls. There’s a styrofoam skeleton hanging from the ceiling and a killer clown statue in the corner that makes you shiver. Hope and Scott pass you by, dressed as two insects, which makes Wanda roll her eyes and fish a $10 note out of her pocket for Nat. Scott shoots you an embarrassed smile which you return. 

Like magnets, your eyes find Bucky instantly when you walk into the open plan kitchen. As if all your worst fears have just materialised in front of you, there is a girl standing in front of him, curling a strand of hair around her finger, and your heart plummets. You rip your gaze away, knees feeling as if they might buckle from under you.

“Look at him,” Wanda whispers. She gives you an encouraging nod and you look back at him, focusing this time on Bucky alone, rather than the girl making love-heart eyes at him. 

He looks out-of-it. He is giving the girl a polite smile, responding to her with short sentences you can’t quite lip-read, but his eyes are flickering away, searching the other faces in the room. He is leaning away, presumably making up some excuse to leave, when his eyes catch yours. 

Wanda whispers something - maybe good luck? - and recedes into the crowd when she notices him walking toward you, clutching his beer with a tight grip, jaw twitching nervously. When he reaches you, you’re greeted with an anxious, tired face. Now that he’s closer, you can see the dark shadow under his eyes.

“You look… wow,” he says sheepishly, straightening his jacket awkwardly while his eyes travel your form.

“High praise from… Jim Halpert?”

“Clark Kent, actually,” he smiles, opening up a button of his shirt to show you the bright red ’S’ underneath. “But I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

You flush. How the hell does he just do that? You can barely speak.

“I was expecting Gandalf,” he continues. He’s mouth is twitching nervously, and you think maybe he’s trying to prevent you from evaporating like smoke.

“Steve told you about that?”

He nods. “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see it.”

“Didn’t know you were into that.”

When you’re laughing together again, you can almost swear nothing had passed between you at all. He gets that sparkle back into his eyes - the one he was missing on the walk over to you. The grin dancing on his lips is so pretty and hopeful.

Your laughs taper off, but his smile doesn’t. He is just looking at you like you are something wonderful. And it’s doing strange things to your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren't coming,” he says quietly, after a moment. “Was thinking about you a lot the last couple days.”

“Me too,” you breathe, legs shaky.

“Are you still mad at me?”

You consider it for a moment. Bucky looks slightly petrified, his chin tucked low and eyes round. His lips are raw from being bitten, but he catches his bottom lip in his teeth anyway, chewing it as you deliberate.

“A little bit,” you say. “But I do believe you now… after thinking about it.”

He nods, and you can see a little bit of relief claim his features.

“And I can probably admit that maybe I should have communicated a bit more,” you continue. “It was wrong for me to assume you knew what was going through my head.”

“No, I’m the one-” He’s shaking his head, and you smile, cutting him off by placing a hand on his chest. He stops dead, his flesh arm instinctively reaching up to cover yours. He swallows hard.

“But I’m going to communicate now. I love you. I have for a long time. And I only want to be yours, nobody else in the picture. If that’s not what you want-”

You don’t get to finish your thought. Bucky’s lips are on yours then, faster than you can blink. One hand is snaking through your hair, ruining the style you spent far too long on, but you can’t bring yourself to care - you’re pressing yourself closer to him, eager to feel every hard plane of his body against yours. Your hands crawl up to his neck, pawing at him and rubbing circles there until he sighs against your lips.

“That’s what I want. It’s all I want.”

You’re smiling at him then and you heart aches so fiercely with love that you can’t speak for a moment, pressing small, giddy kisses to his mouth instead. Bucky can hardly reciprocate, he’s beaming so wide, so you get more teeth than lips, but you don’t care. You feel like two children, giggling with cheesy smiles that can’t be dampened, even by the knowledge that your friends are looking on.

a/n: i don't wanna see anyone up in this bitch complaining that he should have grovelled more bc this fic burnt me the hell out, i almost made her forgive him instantly just to end my suffering lmao

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal

[sheriff-bodecker]

a lesson in devotion <𝟑 .ᐟ

pairing: bestfriend!bucky x f!reader

summary: after picking you up from your failed date, seeing your eyes red rimmed and cheeks tear stained, Bucky can’t help but let everything he’s been holding back from you go.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut & fluff, crying, being stood up, dating apps, self-deprecation, texting & phone calls, reader uses sarcasm to deflect, sexual jokes, petnames (sweetheart, sweet girl, baby…), whipped!bucky, making out, kitchen to the bed, dirty talk, oral (f!rec), fingering, unprotected pinv, creampie, missionary, seb’s tongue thing (and his face scrunch), (failed) riding, subspace, cocky!bucky, (soft)dom!bucky, multiple orgasms (like three), multiple positions (like two), slight cockwarming, MAAAD BDB (bucky's got a big dick and he knows it) . . . - (wc: 7.7k)

a/n: THANK YOU TO THIS ANON ASK !!!! in my brain, 'bestfriend' automatically turns into 'college!bucky' but really, you can imagine however you like lol <3 (he is broke tho so.) im so sorry this is late, fhsdufghfsf i didnt think this would turn into a 7k word porno lmfao

masterlist || navigation

✴︎ reader is mentioned to have hair, and wears a dress, heels and make-up at the beginning. bucky also carries reader from kitchen to bed. (readers favourite movie is also Almost Famous here, why? because im self indulgent and it's a good movie.)

✴︎ it's mentioned that bucky lives in an apartment with steve, unrelated to the plot, just mentioned (as well as a couple mentions of steve/nat. also alpine is mentioned once !!)

✴︎ if i'm missing any tags please kindly let me know !!

The restaraunt still hums behind you, bustling with couples and soft, orange lighting, perfect for the night's celebrations, all the while you stand under the tiny awning trying to keep dry, arms clinging around your chest in an attempt to retain as much heat in as possible. Your hands balled into fists, one clutched your purse beneath your bicep, and the other holds your heels, feet soaked and numb, two-stepping with desperation.

You whine softly under your breath as the rain keeps pouring, sputtering against the covering and pavement, teeth chattering, chest heaving with a mix of anger and distress.

He didn't show.

After months of talking, of smiley faces and hearts sent at ungodly hours of the night, praise exclaimed with a smile on your face to friends, and a reservation you had made a week in advance, waiting for any sign to come through after an hour of waiting with a bouncy knee and chewed up lip, your chest caved inwards as a new story was posted on his account fifteen minutes ago, and your messages were simply left on read.

