delusionalvenusian

[delusionalvenusian]

Ifs, Buts, and Maybes | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky and his love think about the life they could have had if they’d met in 1945. 

A/N: Not to toot my own horn but I almost made myself cry with this one (it’s very late here, but still) also, please someone tell me you get the joke with the title (@itsswritten don't leave me hanging)

Word count: 2.5 k

Warnings: all the fluff. all the feels. it’s so cheesy. a twinge of angst if you squint (also, not proofread)

-

Bucky was close to drifting off to sleep when he felt her stir against him. She turned in his arm, head leaning against his shoulder, and when he cracked open an eye, he found her peering up at him with her chin tilted up. At the sight, the corners of his lips twitched of their own accord.

His voice was thick with sleep when he asked, “What is it, darlin’?”

She stirred more, turning to her stomach until she lay half on top of him. She flattened a palm against his chest, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” Bucky hummed deep in his chest. Running cool metal fingers down the curve of her spine, he delighted in the slight shiver she gave. “Well, I can, so shush.”

He’d barely closed his eyes when a snort cut through the silence, and she poked the finger of her free hand into his side, drawing a grin to his face.

“Rude.”

A deep inhale rose his chest—and her with it. Bucky lifted his metal hand to his face to rub his eyes with his thumb and index finger. When he squinted at the alarm clock on his nightstand, he found the bright green numbers demoralizingly low.

Turning back, he found attentive eyes on him. The eery green light reflected in her irises. He could see her quite well despite the darkness.

Vibranium thumb brushing along her temple, he hummed again. “I love you.”

Her cheeks lifted, and when she nuzzled her head into his palm, Bucky felt his chest contract in an aching pull.

“I love you,” she echoed, skipping the ‘too’. She always skipped the ‘too’. She thought it made the phrase sound like less than it was. “What was it like in the 40s?”

Bucky’s brow quirked at the odd change of topic. “What?”

“Being in love,” she paused. “Dating. What would it have been like if we’d met back then?” Her voice was low as she spoke, breath fanning over Bucky’s chest. He could feel her words vibrate gently against him. 

“It would have been… I don’t know, different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky’s lips curled at the corners. “You have the most interesting midnight thoughts, darlin’.”

She rose a shoulder as best as her position allowed. “I just realised that I have no idea what you were like back then. All I know are those old photographs. The cheeky ones,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes.

A quiet chuckle shook Bucky’s shoulders, hand once again beginning a slow tracing of her spine. Up, then down again, always halting just above the curve of her ass.

After a long moment, he said. “If we’d met in the 40s, I would have laid all my charm on ya.” Tilting his head deeper into his pillow, Bucky traced the lines of her lips with his eyes. “I would’ve spotted you from the other side of a dance hall, and after one or two shots of liquor I would have finally found the courage to talk to you.”

She giggled quietly. “Oh, please. Like you needed alcohol back then. Steve told me you were a smooth talker through and through, yapping your way into every girl’s heart.”

Bucky hummed, hiding a smirk. “Not with you. Woulda swallowed my tongue the minute you looked at me.”

“Sure you would have,” she smiled, eyes gleaming as she tilted her head to the side to place her cheek on the back of her hand, watching intently as Bucky continued talking.

“I would have asked you to dance. The jitterbug probably. I would have made an absolute fool of myself, but hearing you laugh would have made every embarrassment worth it.”

Her smile became soft now. “Don’t tell me James Buchanan Barnes can’t dance.”

“Have you seen a jitterbug before? It’s lucky we didn’t meet back then. I would’ve broken a hip trying to impress ya.”

Her laugh came through her nose this time—a gentle exhale to brush his skin once again. Bucky’s hand slowed now, coming to a rest in the crook of her neck, thumb running along the base of her hairline.

“I would have offered to buy you a drink after. Assuming you would have agreed to dance in the first place.”

“Of course I would have.” She sounded so sincere that Bucky did not dare question it. If anything, he was eager to believe her.

“We would’ve talked all night, and I would have offered to walk you home after, just to spend a little more time with you. Then I would’ve shown up at your doorstep the next morning with flowers I stole from my ma’s garden. Just to make sure you didn’t forget all about me already.”

“You wouldn’t have kissed me goodnight?”

“Oh, I would have been dying to kiss ya, darlin’,” Bucky mumbled deep in his chest. “But that wouldn’t have been very proper, now, would it?”

She giggled again. “Like you cared about what was proper and what wasn’t. I don’t believe you for one second.”

“Mind you, I was very proper.”

“You were a candyman.”

Bucky blinked. “A what now?”

“Like the song?” When Bucky’s expression remained blank, Y/N lifted her head from her hand, soft outrage on her face. “By Christina Aguilera? Sweet-talkin’, sugar-coated candyman. I can’t believe you don’t know that song!”

“Sounds like I really missed out,” Bucky deadpanned, to which she clicked her tongue and placed her head back on his chest.

“It’s a great song. And it’s exactly how I imagine you back then. Walking around, making all the panties drop.”

