slightly mean eddie if you feel so inclined đ„čđ«¶ like stern kinda like how you do âmean siriusâ. i just think him slightly bossing r around or being stern with her is đđ«¶
SMUT 18+ ONLY MDNI (cw: p in v, hard/mean dom!eddie, mostly just rough touches and bossing r around, some degradation, stoplight, all consensual) | fem!reader | 1.2k words
Eddie leans back, looking a tenuous mixture of unimpressed and sympathetic. "Baby, stop hiding."Â
You sit with your legs spread over his legs, face pointed resolutely at the happy trail that climbs clumsily up the centre of his abdomen. "I'm not," you say, though you can't lift your gaze to prove him wrong.Â
"How are you feeling?" he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek to force your head up. You smile weakly.
"Good."Â
"Yeah? You know all your alerts still? What colour is this?"Â
"I don't forget them." You let your legs spread wider, hissing as you sink down further on the splitting girth of his cock. "Green."Â
As soon as he knows you're okay he gets mean, a subtle cruelty, squeezing your cheek in a too-tight grip. "What did I say before? Stop hiding."Â
You straighten your back, hips moving in messy, slow circles and hands braced against his trim waist. You lift your head and try your best to stay up, even when the head of his cock taps into your spongy soft spot and sends a round of pleasure-shocked chills through your abdomen.Â
You quiver happily.Â
"You liked that?" he pulls his arms down from behind his head to grab your waist, pushing you down hard into his thighs.Â
His cock kisses your soft spot again and you feel yourself tipping forward. "Sit up, doll. Up. Wanna see you, wanna see that face you make when I stretch you out."Â
He lifts his hips and you gasp. "That's the one," he says, grinning.Â
"Too big," you whisper, so full you can't breathe right. You're sensitive to every shift, every drag of his cock, the curve of his shaft as he digs into the pulp of your walls.Â
"Say again," he says, pulling your hips into him.Â
"It's too big, Eds. I don't think I can take it."Â Â
He stares up at you assessingly. You wilt slightly under his gaze, your eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy with unshed tears.Â
His pinky finger is cool as he strokes down the hill of your soft cheek. "Baby, I know how much you can take." He drops his hand abruptly. "So take it."Â
He fucks up into you until you're panting, clinging to his waist and wanting desperately to bury yourself in his chest. Every time you try he pushes you back, his annoyed gaze lighting a fire in the pit of your stomach. You try to fuck him how he likes it with your hips rolling, almost bouncing over his length, but the stimulation is overwhelming.Â
"Please," you say, hands sliding behind his naked back. "Please, please, Eddie."Â
He tilts his head to one side. "You're so fucking clingy. Come here," he says, opening his arms with a well-acted reluctance.
You melt into him, always so relieved to garner his affection. His hands are sweet, roving up and down the length of your back in sweeping lines that soothe you like you'd wanted. "Green," you whisper before he can ask.Â
He stifles a chuckle, nuzzling his face into the side of yours. "You're really fucking tight. Do you need something?" he asks.Â
You think about it. "Can you touch me?"Â
"Try and relax for me, okay?" he asks, hand already moving to the place where your bodies meet, thick fingers searching for the little bead of your clit. He pushes the pad of his thumb into it and draws slow circles. "If you want to take a break, we can do that."Â
"I'm okay. Do you-" You gasp as he hits the right spot. "Do you want a break, baby?"Â
"No. A break from moulding this sweet cunt? As if." He rolls his eyes, a burning amusement slowly changing to smugness, to mocking. "Why, do you think I need one?"Â
You swallow dryly at the character he's become and shake your head. "No, I just-"Â
"Just what? Think you know better than me?"Â
"I just thought-"Â
He laughs darkly. "Ah, and that's where you're going wrong, sweet thing. I don't need you to think about anything besides this," he gives you two sharp thrusts. You wrap your arms tight around his neck, crushing dark curls to your nose. He smells like he always does; cedarwood, a heady cologne sticks to his skin.
You clamp down around him without thinking and listen to him hiss. "That's it, that's it. Fuck. Guess there's some sense in here after all," he says, lips to your forehead.  Â
Your thighs tighten around him and he's more than perceptive, focusing his efforts on your clit, chasing your climax with tight circles.Â
"You gonna ask me?"Â
You take a big breath. "Can I cum?"Â
He squeezes you tight to his chest and his skin is everywhere, touching you all over, his hands and his arms and his chest, his thighs and his cock rocking into you, as close as he can be. You gasp for air as your high approaches.Â
"Be polite."Â
"Please," you say quickly, quiet but forceful as you remember yourself. "Eddie, please can I? Please, please-" You squeeze your eyes shut and shy away from his touch, worried you'll cum before he says you can.Â
He takes pity. "Go on, sweetheart."Â
Everything dissolves. The coil snaps and you really can't breath, biting down on your index finger to stop from squealing in his ear. He pushes you through it, doesn't stop touching until you're over the crest of it and panting again.Â
"Good job," he says, and you know he's done playing mean before he says, "Blue. Very blue. How are you feeling?" Blue â I want to keep fucking you, but I don't want to play mean anymore.Â
You pull back and feel weak, slouched in his lap, his cock still hard as stone inside you. You do an experimental little bounce. "Blue."Â
He beams and you do too, laughing under your breath as you lean down for a kiss. His lips are inviting: so soft, sweet, a short fall from tentative. You brush the hair away from his face as you pull back and take in his cheeks, pink with blush and damp with a sheen of sweat.Â
"You're blushing!" you say, ecstatic.Â
He groans, covering his face with both hands as he says, "Fuck off, you tease. This is all your fault. You don't know how fucking cute you look trying to climb all over me. How hard it is to push you away."Â
You curl your fingers around his wrist and pull them away, pressing a kiss to the back of his hands before letting them drop. "Thanks, Eddie. For playing games with me."Â
He blinks. "I like them just as much as you do."Â
"I like you."Â
"Wait, do you have a crush on me?" he asks suspiciously.Â
You burst into laughter. Eddie joins in, though it's strangled as he shifts beneath you. You realise then how close he is to his own release, his chest rising fast.Â
"Got more than a crush on you, Munson. I'll show you, if you like?" you ask, working your hips.Â
His eyes close as his head drops back into the couch cushion. Neck bared, you watch his throat bob. He moans and it's haunting, you'll be thinking about it all day, a wicked exhale coloured by the deep rasp of his voice.Â
"Want me to show you, baby?"Â
"Please," he says.Â
favorites đ„°
(photos not mine, storyboard very much mine)
Series Summary: Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but youâre determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all heâs asking for is just one kiss? (40âČs happy ending AU)
Series Warnings: Language, excessive amount of fluff, slow burn, mutual pining
Part One - The Beginning
Part Two - A Walk Home
Part Three - Moving Day
Part Four - A Dance
Part Five - Girlsâ Night
Part Six - The Fight
Part Seven - Christmas
Part Eight - The Question
Part Nine - First Date
Part Ten - Afternoon in the Park
Part Eleven - Last Date
Part Twelve - The Goodbye
Part Thirteen - The First Letters
Part Fourteen - Broken Silence
Part Fifteen - Finale
Epilogue Pieces
Bonus Material Masterlist
If thereâs something you need that you donât see, message me for specific phrases. âșïž NOTE: this is NOT an exhaustive list.
NSFW language under the cut.
Cazzo: most of you writers already know that this means âcock,â but it can also be used as the exclamation âfuck!â As in,
âSucchiami il cazzo, caraâ (Suck my cock, darling)
-OR-
âCazzo! Non cosĂŹ forte!â (Fuck! Not so hard!)
Figa: pussy. There are a billion regional names for pussy, but another favorite of mine is cocchia.