Calling him, demanding an explination, was pointless. It's too late to care, even as the rage boils up, heating up your stomach and shoulders, it all fizzles as exhaustion wipes over your body.

Useless. All of your attempts, the kind words that slipped from your lips about him, the reservation, the dress you kept stashed in the back of your closet, the heels you wore for special occasions, the make-up and hair you spent hours on; it was all for nothing. And now, standing pathetically outside the building, curled into yourself, you felt utterly useless.

Sniffling, you unlock your phone and, like muscle memory, find the familiar contact. Bucky. Humour is all you could ever conjure up when times felt difficult for you, even if he, your best friend, would tilt his head and eye you disapprovingly. Never malicious, his smirk would ghost his lips ever so slightly, nudging at your elbow with his own, but it's enough to get you to stop being so hard on yourself.

But tonight. You cant help but believe you deserve it.

you: the spinster life is really calling for me

bucky: you okay??

you: tbh not really lol is it okay if you could possibly pick me up? sorry if ur busy i can call an uber

Just as you clicked the little blue arrow to send the last message, Bucky's picture flooded the screen like a lifeline, and by the first buzz you were picking up.

"Hey—"

"What happened?" His voice, though crackly and muffled, eased your chest. Tone firm, curious, you can almost hear the crease between his brow.

"Hello to you too," you attempt to deflect with sarcasm, huffing a shitty attempt of a laugh and scratching your nose after a couple seconds of gruelling silence, you sighed. "I got stood up."

"Shit, i'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Not even the worst part," this time you laugh for real, "sent him some messages, turns out he's out at some party tonight, and this fucker had the nerve to leave me on read. And I stayed in the restaurant for an hour, Bucky! An hour!"

"You still at the restaurant?"

"Outside, yeah. They gave me that pitiful look, but they gave me some free bread." You hear him suck in a heavy breath, sucking his teeth like a wince, through the phone. You know the bread is already free, but its the thought that counts, right?

"You under a cover? Or at least have some kinda shelter?" You listen as he tugs on his sneakers with a huff.

"I'm under the awning but im absolutely soaked and not in the way I hoped, so," you snort weakly, "we're both pretty useless tonight."

Hesitating his movements, he tuts, brow furrowing into a scowl. "Don't say that."

"The wet part or the useless part?"

"The useless part," dragging a hand down his face, Bucky winces. "Look, i'll be there in ten, try not to freeze for me, 'kay?"

"Thank you, Bucky, seriously."

"Don't even, i'd do anything for you."

"Shut up."

He hums over the phone, "it's true."

"Sap."

"i can take the long way and make you wait another twenty—"

“You wouldn’t dare, James,” you’re sure he can hear your smile through the receiver. With a sigh you flex your fingers in and out, trying to relieve them of the cold numbness. “Plus my hands are going numb, and I kinda desperately need them.” you joke, sniffling. “You on your way?”

A car door slams, “Just got in,” his seatbelt clicks and engine revs, “you wanna stay on call or should i leave you to your thoughts.”

Tipping your head back against the brick wall, you let out a heavy sigh.“I’ll be fine with my thoughts. Gotta make sure the whole story’s straight before I give you a migraine.”

You both snicker on each end, a rustle coming through his own as he wipes his hand over his cheek and through his hair. You both stay in a few seconds of relaxed silence, warmth already seeping through your joints as you clear your throat, toeing at a pebble. "Thanks, Buck."

"I'll see you in a bit, sweetheart."

It takes six minutes before you see headlights pool against the asphalt. Tyers squeak as he haults to a stop and Bucky hops out, tugging off his jacket and sliding it over your shoulders despite your protests, making sure to flip the hood up over your head and zip it up. He guides you towards the passenger side with a palm against your lower back without a second thought. He opens the door for you, giving you a clumsy smile as you squint playfully his way.

The instant heat from the A/C hits your cheeks immediately. You groan, clicking your seatbelt in place, before holding your hands out to the heat, using the sleeves of Bucky's hoodie like kindling. It feels like you can finally breathe again.

“Yours or mine?” He asks, shuffling into the drivers seat, shaking his wet hair like a shaggy dog, and tugging his seatbelt on.

“Yours,” You reply, unsteady and croaky. “I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”

Bucky nods as he drives off, “Well, lucky for you, Steve is out with Nat, and I was gonna order some takeout and watch a movie,” he adds softly, “also, you didn’t actually have a choice, you were coming to my place either way.”

Letting out a laugh, your body shifts in his presence. "Better than some pity bread and 27 Dresses."

Years of friendship, odd talks and questions while walking around town at ungodly hours of the night, tipsy confessions at parties in the host's bathtub, and the closeness the two of you built, it all eases the pain and misery like balm on a wound.

"So. Talk to me." His gaze flickers over to your slumped figure. Tired eyes, damp dress, hands held outwards while you pulse your fingers to get the blood bumping.

A tired noise escapes your mouth, what was supposed to be a simple sigh, now opened the dam to the waterworks, as hard as you tried to supress the tears. You breathed in and out, counted, and Bucky kept driving, his jaw locked and tense, eyes flickering between you and the road as you as your lip trembled and eyes glossed over with unshed tears. It isn't until his hand rests on your thigh, just above your knee, giving it an assuring squeeze, does your mouth finally run. Stomach twisting with a warmth you didn't want to acknowledge.

"I don't even know why I try," you whisper, voice wavering, swallowing thickly. "I mean, the reservation was for seven, I got there at six-fifty," sinking backwards into the seat, you cross your arms, fiddling at the drawstrings. You laugh humourlessly, "I checked my phone like a dumbass every five minutes."

Bucky's hand presses your knee again, thumb caressing your skin in reassurance, humming and nodding you on.

"I waited for so long, waiters would come by asking when he would show, but I saw the looks on their faces when they turned around. After like an hour, I saw that fucking story and I…" Sighing and shrugging, you barely notice the warm tears streaking down your cheeks. "I don't know why I keep finding guys like that… I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"I sat there and waited for an hour." You replied monotonously.

His chest puffs, a laugh spilling from his lungs, incredulously. Lips parting, the hand that sat snug against your thigh now wiping over his face in disbelief, and you shiver at the loss. "Why?"

"I thought, cus' it was raining a-and it's valentines, it was busy, there was no parking or something," you gulp thickly, "or…he couldn't find the place — thought if I left, he'd turn up and think I bailed," hiding your face in your hands, you inhale shakily, letting the scent of Bucky invade your senses, "It was our first date, I didn't want to just give up so fast."