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t nearly as bad as you think I was. Being a candyman”—Bucky barley kept a straight face at the word—“back then is nothing like being one right now.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “So no goodnight kiss for little old me.”

Bucky smirked, curling his fingers into her hair on the back of her head, massaging gently. At once, her lids drooped a little heavier.

“I would have brought you flowers, and I would’ve asked you out properly. We would have gone to the pictures, or the fair; shared too much popcorn or cotton candy. You would have worn one’a those pretty dresses with the nice white collars and the petticoats, and I probably would’ve dragged Steve along to make a double date out of it with one of your girlfriends. If Steve and her hit it off, we would have snuck away at some point. We would’ve laughed a lot. I would’ve talked your ear off, telling you about ma and Becca, and then—behind a tent, or in an alley by the cinema—I would’ve kissed you a little.”

Her face pulled into a dreamy smile—like she was right there with him, in that alley in his mind, imagining another time, another universe where they shared an innocent kiss, high on sugar and infatuation.

“You would have held my neck the way you do when we kiss, and you would have tasted like cotton candy and watered-down lemonade,” Bucky continued quietly, almost wistfully. “And after, you would’ve wiped your lipstick off my face with your thumb. Steve probably would’ve taken one look at me and known I was done for.”

Her palm now found his face, and the soft pad of her thumb ran along his bottom lip as though she was reenacting the scene.

“You would’ve had me fully wrapped around your little finger by the second date,” Bucky muttered against her skin, eyes locked with hers. “I would’ve courted you properly. I would have introduced you to my family, and met yours, too. You would have gotten along phenomenally with Steve, and it would have been one of the reasons I would have known that you are the one.”

Silence settled like a blanket over them then, heartbeats blending into one, and slow hands tracing skin like the most precious of artworks.

Bucky had hoped that he was talking her to sleep, that a soothing tone would cure her momentary insomnia. But instead, he felt her heart pump hard against his chest, fluttering with the warmth that coated her cheeks at his story.

“I wouldn’t have tried anythin’ funny with you,” Bucky continued after a while, his voice suddenly gravelly and low. “We would’ve kissed a lot, maybe done some other things, too, but everything else… sex would have been totally up to you. It wasn’t as safe as it is now, and there was still a lot of judgement around it, especially for women.” Bucky paused, narrowing his eyes when he gently pressed his fingers against her scalp. “But if you’d decided that you wanted to, I would’ve gladly taken you back to my place. We would have had to be quiet so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and after, we would have smoked those nasty little cigarettes they used to hand out to soldiers. We would have sat at the window and talked. Just talked. For hours. Like we do now.”

Bucky could tell that she’d inched a bit closer now, a hazy look in her eyes as her gaze flickered between his eyes and his mouth. She craned her neck a little, and Bucky leaned forward to meet her in a slow kiss.

They took their time with it, and when they parted, he pressed another, quicker kiss to the corner of her lips. She smiled then.

“And after that?”

Bucky hummed, fingers brushing loosely through her hair in thought. He could taste her now. It distracted him.

“We wouldn’t have dated for too long,” he said quietly, smiling at the mild surprise that rose her brow just a breath higher. “My ma probably would’ve shoved my grandma’s ring in my hand the day you walked through the door. I would have held off on proposing for a few months, so as to not scare you off. But I would have known right away.”

“I would have said yes on that first date,” Y/N breathed with a soft smile to brighten her eyes.

Bucky leaned forward to kiss her again, deeper this time. His mind was swimming when he leaned back in his pillow.

Clearing his throat, he said. “Steve would’ve been my best man. We would have invited just a few people. Small. Intimate. And then… well then, I would have spent the rest of our lives wondering how I’d gotten so lucky.”

Bucky thought back to everything he had thought to one day have. “We would have moved in together right away, and we would have been able to be as loud as we wanted to be, because the neighbours wouldn’t matter anymore. We would’ve gotten some regular old jobs. You would have been a nurse, or a secretary, or a teacher, and I probably would have worked some construction, or maybe in a factory, or down at the docks. And who knows, after a while, maybe we would have had some kids.” Bucky paused for a moment, swallowing before he continued. “Steve would have visited regularly, probably married to Peggy at that point. We would have been… happy. At peace. And by now we would be well over 100, still happy. Still at peace. Still together. If not in this life, then in the next.”

It hung unspoken between them—the realities of what Bucky had lost through the war, through Hydra. The life he would have had, had things been just a little different back then.

She didn’t speak for a very long time, and Bucky thought he saw a shimmer in the green light of her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

When she smiled, she looked sad, a warm palm cupping his cheek for her thumb to run along his stubbled skin soothingly.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” she breathed near inaudible.

Bucky’s brows twitched together at her words. Lifting his hand, he cupped hers against his cheek, turning his face to press his lips to the centre of her palm.

“Don’t be.”

She shook her head softly. “You lost so much.”

“I didn’t lose anything.” This time, actual confusion washed over his face. “It’s nice to think about, but it would never have happened, darlin’. You were born some 80 years after me.”