Porco: pig, but as in calling a guy a pig in vile terms, not just sloppy ones. Saying Porco Dio (swine God) will make most Catholics bristle, so I think the Emeritii would use it all the time as an expletive)
Puttana: whore. NOTE! âPuttanellaâ is a diminutive, and I kind of find it a cute form of the word âslut.â Almost an endearment.
Figlio di puttana: son of a bitch
Stronzo: shithead, asshole, literally âpiece of shit.â
Ti voglio fottere: I want to fuck you
Scopiamo: Letâs fuck.
Chiavami/scopami/fottimi: fuck me. Follow any of those with forte, and it means âfuck me hard.â
Ti voglio/ti desidero: I want you/desire you. âI want you so muchâ is âti voglio cosĂŹ tantoâ
Sei cosĂŹ bagnata/fradicia per me: youâre so wet for me
Senti che duro che sono per te: Feel how hard I am for you
Coglione: ballsack (calling a guy a ballsack, usually means heâs an idiot)
Mi rompi i coglioni: youâre breaking my balls
Fottuto/fottuta (m/f) fucking (as an adjective, as in âla mia fortuna fottutaâ (my fucking luck). NOTE: Iâve heard this used as a noun, especially in the masculine âSei un fottuto!â (âYouâre a fucking fuck!â)
Vaffanculo: this is the MOST common way to say âfuck you.â It literally means âgo fuck someoneâs ass.â
Tette: tits (vulgar). Seno means âbreasts,â but itâs more modest a term.
Spogliati: take your clothes off
Actor Sebastian Stan has come on board to produce âBlue Banks,â the feature debut of Romanian director Andreea Cristina BorÈun, whose 2021 short film âWhen Night Meets Dawnâ premiered in Directorsâ Fortnight.
Stan, who was born in Romania, will produce the film alongside Romanian producer Gabi Suciu, French co-producers Jean-Laurent Csinidis and Jerome Nunes and Slovenian co-producer Ales Pavlin. Shooting will take place in Romania throughout the year and is set to wrap in October.
Best known for playing Bucky Barnes in Marvel Cinematic Universe films and also starring in A24âs horror comedy âFresh,â Stan â who first met BorÈun in Cannes in 2021 â said the filmâs script hit close to home.
âBeing that I was raised by a single mother, moved and lived in three different countries at an early age, with my mother determined to find me security and a better life out of communist Romania and my inability to grasp the sacrifice and the profound impact of all this at the time, this story really spoke to me on a deeply personal level,â said the actor.
âIâve been an admirer of Romanian films for a long time, in awe of their rawness, authenticity and unfiltered, fearless lens on life. When Andreea talked to me about the story, I was immediately drawn in,â he continued. âI understood the characters, their journey, the inner struggle against the primal instinct we are born with, and especially the torn mother-son relationship at the core.â
awwwwwww
Youâre still my winner
can someone let me know what happens at the ritual today i can't handle obsessively checking tumblr every four minutes
Summary: Azriel has always put his duties as spymaster above his own needs and wants. How long can you let him keep putting work over you before boiling over?
Authorâs note: I am so sorry about this babes, this is pure heartbreak. Anyway angst is a new genre for me so please lmk how this goes for you (good, bad, awful - lmk)
(1k celebration masterlist đŸ)
You sit in the library of your shared home, the soft cushion of your favorite armchair not providing the comfort it used to. The library was your favorite room in the house - you and Azriel spent thousands of hours in here reading independently, reading to each other, or just enjoying the silence with each other for company.
The room was beautiful- you both adored the entirety of the house, but this room drew both of you in immediately. Itâs beautiful stain-glass windows creating brilliant hues of color to move about the room during the day, bringing life to the dark wood that adorns the walls of the room.
Vivid colors from the scenes in the stain glass window would dance across the floor, as if reenacting the depictions just for you two.
Itâs dark now, the sun having set hours ago, and you canât remember the last time you enjoyed the light of the room. The last time you and Azriel had enjoyed the light of the room.
The last time you and Azriel just enjoyed each otherâs company without knowing he was going to leave in a matter of hours.
It was a song and dance you were familiar with by now - heâd return home from doing some work requested by Rhys, youâd make him some food, you two would snuggle or have sex, and heâd be gone by the time you woke up.
It wasnât always like this, but the two years since the war have caused Azriel to dive headfirst into his work, accepting every scrap of work Rhysand would push his way, darting out the door like it was calling to him.
You hear the front door open, knowing who it is despite their silent entrance. Sighing, you stand up and walk out of the library, closing the door behind you.
You walked through the halls of your home, feet softly padding on the hardwood floor until you see him across the living room, still in his leathers.
It used to amuse you, when heâd return in his leathers, compared to you in your frilly nightgowns. It was quite a sight, the dark leather surrounded by the satins and cottons of your nightgowns.
Now it just furthered to prove the divide between you.
âAz, we were supposed to go to the bakery today to taste cakes.â
You hardly let him walk through the door before picking a fight, but his absence at the bakery hours ago left you ample time to stew in your negative emotions.
He runs his hand down his face, the purple and blue bruising under his eyes having grown more and more prominent over the weeks. Truthfully, you donât want to start a fight, but youâve let too many of these things slide in the past two years and youâre at your tipping point.
Missed dates, rescheduled dinners, missed anniversaries, cancelled trips. You had tried talking several times about it, but you need your fiancé around more than he has been. No amount of begging can make him do anything about it, though.
The most egregious of all was the continually delayed status of your wedding ceremony. Youâve had to rescind the invitations two times now, and youâre have tempted to send out fresh ones that just say âdate: TBDâ.
He just sighs in response, telling you, âI had to work, I had a mission.â
You sigh, knowing it was the truth. Your fiancĂ© would never cheat on you, but he would put everyone elseâs needs above his.
And above your own.
âAzriel, I really needed you today. It was important to me for you to be there.â
âItâs just a cake - pick any flavor you want. You know what I like,â he says, sitting onto the couch and taking off his boots.
âItâs not just a cake! This is your wedding too - I cannot make every decision for this. Itâs supposed to be about us, not about me.â
You shake your head, exasperation bubbling to the surface, âI feel insane going to these appointments because I have a fiancĂ© who never shows up! I swear I heard the florist say she pitied me because I pretended to be engaged!â
Azriel drags a hand down his face, âcan we not do this now? Iâm exhausted and want to bathe before bed.â
You huff out a laugh, as Azriel tries to move past you but you continue to follow him. âWhen would be a better time? Youâre hardly home lately, and you leave at a momentâs notice for Rhysand.â
He whips his head at you, âitâs my job, my duty.â
You roll your eyes, âIâm pretty sure you could delegate a decent proportion of your work to the people under you that you both hand selected and trained yourself!
He sighs, exasperated, âitâs my job.â
A line youâve heard a thousand times. You knew who he was when you began dating him, youâve always known who he was and what he did.
But you thought his need to feel worthy would wane with time, not get worse.
âYou put Rhysâs needs over mine!â Youâre shouting now, something you never do, and Azriel bites back, âheâs my high lord - and yours.â
âThat doesnât mean he gets to keep you at his beck and call!â Your hands were running through your hair, unable to have the same argument again and again.
âThatâs exactly what it means.â
âOh so was it Rhysâs beck and call to push our wedding back three separate times?â
He whirls around at you, pointing, âThatâs not fair and you know it.â
âThree times is not fair! Itâs like you donât even want it!â
His silence to your accusation rings through your ears. A damning, deafening silence.
You count to ten in your head, and he hasnât made a sound, only looking at the ground.
His lack of words echo through your mind, even as his hands reach out to you, his desperate pleadings of âI-â and âbabyâ falling on deaf ears.
âIâm glad to see where we stand.â
You begin to turn, but stop yourself.