The car rolls to a stop, yet Bucky doesn't cut the engine, letting the heaters run just a little longer. He rubs his hands down the thighs of his jeans, exhaling a sharp breathe before turning to you. "The right guy wouldn't just leave you sitting there wondering or waiting for a whole hour. He'd make sure you never had to second guess yourself. He'd show up,"

You stare blankly at your hands in your lap, picking at your cuticles while you listen to him.

Bucky's hand grips your shoulder, "You're too sweet for your own good, y'know that?"

A small simper eases on your face, chuckling under your breath. "So i've been told." You catch his eyes, staring at you with the kind of intensity that makes your stomach flip, reciprocating the smile. The action hits your chest, a full bullseye straight into the heart that makes your ribs shiver and lip wobble.

"I just don't understand," you whisper. "Why do that? Why just waste my time?"

"Because he's a coward," he remarks immediately, catching you off guard. Whipping your head back to look at him, his eyes still latch onto your face, and his fingers tease the soft hairs at the nape of your neck. Chills errupt down your back. "C'mon, lets get you dried up. I'll order pizza."

"Bucky—"

Before you could protest, he's already retrieving his keys and shuffling out. "Nope, don't even. It's valentines and you deserve to be treated right," he adds in a murmur, "even if it's by a broke guy with takeout and a DVD."

The apartment isn't messy, but it's never exactly clean. The right amount of chaos that borders on homely, yet very obviously owned by two guys who don't really care enough.

An old leather couch sits against the wall, the couch you helped pick out with Bucky, Steve and Nat at the thrift store, strewn atop were layers of blankets; some woven, some crocheted, all piled like someone had laid among them beforehand, as well as a peaceful ball of white fluff that made herself a cave underneath the ruckus. Posters stuck neatly on the wall where the sofa rest, framed to make the place look decent, and not like the bachelor pad it absolutely is. A coffee table adorned with years of cup stains laid crooked, Steve's abandoned laptop sat shut, along with a candle you bought as a sarcastic house-warming gift, remotes and controllers.

Physical media stayed stored meticulously. DVDs and games stayed hidden beneath the TV cabinet, and CDs the roomie's shared were lined up on shelves.

It's your second home. You love it.

You jump a little as Bucky rubs your biceps, easing heat into your skin with his hoodie. "Let's go to my room, i'll get you some new clothes." he mumbles, using his hold to stir you down the hall.

His room captured his essance and charm. Nerdy, boyish, you often teased him for the 'indie sleaze' vibe that exudes from the place, but he never denied.

The little things had their order; books and CDs alphabetised were always alphabetised, though band and movie posters stuck against all four walls in no particular order, or care, but it fit too well. His bed was made, yellow and green tartan, and a messily made blanket you'd crochet after 'buying too much yarn' and 'needing a new project'. Bucky had staked claim over it at your place, always wrapping it up and over his head or using it for naps, so ultimately, you decided to bring it over one night.

You can't help the smile that seeps into your features. A little bit of you in Bucky's room.

As you stare like you haven't been in this exact spot since the moment he had moved in, he rummages through his closet, humming to himself. Gentle tunes and clicks of his tongue.

"This shirt and," he drawls, hand stretched out to pass the item — a stretched out henley he only wears on laundry days or as a sleep shirt — while he sticks his other hand in his drawer, tongue out and eyes squinted before pulling out some sweatpants and socks.

"These," he grunts as he stands, extending the clothes out.

"You can get changed in here, just put your laundry in the basket, I can do it later," he inhales sharply. You nod, whispering a soft thanks as he ducks his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets as he makes his way to the door. "I'll make some tea. That sound okay?"

You smile, "perfect," the word catches in your throat, "thanks again, Buck, really—"

He cuts you off with a straightened palm and a toothy smile, "It's nothing. You know i'd do this for you in a heartbeat," he scratches his neck while silence envelops you. Warm, syrupy, like a heavy blanket wrapped around the two of you in the dead of winter. "I'll be in the kitchen."

As the door clicks shut, your lungs deflate, only to fill with the pure scent of Bucky like your body runs on him.

Heart thumping against your chest, one thought plagues in your brain as you rid yourself of your clothes.

You need your best friend, and not in the way you'd assumed in the past.

And tonight, you can't help but believe he needs you as well.

His sweatpants droop around your hips a little and his henley sags slightly off one shoulder, baring your collarbone as you shuffle into the kitchen.

Cozy and small, fairy lights strung under the cabinets, washing the room in a soft yellow glow. Dishes stack on the drying rack; plants sit against the windowsill, half dying, yet still holding on; The fridge, covered in reciepts, reminders, stickers and magnets — a small whiteboard reads 'need more groceries.' Followed by, 'get some then??'; Fridge-poetry stuck haphazardly in sentences created during early mornings and toothpaste stained shirts for a half second exhale through the nose; '[women] [make] [awesomest] [world]', '[drunk] [cigarettes] [do] [not] [count]', '[your] [mom]'. It's soft hum plays beneath the tension.

The floor creaks as you make your way, signaling your entry. Buck's eyes flitter up for an instant, only to look up again as you lean against the counter, despite the discomfort as it digs into your waist. He exhales at your presence, bare-faced, having wiped off your make-up in the bathroom, with a shy smile tugging your cheeks.

He's hunched over the worksurface, stirring the bags of chamomile into each respective mug, mismatched. Holding out a cup out to you with a tight lipped smile, your fingers graze as you take the drink, the soft ember that sat in the pit of your stomach since the phone call lit up once again, hitching your breath. Bucky clears his throat, ducking his head to hide the faint blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"I got your favourite movie paused in the other room," you hum inquisitively as you press the mug to your lips, sipping softly, letting the warmth seep onto your tastebuds. "Almost Famous."

He keeps stirring the teabag around his cup, evading eye contact. You beam softly at his remembrance. "That's on streaming now?"

Shaking his head, he taps the spoon against the rim and lays it on the surface, facing you fully. "No, I-uh, I got the DVD."

“Really?" He nods, "For me?”

“For you,” he replies immediately. Then, quieter, “So you’d have it here.”

Your throat tightens. Holding the ceramic against your mouth, your arm comes up to cross over your chest.

He lifts the tea to his lips but doesn’t drink, letting the scent ease his mind. He sighs, approaching warily before he asks, “… Can I ask?”

You nod once and his cup clicks against the countertop, "why do you keep choosing the most emotionally unavailable guys?"

You snort, "straight to the point."