“But you still lost that future. Everything you wanted back then. If not with me, then with some pretty dame who was born in your half of the century.” Bucky noted the half-hearted joke when she copied his vernacular, but it fell flat in the context of her words.

Bucky’s eyes softened, both palms now finding her cheeks. He looked at her for a long while, memorising every inch of her face as he’d done so many times before. When he spoke, his voice was calm, assured.

“If I had to choose between this life with you and that life with someone else, I would always, always choose this one.” He shook his head in amazement. “It’s not even a question.”

“But—”

“No but,” he interrupted gently, wiping beneath her eye. “I much prefer the dating customs of this century anyway.”

She laughed thickly, and Bucky leaned in to seal their lips in yet another kiss. It was a little more desperate now, a little heavier after this change in mood, and after a long moment, they parted for air, panting gently in unison.

“I love you,” Y/N breathed as she pressed her lips to his jaw. “And who knows, with all of this multiverse nonsense going on, maybe there really is a version of us out there that met in your time.” She offered a smile, the tip of her nose almost touching his.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her. “I hope I will find you in every version of the universe.”

Her head found the crook of his neck then, breath once again fanning gently against his skin. She smiled against him. He could feel it. “So that I can keep every version of you awake at night?”

Bucky laughed quietly, pressing his lips to her hair. “It’s the best feeling in the world to wake up to you. No matter the time.”

-

“Hey Buck,” she whispered, palm finding a smooth cheek in the dim lighting of the moon that shone through the window. They’d kept the blinds open tonight. They no longer needed to hide from nosey Mrs Gusterson who lived across the street—not with the silver wedding band that gleamed on her finger.

Bucky stirred, nose scrunching as he came to. “What is it, doll?”

She was still giddy from the last few days, still giddy to be a wife now. With a smile that was a little too awake, she leaned her head against Bucky’s shoulder to peer up at him. His arm tightened around her, eyes softening with love as they met her gaze.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

[delusionalvenusian]

thinking…thinking so so hard…

[delusionalvenusian]

Read The Packets

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Fem!Reader (no use of y/n; petnames sweetheart, baby, and I think a darling in there)

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, teasing, spanking (blink and you'll miss), swearing, some praise kink sprinkled in, bratty reader, sort of Thunderbolts* spoilers if you care about Valentina's storyline, I think that's it? But please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: My very first Bucky smut! Venturing out from my usual fluff. Completely gratuitous. Just one of many thoughts I've had since my first viewing of Thunderbolts* earlier this week. Surely more to come, because... WHEW, that man.

______________________________________________________________

"Read the packets," Congressman Gary said plainly, as if it were just that simple.

In truth, Bucky had tried to read the packets. Once. After a long day on Capitol Hill, he had resolved to sit himself down in his apartment that evening and lock in, pushing through the boredom. A quiet night in with takeout, work, and you, his best girl, to keep him company.

He had failed, though, to presuppose the mood you would be in that night.

Be it hormones, or just missing him after your own generally hectic schedule lately, you weren't sure. All you knew was you needed him, and seeing him in dutiful politician mode certainly wasn't helping.

He was sat on the couch in a t-shirt and boxer briefs, packets stacked on the coffee table save for the one open in his hands, with that little eyebrow crinkle that formed when he had his serious face on as he focused on the words on the page in front of him.

The same crinkle that always formed when he focused on fucking you senseless.

You quietly sauntered over to the back of the couch in nothing but your silken robe and wasted no time, silently dragging your hands down his burly chest from behind and leaning down to pepper slow, sloppy kisses to his jaw and neck. A smile formed on your busy lips as you heard him sigh out a groan.

"Sweetheart," he said in a vaguely warning tone.

"Hmm?" You questioned innocently, not letting up.

"Gotta read these."

You placed a kiss to the shell of his ear. "They're not going anywhere."

Bucky chuckled. "Yeah, that's the problem. Should've read 'em weeks ago."

"What's a few more hours then?"

"I-- baby, please." He all but whined, desperately trying to keep his focus. The sooner he got through these, the sooner he could get to taking you apart in whatever way you wanted.

Bucky felt you huff in annoyance against his skin as you ceased your torturous ministrations. "Fine."

But you weren't really done with him yet. No, his responsibility only spurred you on, and his rare rejection activated a brattiness within you the likes of which either of you had yet to experience.

You rounded the sofa as Bucky redirected his attention to his work, plopping down next to him dramatically and scooting as close to him as you could without fully ending up in his lap. Much to your annoyance, he managed with some restraint to keep his eyes on the paper without even glancing your way. You leaned closer into him until your bare knees landed across his thigh and your chest partially pressed against his arm, appearing to join him in reading the packet while your hand found his hair, nails raking over his scalp as you began to lightly scratch and massage just how he liked.

"Baby, I-"

"Shh," you whispered. "You're supposed to be reading. This is riveting stuff."

His eyes rolled back as his body involuntarily relaxed under your touch. "'m trying."

You let your hand gently drop from his hair, using it to prop your own head next to his. Bucky opened his eyes and shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear it and regain control.