âWhen I told Nesta our wedding was delayed again, she told me if you really wanted it, really wanted me, youâd suggest we just run off and get married like Rhys and Feyre did.â
You take a shaky breath, âbut you never did.â
You step back from him, unable to look him in the eye, unable to do much of anything, except retreat from your shared bedroom, softly shutting the door behind you.
Azriel stands in the now empty room, your footsteps ceasing down the hall but continuing in his mind. Every second he stands there, the further you become. He starts to move, starts to pick up his feet, his shadows urging him to go, go, go.
You can fix this, they tell him. Go, now.
His thoughts are broken up by Rhysâs voice, a smooth sound at such odds with the chaotic edges of his thoughts.
Az, I need you.
Azriel doesnât even ask if it can wait. Youâll understand. Heâs sure of it. He can fix things when he comes home. Rhys just needs him right now, he can help him out, then he can talk to you.
He scrawls a quick note on the table for you to find before retreating into his shadows.
He returns home a few hours later, his assistance speeding up Rhysâs needs. He stops to grab you your favorite flowers, a book youâve been eyeing, and a necklace heâs had his eye on in the shop for ages.
The necklace gives him pause, as he realizes he first saw it eight months ago, its shine reminding him of your eyes.
Had it really been eight months?
He kept telling himself he was going to buy you the necklace for a special occasion, but so many have slipped by without his acknowledgment this past year.
Gods, he thinks, did he even celebrate your birthday?
Surely he hadnât gotten that caught up in his work.
Had he?
The streets are quiet as he makes his way back to your shared home. He thinks over the past year and how he hardly saw you, and when he did, he often left not soon after seeing you.
He opens the door, the house eerily silent following your fight earlier. He deserved your silence. He couldnât tell you how scared he was to marry you, tethering your soul to his for the rest of your lives.
You, who was so kind and so loving, shackled to him for eternity. He knew the insecurities were ridiculous, that you loved him with every part of yourself.
But that didnât stop the self-hatred from oozing out of him every moment.
He hadnât been there for you this past year. He had let his own need for approval overshadow your needs.
He groans, needing to find you so he can fix things. He walks through the house, not even realizing the book heâs carrying is a duplicate to the one sitting on the coffee table.
He starts really thinking, trying to remember the last time he had touched you, kissed you, held you.
Too long, he realizes, as heâs made his way through the whole house without a sign of you. A shadow wraps around his wrist, pulling him into the kitchen. He finds the note he had left earlier still on the table, but you had scrawled a second message underneath. Five words that break his resolve, forcing him to his knees. Your handwriting so clear, save for the splotched ink, wet from tears.
I wouldnât marry me either.
Part two
this is exACTLY what I was looking for
masterlist
young!silco x gn!reader [1.2k][AO3]
summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.
tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad
a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.
Vander couldnât look you in the eye, couldnât form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook youâSilco hadnât survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when heâd had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.
You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now itâs witnessing something new.
Youâve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. Itâs a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.
When you approach, youâre silentâassessing, investigating, worrying if this isnât something you can fix. Heâs never been so evidently broken. Youâre not sure whether itâs about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.
âSilco?â you whisper, taking another step forward.
âDonât,â he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. âPlease,â
You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. Heâs refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.
âYouâre hurt,â you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. âShow me, hey, Sââ
âStop!â he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.
Itâs a foreign behaviour, a desperation heâs never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as youâve known him heâs been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.
You suppose that itâs something heâs worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaunâs face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.
That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.
Heâs hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. Heâs always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.
âYou donât want me to see you?â you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.
Silco doesnât answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.
âItâs alright,â with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. âI donât have to see you. Just⊠just talk to me,â
You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.
âPlease,â you add. Itâs unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something heâs certain is still predictable.
You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.
Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.
You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. âWhoâŠâ your breath escapes, âIs this your blood?â
âYes,â he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.
You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.
You recall Vanderâs face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces.Â
âVander did something,â you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. âDid Vander do something?â
You feel Silcoâs breath near the top of your head, but before youâre able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.
You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.
There it is again. Itâs a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?
You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.
Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.
It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.
His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.
He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.
For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.
Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.
âHow bad is it?â your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.
He swallows, clearing his throat. âAt the⊠we were at the river, heââ he grips your hand slightly tighter.
âItâs still hurting?â
His clothes shuffle. âYeah,â
âLet me look?â
Silence.
You start to think heâll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.
Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.
You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.
You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.
The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.
Youâre more than certain thereâs nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.
âItâs not over,â he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. âWeâll take back Zaun,â
There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. âYouâll show them,â you press a kiss to his index knuckle.
this opened up a great big hole beneath me and devoured me, everything about it was perfect
Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader
Summary: You canât take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isnât you.
Word Count: 13.6k
Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but heâs still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending
Authorâs Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ⥠I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I canât help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! âĄ
Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." â Lady Gaga
Masterlist
You hear the giggling before anything else.
Itâs always the giggling.
And, as always, it grates on your nerves.
It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you canât simply dig it out.
Then comes the keys.
The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.
Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.
Then the door opening.
More giggles.
His breathy chuckles.
Then the door closing.
Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.
You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you canât. You never can.
Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesnât do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.
And then, his bedroom door.
And if all that wasnât torture enough, it was only the easy part.
Because now is when it really starts. Itâs when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesnât happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whateverâs left of it.
At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.
But then comes the moaning.
High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.
Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.
Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Buckyâs voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.
And thatâs what breaks you most. Thatâs what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. Itâs the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.
You close your eyes, as always. It doesnât help, as always. The sounds donât stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.
But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.
And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.
And that finally makes the tears flow.
They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.
You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.
They come because you have lost. Because itâs too much.
The moaning doesnât stop, and itâs too much. Itâs the middle of the night, and itâs too much. Itâs the third night in a row, and itâs too much.
Buckyâs hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didnât know was left intact a few seconds ago.
Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.
Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.
Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But itâs your heart thatâs being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? Itâs nothing.
You are alone in your grief.
The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.
Buckyâs voice comes. He says something but you donât catch his words.
However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.
Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, itâs too quiet to catch it.
And then you hear your name. Itâs muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.
Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.
The girl scoffs. Itâs a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you werenât so troubled.
The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.
And it makes you know.
He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.
Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings donât disrupt your sleep. As if thatâs the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.
Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.
Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.
Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.
If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.
Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone elseâs body. You have never heard him say any girlâs name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also donât try to listen too closely.
You wonât talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that itâs fine.
Itâs not. It never has been. And you donât think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.
Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.
So what is the point?
You donât want to do another morning like this.
You canât do another morning like this.
Not three times in a row.
Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.
Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.
The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.
And then, him standing there and watching you.
Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldnât be looking at.
That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.
Like nothing happened. Like he didnât shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.
You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if itâs the only thing keeping you upright.
And despite knowing you shouldnât - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.
His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.
Because thatâs usually the worst part. Heâs always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that donât count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.
But you are certain, he wonât.
Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.
He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didnât spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didnât spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.
He never mentions them. Never says any of the girlâs names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.
But tomorrow night, there will be another.
Tomorrow night will be the same.
And in the morning nothing will have happened.
Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.
You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.
Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.
You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.
The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.
Your feet move faster. You donât actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and itâs like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.
The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.
The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how itâs done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.
The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.
The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because Iâm sick, doll. Canât ignore me when Iâm sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didnât have the heart to move.
And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesnât mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.
Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you canât stop.
You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesnât matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesnât hear it. He doesnât notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.
The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesnât bring relief. Itâs thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.
Natashaâs place isnât far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.
No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you canât dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.
You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.
You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.
But you keep walking.
Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought youâd be fine. Well, you were wrong.
Itâs past midnight now, completely dark, but you donât care.
You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.
The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.
You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.
You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.
You donât look back.
Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.
It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.
Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise youâve heard a hundred times before. Because itâs the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.
âY/n?â
You close your eyes.
âY/n!â
Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.
You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didnât hear.
But you canât. You never can.
With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.
Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.
His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And itâs just too much.
Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.
Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.
You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.
You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.
âWhere are you going?â
The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it werenât coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.
As if you owe him an answer. As if he isnât the reason your chest feels like itâs been hollowed out and left to rot.
You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isnât him.
âTo Natâs.â
Itâs clipped and short. You donât want to explain, donât want to talk, donât want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.
âNatâs?â You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he wonât let it go.
âSomethinâ happen?â His voice just wonât stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.
Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isnât meant for you.
All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?
But of course, you canât say that. You wonât say that.
So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.
âGo back to bed, Bucky.â
Because you canât do this right now. You wonât do this right now.
Not when you are already about to break.
âI- What?â
His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.
But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.
You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.
âYou-â he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.
Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.
Sheâs alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, itâs that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.
âBucky, come on.â Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.
But Bucky doesnât move.
His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.
And his eyes stay fixed on you.
Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.
And it makes your hands clammy.
The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.
He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers wonât stop pulling at him.
âHold on, doll-â he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But itâs not meant for you. âWhatâre you doinâ at Natâs? Tell her itâs the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows itâs not safe.â
You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.
âItâs fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.â
âY/n - hey. Whatâs wrong? Whatâs this about?â There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesnât get it.
âGo. Back. To bed,â you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.
But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. Itâs like he doesnât hear you at all.
âCâmon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,â he urges, voice gentle but he doesnât seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.
And itâs cruel. So cruel.
Because you are in love with him.
And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.
âI donât wanna do this right now, Bucky,â you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. âYouâre killinâ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me whatâs goinâ on. Itâs cold out, doll. Youâre not even wearinâ a jacket.â
You swallow down a choked breath.
Because this is making things so much worse.
That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.
Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.
But you are not broken. You are just in love.
âBucky,â that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. âCome on babe, let it go. Just-â She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. âCome back to bed.â
But he doesnât move.
Doesnât even glance at her.
His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. âWould you quit it for a sec?â His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. âJesus, mâtryin to talk here.â
The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesnât spare her another second.
But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-
âWoah, doll, hey. Wait, I-â
His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.
But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.
You should keep walking. Shouldnât have stopped.
But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.
âHold up, yeah? Iâm cominâ down.â
You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.
âNo, you-â
Heâs already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. âIâm coming down,â he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.
Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. âBucky-â you try again. But he has already made up his mind.
âWait there, alright?â His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. âDoll. Promise me youâll wait.â
Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like heâs begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. Itâs catching your breath somewhere in your throat.
You could run.
You should.
You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.
But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.
âOkay,â you say weakly.
Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.
And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.
Hating yourself for hoping.
Technically, you could just leave.
Take a different route to Natâs apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldnât reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another womanâs fingers and the taste of someone elseâs lips still lingering on his own.
You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.
But you donât.
You know you wonât.
Because it wouldnât just frustrate him. It would hurt him.
And thatâs the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.
Not Bucky.
Never Bucky.
You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when heâs trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when heâs agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because heâs closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.
You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you werenât there.
How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like heâd missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.
And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.
So you stay.
With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.
But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.
You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.
Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesnât hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight wonât betray your inner struggles.
Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.
Heâll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.
And you will look at him like you arenât falling apart.
Like your heart isnât unraveling at the seams.
Like you arenât drowning in a love that will never be returned.
The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.
Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like heâs got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesnât get to you fast enough. He doesnât hesitate. Doesnât pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.
His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.
Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.
His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.
His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.
Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.
âWhatâs going on, doll? You been cryinâ?â His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. âWhyâve you been crying? What happened?â
His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.
You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.
âI was just going to Natâs, Bucky. Nothing happened.â
Itâs a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.
And you hate how it makes Buckyâs expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldnât be there, because you did wait for him, you didnât leave, but itâs still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And heâs hurt. And you hate yourself.
He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.
âNo,â he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. âThat ainât nothinâ, doll. Câmon. Youâre runninâ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?â
You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you wonât be able to hold yourself together much longer.
You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.
The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.
Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but itâs not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.
âSomethinâ up with Natasha?â His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.
âNo,â you croak, barely managing the word.
He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesnât ease.
âWhatâre you doing then, huh? Whyâre you running off like that? Sâ not safe, you know that.â His voice is soft. Almost like heâs trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. âWhatâs got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?â
His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like heâs begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.
And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.
He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when heâs thinking too hard, when heâs feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.
Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.
But this might be the only thing he canât fix.
His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if youâre falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.
But you donât want him to hold you. Donât want him to hold you like a friend.
You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.
So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesnât even know heâs killing you.
âI-â
You try. You really try.
But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.
Because this time itâs her walking out.
She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.
Like she hasnât spent the first part of the night in Buckyâs bed. Like she hasnât been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.
Like she hasnât taken something that was never hers to have.
But itâs not yours either.
She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasnât just sleeping up there - she was living in something youâve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.
She had the time for that.
Meanwhile, you can barely stand.
Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like youâve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you canât say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesnât come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.
Like youâre being unmade. Piece by piece.
Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.
And Bucky is still looking at you.
Not at her.
You.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.
But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.
The girl doesnât leave and Bucky stiffens.
âBucky,â she drawls, almost lazy, like sheâs bored with this already. âAre you coming back up, orâŠ?â
Your stomach lurches.
You feel exposed, scraped raw, like youâve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.
Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like sheâs interrupting something important.
âGo home,â he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesnât even know it.
âSeriously?â she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.
Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.
âYeah, seriously,â he mutters, already turning back to you. âIâll call you a cab if you need-â
âGod, youâre such a dick,â she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. âUnbelievable.â
And then sheâs gone.
But so are you.
You donât even think about it. You just move.
Your arm slips from Buckyâs loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.
Itâs pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.
Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, itâs too much. Simply too much.
Youâre hurting. And you need to go. Now.
But Bucky doesnât let you.
âWoah, whoah, hey!â His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. Heâs so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.
You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.
His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesnât understand but is so desperate to find.
âAlright,â he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.
âYou want me to put you in chains to keep you still?âItâs a weak and failed attempt at humor.
And itâs not funny. Not even close.
His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.
You donât smile. Donât look at him. Arms still around yourself.
Buckyâs throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.
âWhatâs going on with you, mhm?â His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.
âWhatâs this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goinâ on?â he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. âYouâre rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?â Still so soft. So cautious.
His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like heâs trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, heâll figure it out.
But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.
And you canât handle that. You canât handle anything at the moment.
âJust drop it, Bucky, alright?â It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesnât deserve your attitude. But you canât hold it back.
You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But itâs all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.
His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. âI donât think I will, doll.â
You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.
Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.
And Bucky watches all of that.
His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.
âY/n,â he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. âWhy are you crying, sweetheart.â Heâs so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like heâs afraid that if he pushes too hard, youâll just break.
You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. âIâm fine.â
Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.
âSee, thatâs bullshit.â
Youâre about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.
âLook,â he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. âYou donât wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause Iâm askinâ? Fine. But donât stand here and tell me youâre okay. Because Iâve got eyes, doll, and I can see that youâre not.â
You want him to stop.
You want him to turn around.
You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.
But he wonât.
And you donât know what to do with that.
And you break.
No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesnât matter.
The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You canât choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. Itâs useless.
You feel so pathetic.
Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That youâre standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.
And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.
The second your breath hitches, he is moving.
Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesnât even need to think about it. Not for a single second.
You let him.
Because itâs either this, or youâll collapse down onto the asphalt.
His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.
Like your pain is his own.