"I'm serious."

Leaning against the edge of the counter, inhaling deeply. The scent of the tea and Bucky lingers in the air. His cologne, the one you helped him pick out last spring; bergamot, with a hint of spice.

You huff as it hits your nose and pools in your stomach, "You're gonna laugh."

"I wont." he replies plainly, arms crossed, lips tight.

You can barely look at him in the eye, voice low and anxious, as if you've never told him your deepest secrets in the dead of night. You set your mug down beside his.

"I think… I believe I can fix them," shrugging stiffly, you proceed feebly. "Don't know why. Something dumb inside me thinks I have this power to change them, prove people wrong when they tell me i'm just gonna get my heart broken."

Before you could register, Bucky stood upright. "Sweetheart," his hands hold your shoulders, facing him fully. His thumbs drag softly against your collarbones, barely there touches that tingle too hard and make your heartbeat shudder.

He has this smile on his face, lazy and sweet, the kind he gets after a movie marathon that ends with your head on his shoulder, trying to fight off sleep. A gentle tilt of his lips, and you cant help but stare at how pink they look.

"You dont need to prove people wrong, or fix anyone. At all. Nobody does," his thumbs don't stop their movements, but his hands — his big, warm hands — slowly move upwards. "You, of all people, don't deserve to put all your time and energy on some asshole who won't even think twice about you. 'Fixing' someone isn't your problem, it's not your responsibility, it's theirs."

You gulp, his hands rest against the nape of your neck like they're meant to be there, thumbs against your throat, right where your pulse thumps under his pads. It's his turn to pause, to swallow.

Silence rings thickly through the kitchen.

"Is this okay?"

Without a thought, your own hands slip around his wrists, keeping him in place. "Yeah— yes."

He nods, looking down at the floor like it had answers. Breathing in deep, expeling with puffed cheeks, he faces you again, whispering, "can I tell you something?"

"Anything." You reply. Your own thumbs graze the silky skin of his inner wrists, a move unconsious, instinctive.

"I—I, You—" shaking his head, you smile softly at his flustered expression. He inhales again.

"I've been right here," he confesses, "watching them constantly disappoint you, use you. It makes me want to say, do, something so selfish."

Your breath hitches, hands tighten around his arms. You're so sure he can feel how hard your heart is beating through your neck, how it bumps against the henley against your chest.

"Selfish?" You ask, "how?"

He trails up your neck, tighter than before, a hold that showed protection. Fingers tangling within your locks, unlocking another hitch from your lungs without permission. You only just notice how close you two stand, chests grazing, breath against breath. And his eyes, those gorgeous blues that now sit a deep navy, darker than the deepest waters ready to swallow you up, flitter between your own and your lips.

"By making sure you never second guess yourself," he inches closer, "by giving you what you deserve," dipping down closer, his breath mingles against your slack lips, touching with barely there grazes that make your knees weak. "By letting myself want you out loud."

Neither of you move, letting the air shift heavier than before. The closeness, the contact of your hands on each others skin, the breath skimming lips, it all jumbles into one another, mixing with years of inside jokes, shared playlists and sleepovers, all suddenly rearrange themselves to reveal something hiding beneath a love once disguised as 'friendship'.

His name escapes without permission, your mouth desperate to feel the shape of his name. It tugs at his skin, "I have to show you how much you mean to me, sweetheart."

Your hands find his shirt so naturally. Bucky inhales sharply, like he’s been waiting, like all the restraint he's been holding, keeping in check, can finally overflow.

The kiss is breathless. Deep, certain, clumsy with desperation and unspoken words, your tummy knots with just how sweet it feels to be needed like air.

His hands that tangled into your hair now drag down your torso, steady on your hips, anchoring you as everything from hours before collapses. Mugs sit forgotten as his touch grazes lower and his body turns to pin your back against the counter. The world narrows to heat and breath, the way you hum into his mouth, and the way he murmurs your name like it’s something sacred.

Your body moves on it's own. Legs parting, hands clutching his waist as his tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you accept him like you always have. Bucky slots himself between your thighs, pushing you both closer and closer, and you feel the unmistakable shape of his erection pressing into your hip. You whine in surprise as it drags against you, grabbing his waist, pressing yourself into him. He smirks into the kiss, pulling back an inch, letting the cold tip of his nose skim your cheek.

"I know," he soothes, palming down to your thighs, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "I know, baby. C'mon, up for me." He lifts you, now sitting atop the surface and he closes the distance like no time passed.

As your hands find refuge in his hair, Bucky fingers the waistband of your sweats, tucking them into the elastic at your lower back, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh, moving your hips into his own until the two of you meet in between with a corse gasp.

"Can I take these off?" He rasps against your cheek, trailing lower with each second, and each ragged exhale that sticks to your sensitive skin. "Talk to me, baby."

"Yes, yes please."

Buck's smile melts into your skin. Pressing open mouthed kisses from your jaw down to your neck, all the while his hands keep tugging the flesh of your ass, each grab becoming needier and harder as he wanders his lips down, licking and sucking. You gasp with each peck, head tipping back in ecstasy, allowing him more freedom against your tendons, grazing his teeth, nipping at your collar, only to sooth with his wet tongue.

The feeling was immeasurable, fingers curling against his soft tufts, tugging him back with a dissipated pop, spit stringing from your neck against his plump lips.

Squeezing, he nuzzles back into your clavicle, "Hips up, there we go."

Hooking your ankles behind his back and hoisting yourself up with your hands pressed against the worktop, he frees your bottom-half, tugging the sweatpants down your legs.

Unlocking your legs from behind, Bucky begins his descent. Lower, shearing over his own shirt, humming into the fabric, pinching with his lips and teeth against the curve of your breasts in worshipful reverence, before following his hands, pushing the pants off your socked feet.

Dabbing chaste kisses to your knees as he presents himself between them, he sits obediently. Palms warm atop your knees, keeping them spread wide, lips and jaw open in soft pants that tickle your inner thighs, and his eyes lock in to the sight of your panty clad core. Black lace. A matching set you kept 'just in case'. You watch him stare from above, hands slightly slipping from sweat, watching him lean in closer to where you ache for him, clutching you wide by the soft skin of your thighs.

Opening you up, he huffs a harsh breath, hot on the dampening cloth.

"Wow," he drags out, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. His thumbs pull you open, tugging each side of your lips against the lace, trapping your clit, stroking your velvety skin up and down. The shock twitches your hips, bucking your knees up, placing one foot on his shoulder, letting the other open wider. "Wore these for, what… that guy?"