All was innocent and peaceful for a minute or so before you slid your other hand to Bucky's knee. He inhaled sharply at the feeling of your soft, uncalloused hand ghosting over his thigh, stopping at the hem of his briefs, then back down again. It only took three featherlight passes for you to feel the fabric pulling and tightening as his cock hardened.

Bucky's jaw clenched as he fought to retain the words he was reading, but as the blood flowed from his head to the head below it could have been written in Wingdings font and he wouldn't know the difference. You pressed a kiss to his tight jaw, urging the muscles to relax.

Your barely-there touch caressed its way to the fully pitched tent and you couldn't help the satisfied hum you let out at the feeling of Bucky's stiffness at your fingertips. He twitched in his briefs at your touch and sweet sound.

His excitement and your own growing ache in your core encouraged you not to stop your fun. Painfully softly, you began to stroke him at a leisurely pace, not yet making direct skin to skin contact. You hummed again when you felt the warmth of the wet spot forming on the thin cotton layer that separated you.

"Ple-" Bucky began, tearing his gaze from the packet to beg you for mercy.

You cut him off with a quick but passionate kiss, leaving him yearning for more as you pulled away. "Read, congressman," you ordered, earning another twitch at the usage of his title.

Wordlessly he watched you slip off the couch and onto your knees before him, guiding his legs apart to rest in between them, ducking into place under his arms, which were still slightly raised and diligently holding the first impeachment packet. He shot you a look that was half warning, half plea. You looked up at him innocently as you bent down and placed a kiss to the tip of his clothed dick. You gave him the look once more, this time descending for an open mouthed kiss to the same spot and earning a poorly controlled growl from deep within Bucky's chest.

You slid your hands up his thighs to the waistband of his briefs, freeing him as much as you could until you could see the pretty pink head. You met his gaze through your long lashes, silently asking him for help to get them the rest of the way off. When he didn't immediately oblige, you settled for wrapping your hand around him and beginning to pump him at the same leisurely pace you'd maintained before, continuing to hold eye contact.

Bucky licked his lips and shook his head. "You're killin' me, sweetheart."

"Read, congressman," you repeated. "You have work to do." And so do I, you thought. With that, you took him as far into your mouth as you could manage with his briefs still partially in the way.

"Fuck," he hissed at the contact with the wet warmth of your mouth.

You moaned at the taste of him on your tongue, wishing you had full leverage to take him completely down your throat.

With the scene before him, he knew he wouldn't last long. You, his sweetheart, his best girl, so bratty and desperate for him, so wet from being on your knees for him that his serum-enhanced senses had him smelling your sweet arousal. No, he wouldn't last long at all like this. And no way in hell could he get through those fucking packets.

Bucky tossed the packet aside on the couch with a thud and you let out a playful giggle on his cock. Just what you wanted, obviously. Defeat. "So fuckin' needy, huh?" He cooed, threading a hand into your hair as you bobbed up and down. He felt you nod in his palm, the vibration of your affirmative "mhmm" all around him. "Not even out of my clothes yet and 'm already gonna cum."

You released him with a pop and looked up at him, leaning back slightly and running your hands up his abs under his t-shirt. "Off, please."

Bucky ignored your plea and leaned down to give you a wanting kiss, mimicking the one you'd given to him earlier, drawing a whine from you as he pulled away. "Up, darlin'." You gave him a pouty look. "Get up, c'mon. Just givin' my girl what she wants."

You rose to your feet as you were told, Bucky grabbing your hips without warning and pulling you down to straddle his lap. Immediately you were on him, hands in his hair to shower him in deep, hungry kisses. He pulled the offending t-shirt off, providing fresh landscape for your hands to explore. You barely noticed in your fervor him untying your robe and sliding it off your shoulders to the floor, leaving you stark naked in the living room turned makeshift office.

"So fuckin' beautiful," Bucky sighed into your neck as his kisses descended from your lips and his hands roamed your bare body. "But such a little brat." A surprised yelp escaped you as his flesh hand planted a firm slap to your ass, then soothingly rubbed the reddening spot. The slight sting left you throbbing over him, aching for friction. "You gonna start behaving?" His vibranium hand left its place on your thigh, his cold fingers sending shockwaves through you as they met your folds and glided through the gathered slick.

You bit your lip and nodded furiously, needing to feel him inside of you. "Yes-- yes, I'll be so good."

"I know you will, baby," he said, nodding back at you while he slowly inserted two fingers. "So be a good girl and pick that packet up for me, huh?" You looked at him with confusion, trying to focus as his fingers dragged in and out of you. "Right next to you, pick it up." He couldn't tell if your whining as you complied was out of pleasure or annoyance or both, but he didn't care. "That's it." He removed his fingers abruptly and made quick work of lifting his hips to slide off his last bit of clothing, his rock hardness bumping your swollen clit on the way up, earning an abrupt moan from you. "See, it's like you said, I have work do. So let's multitask." His hands found your hips again, gripping and guiding you down until he felt his tip kiss your entrance and watched your mouth gape in anticipation. He held you there, hovered slightly, and slid himself in teasingly slowly. You groaned in unison as you felt the friction between you. "God, you're fuckin' soaked."