âItâs okay. Shh⊠itâs okay,â he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. âOh, doll.â He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. âItâs okay.â
There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.
His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.
âI gotcha,â he breathes. âMâhere, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.â
Itâs a slip. Baby. A mistake.
And it makes you cry harder.
Because itâs so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something thatâs always been there, something thatâs always belonged to you.
Except it hasnât.
It doesnât.
Not in the way you want.
You donât know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.
But you are not one of those girls.
You never will be.
And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.
So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like itâs yours. Like it hasnât been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone elseâs lips, someone elseâs skin, just someone else just hours ago.
Itâs too hard. too cruel.
You wish it didnât matter. You wish it didnât rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.
But it does.
Because even if it doesnât belong to you, you still want it.
So you cry harder.
Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.
Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.
âHey, hey, hey,â he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like heâs drowning in your hurt right along with you.
âSweetheart,â he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. âPlease talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me whatâs wrong.â
But you canât.
Because what the hell would you even say?
That youâre in love with him?
That youâve been in love with him?
That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones youâll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?
That you want him in a way you shouldnât?
That you want him in a way he will never want you back?
You wonât.
So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.
âHelp me understand here, baby. Please,â he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.
Maybe heâs right. Maybe youâre already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasnât realized it yet.
He lets you cry when you donât answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you canât even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.
His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You donât have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.
Because none of this makes it any easier.
Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and itâs a lie.
Because itâs him.
And that means it hurts.
You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.
But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.
He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesnât let you.
Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.
He looks wrecked.
His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.
âDonât look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?â
You swallow hard, jaw tight. âYou just ruined your good night,â you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.
Buckyâs frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like heâs searching for something, anything thatâll make this make sense.
âThe hell I did,â he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. âI donât give a shit about her. Donât even know her name, if Iâm beinâ honest.â He lets out a huffed laugh.
But you donât.
Because somehow this makes it worse.
And you hate it.
You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.
Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.
Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.
But Bucky just shrugs.
It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.
Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.
Not with anyone. Not even with you.
You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesnât matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what youâre allowed to have.
And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.
You can barely breathe past it.
You donât say anything.
And Bucky freezes.
His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.
There is something uncertain in there.
And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.
Something settles over his expression that you donât recognize.
Like a switch has been flipped.
Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.
Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.
His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, youâre not sure.
He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.
His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.
âIs that what this is about?â
Itâs quiet, the way he says it. Like heâs afraid of it. Like heâs careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.
You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, itâll erase the way heâs looking at you right now. That itâll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.
âNo,â you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you donât want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.
But Bucky doesnât let you.
âDollâŠâ It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands donât drop from your face, donât loosen, donât give you the space youâre so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.
âHey. Look at me.â His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth youâd usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You donât want to meet those stormy blues.
Buckyâs thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.
âCâmon, sweetheart. Give me somethinâ here.â
Itâs not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like itâs not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.
âI donât-â you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Buckyâs gaze shadows.
âDonât what?â he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you arenât. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.
You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.
âItâs- Itâs not-â Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything youâve never let yourself say.
But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.
He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like heâs grounding you. Holding you both together.
âDoll,â he sighs, and itâs too much.
Itâs not teasing. Itâs not playful. Itâs not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.
Itâs vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.
âYouâre breakinâ my heart here.â
And thatâs what has another tear slip over your lashes.
Because youâre breaking his heart?
What does that even mean?
You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you itâs his heart that hurts?
âPlease,â he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. âJust tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.â
His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.
âI canât-â Your voice cracks, but you donât look away this time. His hands wonât let you. He wonât let you.
His eyes are pleading.
âCanât what, sweetheart?â he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.
The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.
âIs it-â he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. âIs it those girls?â
A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.
You canât answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.
You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.
Your reaction must be answer enough.
Buckyâs head, Buckyâs hands, Buckyâs eyes, Buckyâs whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.
A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.
The exact moment he realizes.
âShit,â he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you donât stop trying.
You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.
âShit, doll, I-â His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.
You donât stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You canât talk. You canât stop crying. You canât look at him.
But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he wonât let you go.
âNo, no, donât - please, Y/n, donât.â He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.
He reaches your face again and holds on like itâs important. Your tears wonât stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he wonât let you leave.
Bucky panics.
His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.
âOh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didnât-â He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.
Not at you.
At himself.
âDoll, I didnât - Jesus Christ, I didnât know.â
It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.
And then heâs shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.
âI didnât - fuck, I didnât mean-â
He seems to hold back a scream.
Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like heâs in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.
You wish you could believe it.
âBucky-â you croak out.
âNo, donât-â His head doesnât stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. âDonât say my name like that.â
âLike what?â Your voice is whisper-thin.
His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.
âLike itâs over.â
Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.
Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.
âI didnât know, doll,â he whispers, voice breaking. âI swear to God, I didnât know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didnât think youâd-â
He cuts himself off, voice choking.
His hands drop suddenly, like he doesnât even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.
And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you wonât pull away this time.
When you donât, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.
âTell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,â he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. âTell me what to do, baby. Anything. Iâd do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,â he chokes out.
Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.
This thing between you.
Buckyâs hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesnât even realize heâs doing it, just needing to be close.
âIâm so sorry,â he gasps out. âGod, Iâm so fucking sorry.â
Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.
It consumes him.
His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.
His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like itâs costing him something.
âI never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.â
His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough youâll feel how much he means them.
And you do. You just donât know what the hell is going on.
He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.
Bucky is crying.
It breaks you. You donât know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Donât know how to ever let it go.
You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.
But Buckyâs whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.
And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.
But it doesnât.
Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.
âBucky,â you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just canât seem to find the irony in it. âWhat are you even - I donât - I donât I understand.â
His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like itâs the last one heâs going to get.
âI love you.â
Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.
He says it like itâs the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isnât.
Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.
âI love you,â he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.
But you donât know how to.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesnât know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before itâs too late, but your heart doesnât listen.
Buckyâs hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.
You donât and he steps closer again.
His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.
âSay something, doll,â he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.
But what could you say?
Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isnât supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.
But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.
âYou-â you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesnât seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you donât know if you can take. âBut that-â Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. âThat doesnât make any sense.â
Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.
Guilt.
It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldnât.
âYeah,â he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. âI know.â
You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you werenât ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.
And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.
âI didnât think I could have you,â he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. âDidnât think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.â
Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. âBucky-â
âYouâre my best friend,â he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he canât help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. âI didnât wanna mess that up, yâknow? Didnât wanna lose you over somethinâ I couldnât control.â
Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.
âSo you-â you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. âSo you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?â
Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.
Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. âI tried,â he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. âTried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-â He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. âIt didnât work. Nothinâ worked. Didnât even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.â
It hurts.
It hurts in a way you donât know how to hold. Donât know how to carry.
You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.
But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that heâs been afraid to speak it aloud too.
That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.
Buckyâs words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.
It should matter. It should mean something that heâs standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldnât it be enough that heâs telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?
But he still touched them.
Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.
While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends donât ache like this.
And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.
But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.
He tried to fuck it away.
And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.
You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.
âBut, doll, it-â he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. âIt never meant anything. Swear to god, none of âem ever meant something to me.â His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. âThey werenât you. Couldnât be you. Didnât matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because youâre supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didnât matter. Nothinâ worked.â
He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.
âI thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckinâ time.â His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. âThought about how youâd feel. How youâd sound.â
Your breath stalls.
Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. âTried to picture you instead. How youâd look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.â His voice cracks. âBut it wasnât you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldnât help it.â
He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesnât stop hurting.
Even if you know it might not be fair.
But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone elseâs skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone elseâs throat - it makes you sick.
And he sees it.
You try to blink back another wave of tears.
His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.
âPlease tell me I didnât ruin this.â His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.