Warmth blossoms from top to bottom. A new etch of redness soaks your face, as a new wave of arousal paints the lace. The scent of it hits him and his heart rate picks up, cock stiffening against his boxers, sore and craving. You begin to protest, just it's quickly silenced.

"Could've been so lucky," he sucks his teeth, "oh well." Tugging your panties off ardently, he shoves them in his pack pocket. You laugh airily, but it's quickly overthrown by a shocked gasp as his mouth finally dives between your thighs.

One long broad swipe of his tongue, flat against your cunt, collecting your arousal against his taste buds. You call out his name, one hand rakes through the back his head, grounding you, while the other steadies against the counter. Groaning, his lips purse around your clit, suckling the nerve before placing a debauched kiss atop. He pushes spit out his mouth, drooling over your lips and pulling back with a grin.

"Taste better than I imagined," he grunts. Suddenly his thumb swipes over your folds, collecting the dribble falling down, smearing it up, before pressing the pad on your clit. Soft, eager, circles that make your abs clench and jaw drop. Breathy moans and whines fill the quiet of his apartment.

He looks up at you with adoration, "sound better too." He purrs, diving straight back home, nuzzling into your cunt, moving his thumb out of the way to tease your entrance with a finger. His tongue slides through your lips, locking through your arousal, wiping broad licks over your clit. You tip your head back, eyelids fluttering as he spreads you apart.

Heaving, your legs already shake, thighs trembling, pussy pulsing in his hold, while each and every inch of your body erupts with tingles of bliss. His words don't register, can't. Not while your mind and body are too occupied with his dual attack. Tongue swiping over your clit; sucking, spitting, all while he eases his middle finger inside.

"Oh-Oh… Fuck!" Your grip tightens on his scalp, eliciting a sudden moan, vibrating right against you and up your spine. Pleasure ruptures inside of you, a bittersweet ache settling in your thighs and lower back, chest heaving as your nipples peak beneath your bra.

"So fuckin' tight, Jesus, sweetheart," he says, lips pressed onto you like he didn't want to leave. A soft laugh eases, puffing air and soft reverberation, your walls cinch around his digit. His free hand pinches at your thigh, dipping into the flesh, holding you wide open for him to explore.

"Gotta to open you up real good…" He contemplates, finger curling slowly inside of you, instantly grazing your soft spot, making you gasp and hips stutter. "There she is… Right there, huh?"

Your hips move on their own vocation as he speeds up his pace, kissing your clit again and again, suctioning onto your bud and laving up your flavour, slurping up your slick straight from the source.

You're too focused on his mouth — the lewd slurps he drags out, collecting your taste like nectar, you're sure the mix of his saliva and your cum now sits in a puddle below you — to notice the second finger easing beside his middle. Only when it eases, when the two start moving in tandem, do you register the fullness. He scissors them, urging you open, curling them as they settle in deep, before retreating back. Bucky keeps up a routine, speeding up as your walls contract and pulse.

"Gonna cum, baby?" He traces, words mumbled on your slick skin. You can barely talk, not with how messy he eats, how he talks with his mouth full, feasting like a starved man, rendering a service only for your pleasure — so you nod fervently, humming out as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He moves his free hand up, grabbing your ass to pull you closer towards the edge, kneading and rubbing, while his fingers keep petting and stroking your spongy spot. Whines and moans stay locked and murmured behind your clenched teeth as he works you open and towards release.

"Mouth open, wanna hear you cum, wanna know what you sound like," Bucky slurs. Your brain, now turned into mush, complies without protest. Your jaw slacks and lips part in harsh breaths and whines, chest heaving with each sound, giggling at yourself and how good this feels, how good he is.

Your ankles lock up against his back, keeping him trapped between your thighs, and he moans. Pulsing, the sounds you coaxed from him hit you like a train. Muscles tense, walls constrict. You lock up in a silent cry, hips twitching with your throbbing cunt as you release over his fingers. Working you through it, he eases them in time with your ebbing finish. Soft strokes of his fingers, slowly moving out, and leaving your clit with the softest kiss, making you flinch from overstimulation.

Your eyes ease shut for a moment, harsh pants weakening, and one second he's on the floor, the next, your mouth fills with an unfamiliar taste. Salty and sweet, a musk that brings a brand new ache to your still pulsing need between your thighs.

Bucky crosses your legs behind him again, and find themselves on your ass, hoisting you up around him, hard on pressed against your roused pussy, soaking his crotch in your mixed stickiness, making a rumble roll from his chest. His pants are too fucking tight.

"Bed," he breathes on your lips, already down the hall, pushing his door open with his back and kicking it shut. "Wanna do this properly."

He kisses you with severity, a heightened furiosity looms inside his gut. Now he's got a taste of you, now that you marked his mouth and fingers, he can't let go.

Laying you against the sheets of his bed, his lips rest their relentless attack, pulling back to throw his shirt to the floor, revealing his toned midsection. Your eyes follow the trail of hair down from below his navel, and into his waistband. His lips skirt across yours, licking the swell. "Tell me you want this," he whispers, "tell me you want me."

You suck in a breath, "I want you, Bucky," wiggling your hips enough to graze your bare heat against the fabric against his stiff cock. Jaw tight as you buck your hips, hissing through grated teeth, "fuck, I need you."

He stills you, hands wrapped around your pelvis, pushing you into the mattress. "You have all of me, sweetheart," Knees parting your own, widening for him.

His graze moved to your wrists, "need these, baby, desperately need 'em," God, if you knew his dirty talk was this hot, you would've grinded on his lap twelve study sessions ago. Placing your hands to his crotch, you cupped the stiffness, holding him fully within your palm. Heavy was all your brain could conjure while your fingers tentatively and curiously squeezed.

"Take 'em off for me, sweetheart— that's it, good girl."

Sure, you've been friends for a long while, seeing him in baggy sweats on lazy days, sometimes even noticing the lack of underwear when he does — consequently noticing him pressing against his thigh, or poking out while he walks — but nothing, not even what your imagination would conjure up late at night or while shamefully sneaking glances, would you ever believe what he was carrying around.

"You're staring, sweet girl," his palms tap your cheek gently, just enough to throw you out of your daze, "whats on your mind?"

You swallow, trying to coax any wetness to your drying mouth while your eyes flicker between his soft gaze and dripping cock. Your friend's cock that now sits heavy against his right thigh, bobbing, twitching, drooling, while you watch with parted lips.