"Feel so good," you breathed, eyes rolling back.

"Eyes open, baby," Bucky said firmly. "You won't let me read it, so I need you to be a real good girl and read it to me." He punctuated his sentence with a deep thrust fully up into you. The moan he knocked out of you seemed to echo through the apartment. "Can you do that for me?"

You shook your head, an almost pitiful look on your face. "Bucky, I don't think I-"

He cut you off with another hard thrust. "Sure you can." And another. "Read the packet."

"'Resolved, that," you began, "that Valentina Allegra d-de Font'-oh!" Bucky hadn't let up his thrusts, unhurried but powerful and punctuated, now sucking and nipping at your neck and chest. "'Fontaine, Director of the Central'-right there, fuck- 'the Central Intelligence Agency o-of the United States of America, is impeached for h-high crimes'-yes, god- 'impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors and th-that the f-following articles of impeachment be exhibi-exhibited to the United States S-Senate'- fuck, I c-can't."

"Not so easy, is it, sweetheart," Bucky asked, sustaining his established pace.

You shook your head. "N-no."

"'S'right." Thrust. Bucky took the packet and tossed it on the table atop the others. "You knew better." He grasped your hips tighter and held you on him as he lay you down longways on the sofa, hovering above you, your legs wrapping lazily around him. He quickly found a new pace, faster than before, and reached deeper inside you from the fresh position.

And then there it was-- that crinkle. You watched through watery, dilated eyes as it formed between his brows, physical proof of his complete focus being on you now. He maintained the quick snap of his hips, knowing he would finish soon and not caring one bit. Your cries beneath him and wet warmth around him told him you didn't either.

"This what you wanted, baby?"

You were beyond the ability to form words, merely moaning in response.

"Look so fuckin' gorgeous under me. Take me so well," he praised. "My best fuckin' girl. God, 'm gonna cum."

All you could do was beg. "Please."

Bucky's hips stuttered and a guttural moan ripped from deep within him as he painted your walls with his thick spend. His head collapsed into the crook of your neck, both of you catching your breath, while you placed sweet, sloppy kisses to his temple and cheek. "I love you. Missed you."

"Could tell," he chuckled. "I love you, too."

You lay there together like that, connected, caressing up and down his spine, until Bucky finally lifted himself on his palms and a groan. Fully expecting him to clean you both up and start back on his reading, you were surprised when he scooted back toward the other end of the couch by your feet, remaining between your legs. You instinctively started to shut them, an unconscious shyness at being on full display for him, your mixed juices dripping from you. You peered at him hesitantly.

Bucky met your gaze and spread your knees back wide. "Not done with you yet."

"But the pa-"

"They're not going anywhere," He said, face disappearing between your legs.

[delusionalvenusian]

Solo date to (finally) see Thunderbolts* tonight, prepared to leave inspired and absolutely feral 😌

[delusionalvenusian]

Why Not Take All of Me

Synopsis: Bucky is still stuck on 40s music. You make it your job to introduce him to some of the greatest hits through the decades.

Content Warnings: music talk, Bucky POV, second POV, no use of Y/N, reader's race/ethnicity and gender or sex is not mentioned, reader and Bucky are not dating in this but are into each other

Note: This is the first fanfic I'm ever posting so I hope whoever sees it enjoys it! I posted this on my AO3 under the same exact username if you'd rather check it out there. Let me know if I made any mistakes in keeping it gender-neutral and racially ambiguous.

“What’re you listening to?”

You jolt at the unexpected visitor, turning to the sound of Bucky’s voice. He watches as you take out one of your earbuds, the music continuing to play faintly. “Sorry?” You respond in a questioning tone.

“I said,” he walks over to the empty spot next to you on the couch, letting out a sigh as he plops all his weight down into the cushions. It's a lot more comfortable than it looks. “What are you listening to?” He looks you in the eye, picking up the faint sounds of a guitar coming from your earbud. His brows draw together, trying to decipher the song for himself. And, like most modern things, he doesn’t recognize it.

Suddenly, there’s an earbud right in front of his face. His eyes raise to yours as you slightly shake the thing to catch his attention (though you always have it), eyes hopeful. “You wanna listen for yourself?” Bucky eyes the device, his forehead creasing as he studies it. Your music is still playing quietly, and you’re gazing at him with this soft look that makes his insides twist up. Your smile ticks up just the slightest bit and it has him folding; his metal fingers brushing against yours as he silently takes the offered bud from your grasp.

He watches as you press the screen of your phone, either playing a new song or restarting the one from before. He couldn’t really tell, too focused on how close his legs were to yours on the couch. But then the song really begins the play, and Bucky quickly becomes more interested in the music playing in his ear. The beat of the drums and the riffs of the guitar take him by surprise, emitting a sound that he hadn’t really heard before. “You like it?”