âIâm so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.â His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. âTell me I can fix this. Thereâs gotta be somethinâ I can do. Anything.â
You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You donât know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.
And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.
But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.
The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.
The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.
But worst of all is that you canât even blame him.
Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?
You had no claim on him.
But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldnât, that heâs standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.
You donât know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If heâll stick with you.
âNo more girls.â The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.
âNever,â he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. âNo more, baby. No one else. Not ever.â
Your breath catches, body sways.
There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.
âOnly you,â he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. âItâs only ever been you.â
Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.
âI got a lot to make up for.â His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. âI know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And thatâs on me.â
You squeeze your eyes shut, because itâs too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when youâve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.
âI donât wanna rush this, alright?â
You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldnât, something too large, something too consuming.
âI donât wanna mess this up more than I already have. I donât wanna push or expect anythinâ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.â His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. âYou understand me?â
You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.
âIâve been waitinâ for this, hopinâ for this - Christ, I donât even know how long.â
Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you werenât alone in this. Maybe never have been.
âAnd now that itâs happeninâ - now that I have you, even if I donât deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,â he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.
His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.
âAnd I hate-â his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. âI hate that itâs happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didnât see this sooner.â
âBucky-â
He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.
âPlease I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.â
You nod.
He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.
He continues, voice hoarse. âI would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.â
Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body canât decide whether to brace itself for collapse.
Youâve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isnât sure he is worthy of.
âYou donât gotta say anythinâ right now, doll,â Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. âI know I shoulda told you sooner.â He grimaces, disgusted with himself. âI shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckinâ stupid. So fuckinâ blind.â
You donât even notice you started leaning further into him.
Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.
âI donât deserve you,â he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. âBut I swear to God, I will.â
You donât weigh the hurt against the want, donât let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.
Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.
And for a split second, Bucky freezes.
Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.
But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.
One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he canât believe you are real and this moment is something heâs imagined a thousand times but never thought heâd get to have.
And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.
He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.
Itâs like he canât believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.
And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.
âJesus, doll,â he rasps, panting. âYou tryna kill me?â
And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe heâs been suffering just as much as you have.
âI want you. Itâs as simple as that. Iâve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I canât. You hear me? Iâm done. Iâm not giving up. A life without you is not enough.â
- Beau Taplin
this was the single most sexiest scrumptious smut fic i have ever had the pleasure of reading
Previous Day | Next Day
Masterlist
Words: 3.9k
Warnings: Orgasm denial; Maryâs a sadist wbk; established relationship; all of this is consensual; naked woman, clothed man; face-slapping; praise kink; degradation kink (is it really written by me if it doesnât have at least one of these?); fingering; no lube; cunnilingus; dacrophilia; use of sex toys; dry humping; biting; pain kink; vaginal sex; piv sex; unprotected sex; choking; squirting;
Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals
đ MDNI đ
Mary liked to make it hurt but the hurt was always so good you would forgive it every single time. He did things to you that you never thought youâd enjoy and opened up a whole different side of yourself you didnât know lay dormant. Of course, you werenât innocent like most people assumed, you did have a dark side. But Mary somehow managed to take that dark side and twist it until it had become darker and hungrier than before. And you loved every second of it.
Outside of the bedroom, Mary was the most beautiful human in the world. He was sweet, kind, caring, attentive, somewhat a golden retriever. Between the sheets, he was evil, downright demonic. And tonight was no exception. Apparently heâd gotten into a fight with one of his bandmates, and you were going to pay the price for it. Heâd sent you a text before leaving his friendâs place: you better be naked with your legs spread by the time I get home or else. Or else what? Remember the safe word?
Lemon.
Good.
That was the last you heard from him. Anticipation grew in your stomach as you completely undressed and did as he asked. You knew what would happen if you were caught slacking, and given the mood he was in, you didnât really want to risk it. The last time that happened, you couldnât sit down for an entire week - because it wasnât just your ass he beat. The guilt he felt afterwards was crazy and you had to keep reminding him that you wanted it.
You were scrolling on your phone, laying on the bed with your whole body on display when you heard the front door slam shut. Immediately, you threw your phone across the room and put your hands above your head, exactly how he liked. Not even three seconds later, the bedroom door swung open. Maryâs expression was dark, and he was filled with such a rage you rarely saw. He was scary when he was angry - the kindest people usually were. You felt arousal flood your cunt at the sight of him.
âFinally,â he said, âsomeone who does as I ask.â He placed his guitar on its stand before turning back to you, his eyes roaming the entirety of your body until they stopped on your exposed centre. âI half expected Iâd have to come back and punish you. Iâm disappointed.â
âIâm sorry.â You said, quietly.
He moved to the side of the bed and sat next to you, cupping your cheek in a moment of worrying calm. âFor what, my angel?â He asked softly. âFor being an obedient slut for me? For letting me find you with your legs spread like a fucking whore?â The same hand that was gently touching your face disappeared, only to strike your cheek with enough force to sting, but not enough to leave a mark. âAnswer me.â
âYes.â
His other hand moved down your body and immediately began playing with your clit - he didnât bother gathering any wetness from your hole, at least to begin with. His middle finger ran circles around it, and despite the friction being enough to start a fire, it felt good. You bit your lip at the sensation, trying not to let out any moans without permission. Mary just laughed and pulled it out from between your teeth. âNo, baby. I want the entire fucking neighbourhood to hear me fuck you dumb tonight. Hide those pretty moans from me and Iâll make you suffer, got it?â
âYes!â
âGood girl.â
You felt his index and ring fingers slide inside of you, again without any additional lubrication beside your own wetness. The stretch wasnât too painful, more uncomfortable, but he didnât give you any time to think about it - instead he began hitting your g-spot over and over again, putting his entire wrist and hand into the roughness of his work and immediately hitting you with intense pleasure. The more he moved, the more wetness got onto his hands and the better it felt. But things really felt better when his second hand came into play, when he used his finger to play with your clit. The look of concentration on his face and the way he bit his lip was enough to make you almost blow right there, but you hadnât gotten the permission to cum yet, and you knew that cumming without permission would have landed you in serious trouble. Though, Mary could feel how tight you were getting, how needy you were when you bucked your hips to chase that feeling.
âAre you close?â He asked, his voice teasing and bordering on condescension.
âYes!â
âAnd what do we say when weâre close?â
âC-can I cum?â
âCan you cum⊠what?â
âPlease! Can I cum please.â
âGood girl.â
You could feel it creeping up on you. It felt so fucking good. His masterful hands brought you so close you could almost taste it. Yes! Yes! Right there. Right there!
He pulled his hands away, his fingers and thumb covered in your slick. You watched him as he admired the shine you left on him, pulling his fingers apart and watching the string snap in between them. All the while you felt that orgasm ebbing away. You clearly looked dejected, and this made him laugh when he saw the expression you wore. âYou were a good girl for asking, but I still didnât give you permission, did I? Letâs go again, shall we?â
His hands went right back in to the exact position he was in beforehand. This time, however, heâd moved down the bed and was sat in between your spread legs, his tongue replacing his other hand on your clit. The same middle and ring finger that he used before, he used again, but this time he added his index finger to stretch you a little more, once again not bothering to slick it up and making you wince at the burn.
Mary would sometimes lick your clit, but he knew the real pleasure you experienced came from him sucking on it. He suctioned his mouth around your pebble and began to suck hard, stealing your breath as he did it. Your hands almost moved from your spot above your head because you were so desperate to touch him. You needed to at this point. âP-please, Mary.â
âPlease what?â
âLet me t-touch you!â
âAw,â he cooed, âis the pleasure too much for my little angel, hm? Does she need to pull on my hair?â
âYes!â
âGo on, then.â
As soon as he dove back in, your hands flew down to his hair, grateful for the permission. You were always overly touchy during sex - the desperate need for closeness and affection too much for your body to handle, and your hands always took on a mind of their own. Mary loved it. He loved the way you pulled on his hair when he ate you out, how you cupped both of his cheeks when you kissed him while he was deep inside you, how your nails would scratch down his back when he hit that sweet spot, how your hands would always clutch onto his thighs or hips when his cock was down your throat. The constant need to be as physically close to him as possible made him feel loved and wanted. And so he would only begrudge your touch as a punishment.