"… You've been carrying around that thing this entire time?"

"You surprised?"

Your eyes widen a fraction, "I-I mean, Jesus, Bucky."

He hums, smoothing over your cheek, "you can take it, princess, I know you can," he taps again, "on your back, sweetheart, c'mon."

You do as you're told, lying back against his pillows, knees parted and open as he followed suit. Crawling over you, positioning himself on his haunches, and you could feel his bare cock press against your wet heat as he pushes your shirt up your tummy and over the mounds of your breasts, leaving the fabric bunched around your collar.

Bucky stares down in awe, hands dragging up and down your sides, fingertips graze the scratchy cloth where it dips into your flesh. Bottom lip blanching between his teeth, fixed at each bump with blown, dark eyes, unable to comprehend the sight in front of him. He shakes his head, a dumbfounded sound puffs from his nose.

"A matching set," he hums, "God, you sure know how to make a guy happy, huh sweetheart?"

Blushing, you turn away from his sight. Hands rendered useless by your shoulders, and grumble into the sheets below. "Shut up, Buck."

"Something about you in my clothes… Under me with my shirt on," he ponders, hands pinching and grabbing at your tits, "you look so fucking beautiful, sweetheart, makes me wanna tear you apart."

A soft plea falls from your lips, a mewl hidden under your breath as he dips his hands beneath the lace and tweaks your nipples that were hidden under your flimsy bra. Your breath comes ragged and uneven, chest caving under his touch while his crotch slots against your own like a puzzle piece. Cock resting over your slick, pushing forward in tiny, subtle ruts forward, his tip laid over your tummy while you coat his shaft and heavy balls with your sticky mess.

"You like that? Want me to split you open? Make you forget everything except my name and how full you feel?" Leaning forward, he rests a hand beside your head, his other stays on your chest, pinching your tit. "Talk to me, baby, tell me what you need."

You whine out, arms slinging over your eyes in a mix of defeat and embarrassment. "I want all of it! I want you, so bad… Fuck, Bucky, it hurts," you laugh under your breath, tipping your hips up to try and drag his head into you somehow. You groan at the wet sounds you create, whispers spilling from the loose faucet your mouth turned into, "please, please, please—"

"Needy thing just begging so good for me," he lifts himself up again, wicked smirk plastered on his face, moving your arms away from your eyes to get a good full look at you. "Don't worry, pretty girl, just let me do all the work. Let me make you feel so good."

His head falls back in a light groan as he reaches between you, holding his cock by the base, swiping up and down your lips to coat himself. Provoking you onward as he slaps his tip on your clit, quick taps quick to sting, making you gasp and twitch, legs falling open wider.

A deep moan resonates through his chest, easing the crown of his cock forward and inside you, watching how your hole swallows him. You choke on a gasp, mouth open as he softly eases his girth with easy jerks until you sheathe him fully.

"Oh fuck." Bucky leans forward, chest to chest, and your hands scramble to touch anything of him, clutching around his back, soothing upwards, until one holds onto his shoulder, and the other claims his hair again. Your lungs stutter with whines, caving in against his weight only to pull him into you tighter, trembling from the big stretch.

Heaven feels like a lost cause now that he finally knows what you feel, taste and sound like. Your walls clench and throb around him, so soft and warm, sliding right in, resistance be damned, the strain soothed with how turned on and ready he got you. He groans a sound deep from his chest, forearms rest beside your head. He tries so hard to keep it together.

Your lips graze his jaw, crawling down his neck with soft nips and kitten licks, washing off his sweat with your tongue. He moans fortuitously, and his hips start to shift. Soft grinds in and out, his sounds stick to your shoulder, ragged breaths and whispered praises into your bones, making you strangle his shaft as he works, pace quickening, wet slaps sound around the room. Pumping into you, he just can't hold it any longer, you make him so greedy and selfish

"Bucky." You sigh, grinding your hips back and forth, matching his pace. Each buck has his tip sliding through your wet inside, so tight, he keens as you throb.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sitting upright, back on his heels, Bucky pulls you towards his thrusts by your hips, using the momentum to push inside. Pounding into you frenziedly, corse fuzz tickling your clit with each jolt, soft tongue dipping out of his parted lips as he pants from the exertion. "God, you feel amazing."

He smooths a palm on your skin until his thumb skims across your clit again. The overload of pleasure stimulated to your already abused and puffy nerves drives a cry from your throat. Your nails dig into his shoulders, deep crescents marking his flesh for days to come, mouth open, unable to silence the onslaught of wanton moans and sighs that escape as he pierces your cunt over and over, and over again. You both look down your body, watching how he disappears inside, how you grip around his girth, how absolutely soaked his cock is — you both moan at the sight, and Bucky rolls his hips, faster, fucking into you, breath trembling with each thrust.

Throwing your head back and plunges it into the pillow, you moan, and that's when he knows he's found the right spot. He pushes his dick against it, over and over as you tighten furiously, pulsing in time with your rapid heartbeat. Your jaw clenches, unable to voice or warn him of your rapture. Squeezing his cock in a tight, sopping embrace as your eyes shut tight, hands ball into fists beside your head and back arches. Bucky doesn't slow, he doesn't relent, only drags out your orgasm with harder jabs, plunging roughly with a smirk on his face.

The tightness spreads across his pelvis like a wildfire, aching his chest. He curses under his breath while his hips stutter, shaking his head, spraying tiny droplets of sweat across your skin. Involuntarily, you clench again at the stains on your skin.

"Coming on my cock that quick, huh?" He pries breathlessly. Sweat trickles down his temples, dripping onto your belly and chest. Your head wracks with words, only for your mouth to fail you, slurring each sentence into whispers.

Pausing for a split second, he flips you both over, lying on his back and cradling you in his arms, keeping you slumped against his chest with his cock sitting snug and stiff inside.

"One more, sweet girl. I know you can do it." His hands reposition you, folding your knees to bracket his waist, making sure your face rests contented against his collarbone, before smoothing up your back, pacifying you, until a tired confirmation hums out.

"Please," you're liquid in his arms, limbs rendered useless, you sluggishly attempt to wrap your hands around his neck and arch a rhythm back into your aching folds. "Yes, please."

Leaning down, Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, earning a high pitched hum. His knees prop up, feet plastered onto the sheets below. Big, warm palms now clutch the flesh of your ass as he strains, "Atta girl."

Brutal, swift, splitting. Skin slapping on skin, your wetness spits with each slap given with Buck's hips thrusting up and into you at a tranquillizing pace, frantically boring into you.