He turns to you in surprise, eyebrows drawn up in a silent question. You’re smiling at him again, harder than before. Your eyes move down to his lap, a sort of entertained look gracing your face. His own eyes follow to where yours lay, watching his right hand tap against his thigh. 

Huh. 

He turns back to you and the tips of his ears start to get a little hot. “It sounds different,” he mutters. His hands start to slowly rub up and down his thighs as he turns to look away from you, a nervous habit. “But, yeah. I liked it.”

Even though he can’t see you, he can feel your smile grow even more. He watches from his peripheral as you straighten your posture and lean closer to him. “It’s seventies music.” God, now he for sure knows you’re smiling; he can hear it in your voice. 

He nods at the information, choosing to focus on the second song that began playing. He makes sure to keep his hands still this time, even though you probably weren’t paying attention. He’s resting his hands against the top of his knees instead, keeping his stature as still as possible. “The band is called Fleetwood Mac, they’re real popular.” 

He turns back towards you at that. “You mean they’re still popular or only back then?” You raise a brow at the question, mulling your answer over in your head as you think. “Still popular,” he watches you shrug your shoulders before a look of thought crosses your face. Bucky can’t tell if the fluttering of his heart is because you leaned even closer to him or because that look usually meant trouble.

“Do you only listen to forties music?” Your eyes are comically wide as you seemingly come to some sort of realization in your head, looking at Bucky as if he’s committed the worst sin of all. His hand clenches slightly against the fabric of his jeans at the attention, no longer focusing on the music playing in his ear. “I don’t really listen to music,” his voice comes out quieter than he intended. Was it just him or was the room getting hotter? You slightly gasp at that, mouth gaping in shock. Honestly, you were being a little dramatic. It wasn’t that shocking or weird that he didn’t listen to music. Right?

And he didn’t not listen to music because he wanted to be different or weird. He just didn’t know how. He didn’t know where to start, or if he even wanted to at all. The few songs he’d heard of the modern era were god awful anyways, so why even bother?

Suddenly your knees are planted on the cushions of the couch, your body positioned to face the side of Bucky’s as you firmly plant your hands on his shoulders. His eyes flutter up towards you in surprise, hands flexing against his knees.

He’s fairly certain he’s the only one feeling the increase in temperature. 

With your shoulders squared and back straight, you make a declaration. “James Buchanon Barnes,” you start with a faux posh voice, a charged look of determination on your face. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward as he watches your little performance. “I hereby declare that you will listen to every decade of music with me! No ifs, ands, or buts,” you put emphasis on the last sentence with a slight push to his shoulders. He can feel his face muscles pull as he lets himself fully smile, teeth and all.

“Yeah?” He asks, and it comes out much more breathless than he anticipated. 

“Yes,” you respond, still holding onto his shoulders. Should he hold you as well? Would that be too much? You seem to enjoy physical touch so maybe– “We’ll listen to the most popular songs of each genre in each decade.”

He hums at that, blue eyes connecting to yours. “Sounds draining,” he says sarcastically. 

“It’ll be fun,” you wink. “Trust me.”

—

It was fun… for a little while.

You started off with forties music as a whole, quietly understanding that he has missed the majority of it due to his time spent in the war. He was pleasantly surprised how the forties shifted into the fifties, enjoying the similarities of the two.

It made him feel nostalgic, at least, of what he could remember. A few dates with young women in diners, swaying with random girls at dance halls. The small radio his family was able to purchase and the faint smell of apple pie. The feel of Steve’s frail hands on his back and the sound of pitched laughter.

But then you got to sixties music.

And it wasn’t bad. Just different. 

Definitely different. 

“So, this was a protest song,” Bucky asked as he tried focusing on the raspy voice singing in his ears. Right, like you could call that singing.

You hum at him before responding, “yeah, the guys who wrote this basically wanted to say to the government: hey, it’s not fair that we’re being drafted for this war but not the rich!” Bucky scoffs at that, remembering that was also the case during his time. “How’d that work out for them,” he turns his eyes towards you again. God, was it just the sun shining from the open window or were you glowing?

“Eventually, yeah. People started mass protests to stop the drafts and for the president to end the war. You haven’t learned about this yet?” Your head tilts at him in question, your eyelashes fluttering as you blink slowly. 

He clears his throat before he answers: “Not really. Sam thought it would be better for me to know popular culture than American history.” It wasn’t like he’d taken major leaps in understanding that either. He’d have an easier time fully understanding college level math than whatever the hell the internet contained and created.

You laugh at that, head slightly rolling back. “Yeah, your first mistake was taking Sam’s advice,” you say as you scroll through your phone to find another song. “Definitely prioritize history.” You pause after that, fingers stopping their quick swiping. You look up at Bucky through your damn eyelashes again, “if you want, I can show you some important pop culture stuff. Might be easier.” You say it hesitantly, like if you speak one wrong word he’ll turn his head and bite you.