Your hands tangled in his hair, the strands a little harder than usual because of the styling gel he used, but still you pulled at the roots. You heard him groan in response, no doubt growing harder in his pants the tighter you pulled. The harder you pulled, the faster his fingers moved and the harder he sucked. Again, you were so close, and you announced it only to have him pull all the way back again, completely remove all his touches. You whined and pouted.
âNow, now, angel.â He scolded. He held your chin between his thumb and index finger, swiping the tip of his thumb over your pouted lip. âDonât do that. Donât brat out on me now or there will be consequences. Take what I give you.â
âI wanna cum so badly.â You said. Your throat was tight from the disappointment, and you could feel tears begin to brew.
âPoor baby. Suffering so much. I know what could make it better. Close your eyes.â
You hesitated for a second, eyeing him suspiciously. But once he made it very clear he wasnât moving until you closed your eyes, you obliged. You felt the bed shift beneath him as he reached over you, the roughness of his jeans rubbing against your soft, naked thigh. The bedside drawer opened slowly so as not to immediately alert you to what he was doing, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was reaching for one of the toys you kept in there. You didnât hear it close, nor did you hear him grab anything. Instead, you felt something big and bulbous sit at your clit before it sprang to life at the flick of a button. Your wand. You didnât even hear him plug it into the wall. Even on its lowest setting it was torturous enough for you to scream out, both in surprise and sensitivity. Your eyes opened entirely and you saw him kneeling between your legs, wand held tightly in his hand and a devilish smirk on his face as he watched you writhe and attempt to escape from the feeling.
âYou like that?â He asked. When you didnât answer him, he turned the vibrations up a little more and pressed the wand further into you, applying more pressure to the area and intensifying the feelings. âFucking answer me when Iâm speaking to you!â
âYes! I like it!â
âThere, that wasnât so hard was it? Have I fucked you brain dead already, hm? I havenât even touched you with my cock yet and youâre already fucked up. You should see yourself right now - you look so fucking pathetic.â He laughed at your whimpers and the way your hips were moving at the sound of him being so fucking vile. It always turned you on to hear him be an asshole in the bedroom, given the polar opposite personality he displayed every other day. You knew deep down that he didnât mean any of the things he was telling you, but he always said it with such conviction, especially in the moment you believed him - and it felt amazing.
Mary lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, making it parallel to his body. The back of your thigh was resting over the top of his incredibly hard cock, that was trapped still underneath the layers of cotton and denim. His composure always made you feel like he wasnât quite as affected as you were by all this. If it wasnât for the blown out irises of his eyes and the way he was now rubbing himself up against you, youâd think he wasnât bothered at all. But he took his pleasure from you as he tortured your body, humping the back of your thick thigh as if he were desperate for relief. The look of you, red-faced, sweaty and desperately wailing like a bitch in heat had him far more affected than you realised, and he needed to get it out of his system one way or another. Right now, your thigh was the closest thing he could use.
âM-Mary, Iâm gonna c-cum!â
He removed all contact again, even holding your ankle to get your thigh away from his body, denying himself pleasure as he denied you. He waited, wordlessly, for you both to calm down, before he attached the wand to you again, but this time two times more powerful than before. You screamed at the feeling and your hand immediately went to the wrist that was holding the vibrator, nails digging into the white skin and leaving red scratch marks. He went back to humping the back of your thigh, with a little more vigour given the loudness of your moaning. He couldnât wait to bury himself deep inside you, to spear you on his thick cock and take his own pleasure out of you. He couldnât wait to make you cum, to shatter your entire world around you and make you think only of him as you tried to breathe. Heâd been thinking about it all day. With every frustration he felt he was going to deny you an orgasm. Three so far. Another two to go.
You felt his lips on your calf, kissing the skin there until one particularly hard thrust against your thigh had him groaning and sinking his teeth into you.
âCumming!â
He pulled away again before you had chance to. You were so close that time. You would have taken any punishment he dished out if it meant you could have cum there and then. But he stopped you before you had chance to tip over the edge and you screamed in frustration, punching the bed beneath you. The tears you shed at the beginning of the session were nothing compared to the tears you shed now. You watched through blurred vision as Maryâs eyes lit up at the sight of you crying in frustration. He turned the vibrator off and threw it to the side, pulling himself out of his confines and lining himself up to your entrance.
âThatâs it, you fucking slut. I fucking love it when I make you cry. Youâre always so pretty. Gets me so fucking hard.â The last sentence he said through gritted teeth and directly into your ear, his body lying down on top of you and trapping you between himself and the mattress beneath you. He gave you a chaste kiss to your lips, ignoring the tears you were shedding, before pushing himself all the way in, stretching you out even more than before. The tongue that had been licking your cunt earlier was now licking away the tears you shed, and a groan escaped his lips when the head of his cock kissed your cervix as his tongue registered the saltiness.
He thrust gently at first. He may have been acting like a monster but he definitely wasnât one, even in his anger. While he thrust in and out of you shallowly and tentatively, his lips ran down your cheeks, across your jaw and down to your neck, where he licked, kissed and sucked at a sensitive spot of yours. âI fucking love this tight cunt.â He commented, his voice muffled by your skin. He pulled out and slammed back into you. âI love the noises you make when I fuck you.â Pulled out again and slammed back in. âI love hurting you and making you remember who this pussy belongs to.â Pulled out. Slammed in.
Your arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him as close as possible. The feel of his loose, grey vest softly dragging against your very erect nipples only added to the heightened sensitivity of your body making you cry out every time they rubbed against you. His jeans bit into your bikini line and thighs as he slammed into you, hitting your cervix every. Single. Time. Fuck it hurt. It hurt so fucking good.
He picked up the pace and the roughness, but he took this opportunity to attach his lips to yours, knowing how desperate for affection youâd become now. You were still crying - partly out of frustration for your almost orgasms, but also because of just how good he felt. Mary kept groaning and grunting into the kiss, his own voice coming out involuntarily from how good you wrapped around him.
He broke the kiss and sat up onto his knees, still thrusting away inside of you, his pace never faltering. âFuck!â He grunted as he watched your body jiggle with the force of him. He always loved how your body moved,how you ricocheted off every thrust. He looked down at where you both were connected and saw a string of white around the base of his cock where youâd creamed all over him. âFucking Hell!â He cried out. âLook at the state of you! This slutty pussy creaming all over me. Does it feel that fucking good?â
âYes! Feels so good, Mary! You fill me so good.â
âLet the neighbours know whoâs filling you this well, angel.â
âYou are!â
âSay my name.â
You moaned at one of his thrusts. âMary!â
âAgain.â He slapped your thigh.
âFuck! Mary!â
âWhat a good whore for me.â
He reached over to the neglected vibrator and turned it back on, setting the intensity back up to where it was the last time he used it. You visibly winced. âMary, no!â
âDo you need to use the safe word?â
You shook your head in response.
âThen youâre gonna fucking take it, arenât you?â
He placed the vibrator over your clit again and continued to fuck you as hard as he could. His grey vest shirt was now dark in most places from the sweat that coincided with the exertion. The sight of him wet and determined had your cunt tightening around him, earning you an appreciative, âfucking slut.â Then, with no warning, the vibratorâs intensity was turned up again, causing you to scream out loud and tears to start falling again. The stimulation bordered on painful, teetering on the edge of delicious and unbearable. You didnât think heâd ever let you cum - that heâd keep you dancing the line until he finished and that heâd leave you. The thought of it was hot, of course, but by this point you were exhausted. Tired of being brought to the precipice but never quite falling over it. Mary watched your reactions intensely, drool practically slipping from his mouth. You were getting closer and closer by the second.