You cry out a moan, "Wanna be good for you." The pain of overstimulation mixing with the skin on skin contact and just how perfect he's hitting your spots.

"So fucking good," he replies in a growl, fingers obsessive against your cheeks, holding so tight, squeezing, you're sure to have bruises adorning the flesh by the morning. Head swinging back into the pillow with a snarl, jaw clenching, his hips don't wander off rhythm, holding this searing pleasure as he fucks into your used cunt like a fleshlight. "God, you're so fucking good."

The praise tugs everywhere in your body, pleasure unable to hold back when his encouragements exhales so smoothly from his lips. Your pussy flutters erratically, a fluctuating pattern that spasms harshly with bliss, humming into his neck with each pump his hips drive up into you — orgasm pulling from your depths, washing over you with a shiver, shaking in his hold as he digs inside, dragging it out again, begging you to feel how amazing he makes you feel. Bucky can't care how hard he's thrusting, especially now, as you choke his cock and his balls tighten.

A whine leaves his mouth as he whispers pleas, his thrusts starting to stutter. Red lips, wet with saliva and plump from kisses, part with heaving breaths —his brow furrows, nose crinkling like an angry kitten.

"Where… where—"

"Inside…" you beg, nosing into his neck, painting his collar with soft 'please, please, please's, drooling on him slightly.

His movements become frantic, body convulsing as he lunges upwards, pulling your hips down into his once, then twice, before he buries himself inside of you. Release and solace glaze his body as he fills you with his cum — palms clenching your skin as he humps up in tiny ruts with each rope, fucking it deep inside of you.

He pulls back after a couple of seconds, fingers easing, hips lowering softly, as he manoeuvres the both of you to the side, making sure his softening cock stays sheathed inside of your still pulsing warmth, until he's left on top of you. He lets the two of you catch your breaths, still and close in an embrace.

One arm props himself up beside your head, his free hand holds your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, making sure you're facing him. He smiles at your features, eyes lazily shut, dribble drying at the edge of your lips, your head a dead-weight in his palm.

"You feelin' okay?" He murmurs, squishing your cheeks a little to get your attention.

You manage to coax out a hum, sleepy and satisfied.

"You did so good for me, princess."

You hum again, softer this time, a small acknowledgement.

Bucky stills himself, pausing his soft caresses against your skin. You feel a huff of warm air expel against your face, a gentle rumble of his body over yours.

"I fucked you good, didn't I." He asks, so sure of himself. And even in your daze, you can't even lie.

"… mhm." You moan softly, eyebrows bowing, cunt squeezing around him. He chuckles softly, warm breath sticking to your cheek and neck as he leans forward to lay soft kisses against your skin.

"Oh, baby," he coos, voice a mumbled vibration of amusement, nuzzling closer to your face, trailing his smile wherever he could, "got my sweet girl all dumb just from my cock. Fuck, you're so pretty like this. Should keep you here forever."

With just enough energy, you nod. The hand that held your cheek moved up to your hair, smoothing his thumb over your hairline in soft strokes.

"Yeah? Wanna stay in my bed all full and cock drunk for me?" He asks, voice pitching higher. He kisses your lips, clumsy while your mind hovers ten steps behind, and he adds in a breath. "Want you to be mine. Don't gotta worry about valentines day anymore, sweetheart, not when I'm here. Not when I got you all plugged up with my cum."

He shifts his hips, bucking with emphasis, watching how you gasp. Sore and full, exhausted and his.

Another chuckle rumbles up his chest, exhaling through his nose. He nuzzles into you again, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'll wake you in an hour, make you sip some water and eat."

Biting your lip to hide a smile, you turn away, failing with a tiny snort that burns inside of him.

"There she is," he whispers, "there's my girl." Nuzzling into your hair, unbothered and relaxed, breathing in the scent of sex that's glued to your skin.

"Go on, baby, get some rest," his thumb caresses your forehead, the repeated coax, the tenderness — his whispers, his stretch, his warmth — it all seeps deep into your skin and eases into the nighttime. "I'll take you on a real date tomorrow, hm? No cowards this time, just you and me."

Your heart aches against your ribs as you fall deeper and deeper into sleep. His soft pillows against your head, while his naked chest blankets your own — a dual warmth created by the both of you.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Even with memories of the morning after sleepovers as teens and study dates in college that ended in all-nighters fuelled by redbull and pure perseverance. You can't wait to see his sleepy figure against the morning light. Brown hair haloed by the sun, palms pressed against newly discovered skin, clammy from how long he's kept them there in his subconscious. Mumbling 'good morning's, stretching into groans, tired kisses with morning breath neither of you care about.

It's all brand new, and you don't have any reason to be scared. Not with your best friend holding your hand the whole way through.

a/n 2: no pizza and 'almost famous' 4 u lolol maybe next time babies :P

taglist: @devililithh @buck-star @buckyfmd @nikkitabarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @kqtholins @wint3rbarnes @swimmingnightcolor @ilovestizzy @chronic-fangirl-222 @ornateglass @bucklesby-barnes @avgdestitute @demiebarnes @sunkissedspell @stanmarvelous @castielscaplan @ladymiseryy @phoenix-in-writing @layaflores @wherewinterblooms @sunday-bug @buckybunni @snoopysnote @angelryex

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© 2026 sheriff-bodecker

[yunyuu]

[holeinthemattress]

dex and thigh fucking as a punishment.

he’s draped over you, bare chest pressed against your back as he pants against your neck like a dog in heat.

his hands grasp your hips, helping you move over the length of him in short jerks. the inside of your thighs is slick, a mixture of arousal and sweat as dex fucks the plushness of them.

he’s a rambling, mumbling mess. telling you how good it feels, how much he loves you like this, choking on a moan when a particularly hard thrust has him notching against your entrance.

now he’s begging, pleading for you to let him put it in. “just the tip, baby? please?” dex whimpers as he ruts against you, tip smearing pre against your pussy.

you reach down between your legs and he chokes on a moan when your fingers brush against him. only for you to push him away from the warmth of your entrance and back between your thighs. dex groans in frustration, forehead falling against your shoulder as he grips you harder.

“this is supposed to be a punishment, dex.” you reply, unfazed by his whining.

thoughts about a full fledged fic dedicated to this? it’s been really fun to write…

[corpseprize]

the reality of being a writer

heres how to fix it

[wolfstardaughter-jj]

Me: “oh yeah! I read for comfort!”

How it actually makes me feel:

[aquaticmercy]

virgin dex who’s also the best sex you’ve ever had?