“Sure.” He says it a little too quickly for his personal taste, but with enough disinterest in his town for you not to notice the desperation. Even if you did, you’re much too focused on your own excitement as you quickly perk up at his muttered reply. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone’s attitude change so quickly, and oh was it adorable.

You move on to play some other popular sixties song, and it was safe to say he didn’t really enjoy any of it. 

And it only got worse.

—

“I just don’t understand why it’s so loud.”

Somehow, Bucky had persevered through the seventies and eighties. Though, it wasn’t without much complaint. You told him to “stop being an old man!” at least four times as you forced him to listen to disco and new wave. 

It was hell. Absolute and utter hell.

But this? Oh, this was somehow even worse.

You tsked at his complaints, head banging slightly as the sounds of drums and heavy string instruments intensified. “Oh, come on Bucky!” Your head is still swaying as you look up at him, breath flowing out your mouth as you give a heavy exhale from your movement. You lean in towards his face and fix the earbud in your ear, “it’s fun music!” 

Your shift brings your body closer to his, not able to fight the pull of gravity as his couch cushion dips low underneath his weight. You don’t even seem to notice that your thigh is touching his, and suddenly all he can smell is the detergent in your clothes and your body wash and your deodorant and your–

Sudden screaming fills his ears, violently ripping Bucky from his thoughts.

He hates rock and roll. 

What the two of you are listening to isn’t even rock and roll anymore, he faintly remembers you calling it metal.

Another dumb name for another dumb genre.

“I just don’t understand why they have to yell like that,” Bucky grumbles with his arms crossed. He’s only caught himself tapping his fingers to the beat three times, and he’s certain he won’t be doing it again anytime soon. 

You huff out a laugh, finally calming your head banging. “It’s about feeling the music, Buck,” you offer to him like he’ll actually understand. He likes when you call him that, the syllables rolling off your tongue in a way that makes his head swirl. “Yeah, well I’m feeling a headache listening to all that racket,” he grunts.

“Alright, alright.” Finally, you concede. He honestly thought you’d keep playing that so-called music until he had enough and left.

(Except he wouldn’t have left, all too comfortable with your body slightly pressed against his and the sound of your soft breaths against his ear. He’d even endure watching those new age sitcoms for hours on end if it meant he could stay this close to you.)

“Let’s take a break from all this new music. You wanna listen to anything?” The offer is tempting, the idea of replaying some songs he slightly remembers from his past. The sound of them always enveloped him in warmth, faint images of bits and pieces of his past playing through his head. 

He nods, and you hand him your phone. Though a little tricky at first, he finally types out a song in the search bar. 

A soft melody starts immediately, the instruments played in a way that was a clear show of early nineteen-thirties fashion. The sound of Mildred Bailey’s voice fills his ear, and all he can think of is the rough voice of a worn out woman and the smell of cigarette smoke. The excited cheer of a little girl opening her christmas presents and an old man sighing in exhaustion. He can almost feel the soft yet heavy hands rubbing his back, whispering comforting words in the dark.

It isn’t until the song ends that Bucky realizes he’s started to cry. 

And you’re staring at him. 

He wants to say something, maybe apologize or tell you to stop looking at him because it makes him feel vulnerable.

But then your hands are reaching out, slowly inching closer and closer to his face. He watches as your fingers twitch with each inch they get closer to him. When you notice he’s not pulling away, your hands softly grasp his cheeks and pull. Bucky tries to hide the little gasp he let out.

Your thumb wipes away his stray tear, watching his eyes for any sign of discomfort. Then you smile at him. 

“Thank you, Bucky.” You say it like he just saved your life.

His brow quirks up, “for what?”

Somehow, your smile grows wider at that. “For doing this with me,” you say it in a way that slightly tears Bucky apart.

“Anything for you.”

Kinda sloppy ending but oh well. Hope you guys enjoyed this!

[delusionalvenusian]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s 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

Author’s 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 can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

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." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s 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 can’t 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 can’t. 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 doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s 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 doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s 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, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s 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 doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t 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 it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t 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 it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t 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, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s 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. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t 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 don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s 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 else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t 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 it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t 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 don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t 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 shouldn’t 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 didn’t 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 it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - 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 that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t 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 won’t.

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 didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s 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 don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s 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 it’s 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 I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t 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 can’t 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 doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t 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 doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t 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 can’t 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 you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t 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 don’t 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 you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

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 didn’t hear.

But you can’t. 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 it’s 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.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t 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 isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s 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 isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t 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.

“Nat’s?” 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 won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t 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 isn’t 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 can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

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.

“You-” 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.

She’s 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, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” 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 doesn’t 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 won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” 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 it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t 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 it’s 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.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” 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. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

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.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t 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. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t 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-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

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. Shouldn’t 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.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s 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.

“Okay,” 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 Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s 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 don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s 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 he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d 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 doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll 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 aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t 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 he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t 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.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” 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. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

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.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

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 won’t 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 it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” 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.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s 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 he’s thinking too hard, when he’s 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 can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re 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 don’t want him to hold you. Don’t 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 doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

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 it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t 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 hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s 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 wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve 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 you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re 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 doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve 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 she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” 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.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s 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, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” 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. He’s 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 doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s 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 don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s 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.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” 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 doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t 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 it’s 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. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

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.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

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 won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t 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. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re 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 doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll 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.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

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.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t 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 it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t 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.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

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.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t 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 don’t 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 it’s a lie.