âMary, Iâm gonna cum.â
This time, he didnât move the vibrator away. Instead he kept the speed and pressure exactly the same. You could feel it building and building, your entire body tingling in anticipation. He was finally going to let you cum. You were going to cum. You were so fucking close. âYes! Yes! Yes!â
And then he moved the vibrator away.
âNo!â You screamed. âMary, you piece of shit! You fucking asshole! Let me cum, please!â You moved your hand down and began rubbing at your clit working yourself desperately to release. But you didnât get much time as his free hand grabbed your wrist and pulled it away. âI fucking hate you!â You didnât. Not really. But in this moment you couldnât help it. You began thrashing against him, trying to fight against his strength but now he was putting his full weight onto you and you were having trouble winning this fight. He let go of the vibrator and slapped your face again, this time a little harder and timed with a particularly hard thrust.
âYou wanna fucking fight me? You little bitch. Do you want me to tie you to the fucking bed and keep edging you all night, hm? Acting like a bitch in heat. So desperate to cum. So fucking embarrassing.â His thrusts were getting rougher and rougher. His free hand now came to your throat and began squeezing at the sides. Your breath didnât escape you, but he was restricting the blood flow. You felt like your eyes were going to burst any second. âI should punish you for that. Remind you your place.â
âIâm sorry!â You said quietly. âMary, please.â
He bent down and gave you another kiss, his hand still restricting your throat. When the kiss ended, he released you from his grasp and picked the vibrator up, turning it onto its highest setting. âYou wanna fucking cum? Thatâs fine. Cum whenever you want.â
He placed it to your clit and had you screaming at the intensity, more tears falling from your eyes and wracked sobs shaking your entire body along with his insane thrusts. At this point you were practically screaming through it: babbling incoherently, screaming his name, expletives, anything just to take the intensity away and relieve some of the tension. His other hand that was once restraining yours now rest at your hip and allowed him some leverage to continue to rail you into the mattress. He was exhausted, you could see it from the look in his eyes. You wondered how many times during this whole ordeal he almost came too.
One of your own hands moved to the one on the vibrator, and you grabbed hold of his index and ring fingers. He let you, wanting nothing more to lock hands with you and provide you the comfort you were craving. But he was so focused now on getting you both to orgasm he would let that slip today.
âMary, Iâm close! Please.â
âItâs okay, angel.â His voice was soft now. Gentle. He wasnât the same, angry, crazy man who was ramming into you just moments ago. âCum for me. Iâll talk you through it. Just donât forget to breathe, okay?â You nodded. âSuch a good girl for me, hey? Feel so fucking good around my cock. I got you, angel. Let go. Cum for me.â
And you did. Oh hells, did you cum. All five of the orgasms you missed now came charging through you at full speed, freezing every muscle in your body and stealing the air from your lungs. Your eyes glazed over and for a second went black, the violence of your orgasm now taking all of your senses for you and numbing your brain until all you became was nerve endings reaching climax. No noises were made, no thoughts were thought, no breaths were taken. It wasnât until eons later when you felt Maryâs hand tapping your cheek you were brought back down from wherever the fuck youâd gone. His voice faded back into focus, finally reaching your ears.
âHey. Hey, angel. Come on, come back to me.â
You blinked. âMary?â
âHi, baby. Bear with me a little longer, Iâm almost there, okay?â
You couldnât say anything, instead you just nodded. You felt him enter you again, unsure when he pulled out completely, and after a few intense and oversensitive thrusts, you felt him still and cum inside you. His own orgasm wasnât quite as intense as yours, but it still nearly wiped him out. He lay on top of you for a few seconds, his own body unresponsive to his wants, but once he had regained his own strengths, he gave you a chaste kiss and headed to the bathroom. He always made an effort to clean you up a bit, even if it was only a brief wipe down, it was enough. When he came back, you looked at the state of him. His black jeans even blacker around his crotch and thighs, and it looked like heâd pissed himself.
âWhat happened?â You asked weakly.
The smile that Mary returned made your heart skip a beat. âYou came so hard I was forcibly ejected from your cunt.â He said climbing back onto the bed. âAnd you squirted everywhere. Weâre going to have to change the sheets.â
âIâm sorry.â
âNo, it was the hottest thing Iâve ever fucking seen. I wanna make you do it again.â
âNot tonight, love. Iâm tired.â
Mary laughed. âYouâre fucking incredible, you know that?â He placed the wash cloth on the bedside table and lay down next to you again, scooping you up and holding you tightly, allowing you to bury your head in his bare chest now that his shirt had been removed. âI love you so much.â
âI love you, too.â You replied, placing a little kiss over his heart.
this is so sweet i'm so cozy
Hey!!! I just finished reading song of Achilles and I have been crying for the better part of the last hour while reading, hence in serious need of some Bucky comfort. So how about college or lumberjack Bucky (cuz theyâre my favorites) who donât really understand the whole fuzz over books but still holding his girl while she sobs her chest out out about a book (you can change the book of you want), hot tears down her face, ugly crying yknow?
Itâs okay if you donât want to :)) Have a great day đđđ
Pairing: lumberjack!bucky x reader (can be read separately from undisclosed, but also a little reference to it)
A/n: Okay sooo this was so sweet and I had to write a drabble for it!! All this angst I've been writing needs some comfort! :)
~~~
He hears the crying first.Â
Itâs a terrible sound that constricts his chest each time it meets his ears. Bucky would like to consider himself partially responsible for your tears becoming a rare occurrence, so when he hears them, he experiences an array of emotionsâfear, panic, a twisted sort of heartbreak.Â
At the front door of his home, Bucky strains his ears to confirm what heâs already dreading. Because maybe you werenât crying. Maybe you were sick? That wasnât much better, but at least it was a more concrete issue.Â
When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpineâthe closest thing to concern heâd ever heard from a catâBucky doesnât even take his coat off before heâs barreling into your bedroom.Â
You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room.Â
And heâs devastated. You hadnât looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when youâre looking at him like that.Â
âOh, honey,â he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. âSweetheart, what happened?âÂ
You donât say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. Itâs too warm in here for the amount of clothes heâs wearing. Bucky doesnât really care. You keep cryingâBucky keeps running his fingers through your hair.Â
Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. Heâd been trying, for you. He will try now.Â
âTell me what happened, sweet girl?â he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this.Â
Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay.Â
âHeâhe died, Buck,â you eventually choke out. âHe died and then there was noâthere was nothingââ your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest.Â
âWho?â he stresses, although his tone doesnât give that away. âWho, honey? Someone you know?âÂ
âNo,â you sob. The sound knocks the air from Buckyâs lungs.Â
Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isnât the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air.Â
Bucky couldnât understand.Â
âTell me who. What has you so sad, hm?â he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone.Â
You dig your fingers into Buckyâs jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasnât done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and heâs confused again.Â
âThem,â you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket.Â
Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. Heâs still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, âWhat was that, sweet girl?âÂ
Heâs packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal.Â
âIn the book,â you explain. âThey were so in love. And then he died. And afterwardsâBucky it was awful.âÂ
Oh.Â
A book.Â
This is manageable, to Bucky. Youâre not in pain and he can handle this.Â
He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Buckyâs size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything.Â
Even⊠a book?Â
Surely a book.Â
âHey, itâs alright, I got you,â he hums.
âNever die,â you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably.Â
âI wonât.âÂ