The Best You’ve Ever Had

TW virgin!Dex, size kink (?), obsessive jealousy, possessive/territorial!dex, Dex is a little pathetic in this one, switch!Dex, murdering your exes, interrogation, implied torture of your exes, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual) (lmk if I missed anything)

WC 1.2k

Dex, who admits he’s a virgin at the worst possible moment.

He doesn’t admit it the first time you kiss him. He doesn’t admit it when you guide his shaking hands against your thighs. No, Dex admits it when you’re already on top of him, when he’s already inside you, when his face is flushed against your skin and his body is trembling under yours.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, eyes going wide with panic as he tries not to orgasm too soon. “I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And fuck, he really doesn’t.

You didn’t know for sure, but you did have a feeling that this was the case. He’s so sloppy, so eager, so desperate to be good fuck for you that he keeps losing the rhythm every time you moan. Every time you roll your hips just right, his eyes go glassy.

You just smile and kiss him and say, “It’s okay, baby,” as you groan while being stretched out, “You have— ahh— n-nothing to worry about.”

And he doesn’t! After all, you continue to fuck him even months later. You even make him your boyfriend, and Dex doesn’t even have to beg like he originally planned to. 

Sometimes, though, he spirals so badly during sex that you have to stop.

“Dex,” you whisper, taking his face in both hands when you notice his eyes are unfocused. “Baby, are you with me?”

He blinks up at you, dazed and ruined, his hands locked around your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

“Who taught you that?”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“That,” he says, voice raw. “The way you move your hands. The way you— fuck. Who taught you how to make me feel that good?”

Poor jealous, pathetic Dex.

You don’t answer him. You never gave him a name, never soothe him with details, never say it didn’t matter. You only kiss him until he stops asking, which of course means he has to find out for himself.

Dex, who stays late to research your past.

Dex builds a timeline. Dex finds addresses. Dex memorises faces.

And then Dex goes to work.

He knocks your exes out, ties them to a chair, and sits across from them in some dark room, gun resting loose in his hand as if this isn’t personal. 

“What did she like?”

They always thought he meant in your day-to-day life at first. “She liked— she liked coffee, I don’t—”

Dex would tilt his head, and sigh. “In bed.”

Sometimes they cry.

Dex hates that. Crying wastes time.

“What did you do in bed that she liked?” He rolls his eyes, already irritated.

Dex wouldn’t need to shout. Dex is patient. 

One of them says he remembers you liked being handcuffed.

Dex goes still, visibly enraged.

Yes, he asked for the info, but now he was seeing it. He’s imagining you in bed, trusting this stupid man with restraints, and it hits him so hard his vision narrows. Eventually, at the end of the night, he pulls the trigger.

He buys handcuffs on the way home. The first time he uses it on you, you squirm and whine. Music to DEX’s ears.

Another ex says he remembers you like blindfolds.

Dex has to look away for a second, breathing through his nose, because the image of you blindfolded for this man makes his blood boil. 

He slits his throat and buys one anyway. When he uses it on you, he’s pleased with the mess you made.

Another one says you like shower sex.

When Dex comes home that night, he's determined to test the theory of the man he just killed. You could barely get his name out before he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you into the bathroom.

He was right, Dex thinks an hour later, as he wraps a towel over you in the over-steamed shower, watching your legs wobble a little, you do like shower sex.

And then there’s the other question, the one right before he kills them. The one that proves Dex has gone fully insane.

He would crouch in front of them and ask, “How big are you?”

Imagine that from your exes’ point of view.

Bullseye has a gun between your eyes. Point blank. He’s standing there with that dead calm on his face, head tilted slightly, like this is a work meeting and not the last conversation of your life.

The man tied to the chair stares at him like he has misheard him.

Dex presses the barrel in a little closer.

“Show me with your hand.”

Fuck. Imagine having Bullseye standing over you, asking for your dick size because once, years ago, you fucked his girl before she was his girl.

The man’s hand comes up, trembling, thumb and forefinger spreading in the air.

Dex looks at it, then his eyes go cold.

“Don’t lie,” he rolls his eyes. “I’ll know.”

And no, Dex will never actually know.

It’s an empty threat. He would rather gouge his own eyes out than make them prove it. They were disgusting to him by default, because they were not him.

One ex actually started to desperately shift his tied hands to his zipper like he was actually going to show him.

Dex shot his foot.

“Ugh,” he scoffs. “No.”

That was not the point.

The point was that Dex knew men exaggerated. He knew the first measurement was ego, not truth.

So he waited and watched the answer get smaller.

Dex smiles to himself then, like the fucking psychopath he is.

Because he remembers the first time you sank down on him, breathless and squirming, nails digging into his shoulders, so pretty when you whispered, “Baby, wait— slow down, I need to adjust— ah, Dex, you’re s-so much bigger than I’m used to.”

He had believed you then because he wanted to.

Because he needed to.

Because he was a virgin and pathetic and so in love with you that one little sentence from your mouth could rearrange his entire brain chemistry. 

But now, he knows for sure you were telling the truth. He knows he is the biggest you ever had. He knows he was not just your sweet, nervous, pathetic virgin boyfriend that needed to be comforted by white lies. He knows you were not being kind.

You were being honest.

And boy, does it make him unbearable.

After all, his little extracurricular activities did wonders for his confidence!

He stops touching you like he’s asking permission to exist inside your body and starts touching you like he finally believes he belongs there. He's still needy, still pathetic in the sweetest way, but now there’s this ego in the way he pins your hips down.

He gets meaner about it, too, smug enough to murmur, “Too much?” with his mouth against your throat with a smile. “Need me to slow down, baby?”

And you smack at his chest for being arrogant, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

Because he’s your Dex.

Dex, who got there last and made himself the only one that counted.

Dex, who can hold a gun to a man’s face and ask the most humiliating question imaginable.

Dex, your pretty little psychopath. 

Dex, who comes home and melts the second you kiss him, because all that proof, all that blood still means nothing compared to you cupping his face and whispering, “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

Because he’s attentive. Because he cares more about your pleasure than his own. Because he worships you.

And Dex believes you now.

—

Note : I will be responding to comments and more kind asks tomorrow. Love you guys, mwah 😘

[prettydaisygirl]

So fucking annoyed when I go to look up x reader fics and all of the fucking posts are complaining about authors and certain types of fics

[my-dailydreams]

[goth-queen]

[noemitenshi]

[brainstreams]

[my-dailydreams]