Because it’s 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 doesn’t 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.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

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 doesn’t 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 you’re 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 don’t 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 don’t 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, you’re 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.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s 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, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t 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 doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s 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.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. 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.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve 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 he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” 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.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t 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.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s 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.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t 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.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” 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 it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” 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.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

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 he’s 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.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s 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.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” 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.

“Like it’s over.”

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.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t 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 won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, 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.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” 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.

Bucky’s 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 doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

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 it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t 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 don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s 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 doesn’t.

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.

“Bucky,” 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 can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

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.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t 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.

“Say something, doll,” 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 isn’t 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.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

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 shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” 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. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t 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.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t 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 he’s 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.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s 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 don’t 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.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t 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 else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s 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.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” 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.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t 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 can’t 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 couldn’t, that he’s 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 don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” 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. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

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.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” 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.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

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. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve 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 isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t 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 can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d 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.

It’s like he can’t 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.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

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 he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[delusionalvenusian]

Imagine being Congressman Barnes’ Legislative Aide.

And he has such a crush on you. Always taking care of him, managing him, looking out for him.

It’s his first legislative session, and he’s so nervous and overwhelmed with all of the meetings, committee assignments, bill filings.

You’re seasoned— a few sessions under your belt now— and do everything you can to ease him in the daily hustle and bustle around the Capital.

You felt particularly playful today as you prepared the final draft of his latest House Bill, placed neatly this morning on his desk for review and approval before filing.

In the afternoon, after finding a few minutes of peace and quiet to devote to finishing his task up for you, Bucky emerged from his office with an expression of composed amusement on his face. “Looks great,” he said, handing back the redlined draft, “except for an… unfortunate typo on page 3, line 12.”

You smiled wide and placed a hand on your chest as you took the papers from him. “You actually read it!”

“‘Course I rea— wait, were you testing me?”

You scoffed sarcastically. “Would I do that? Typing ‘pubic’ instead of ‘public’ is a perfectly innocent mistake,” you said, never having to look at page 3 to know exactly to what he was referring.

“Happens all the time, I’m sure,” Bucky chuckled. “And if I hadn’t caught that, were you going to leave it in there to be memorialized in the Congressional record forever?”

You shrugged innocently. “Guess we’ll never know.”

[delusionalvenusian]

The Long Con, Pt. 2

Pairing: Max Burnett x Fem!Reader (no use of y/n, reader has nickname "Doe," can be read as just an OC)

Summary: Max, having parted ways with Madeline, still can't let go of his lust for a lavish life. He now finds himself at upscale hotel bars scouting out wealthy widows and divorcees to bed and steal from to keep afloat while he cooks up his first big solo con. What seems like a business-as-usual one night stand could just end up being his perfect long con. Or hers. Link to Part One.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut (but there is a plot in there), oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, no kiss sex, mentions of somnophilia, swearing, hair pulling, drinking, kinda subby Max, kinda subby reader/OC, Max and reader are both assholes

Word count: ~4.6k

a/n: Nothing like taking almost two years to post an update! This has been in the works since I posted part one, I just got lost in the weeds of it and didn't know how to pare it down or split it up, blah blah blah. I'm trying to do it in a way that's cohesive (duh), but also in a way that any readers that want the smutty fun without delving too much into characters or relationship building can hopefully enjoy, too. I'm also torn on the ending, so I'll likely be posting two or three alternates (two not-so-happy, one at least happy-ish? Stayed tuned, choose your own adventure!). Thank you so much for reading and for holding out for more!

_________________________

Doe awoke late that morning to the sounds of the bustling city below, blinking the sleep from her eyes and taking in her surroundings. She chuckled softly at the realization that she was currently curled up on the hard bedroom floor next to Max, engulfed in the puffy duvet he’d pulled from the bed above, both still naked from their predawn tryst.

The duvet shifted with her as she slowly sat up, revealing Max’s sculpted form. She hadn’t really had the opportunity thus far to fully appreciate the man’s beauty—she’d been far too busy plotting, pleasuring and being pleasured to take him in—so, there in the warm glow of the sun-filled room, she admired him as he slept. She concluded with some amusement that, when his defenses were down like this, he actually looked kind of angelic. She continued her scan down his body, focusing on the muscles of his torso, noting how rigid they appeared on his thin frame. Finally, she paused to marvel at his stiff erection, curious if it stood firm purely from blood flow or from dreamy memories of his ravishing her on the floor before they’d passed out together in their heap of down blankets and pillows. He was long and perfectly thick with an impressive power vein, and so damn pretty. Doe felt the overwhelming urge to take him fully in her mouth at the sight—a covert somnophiliac. 

Feeling Doe’s lingering gaze on him, Max stirred awake. He searched the room, recalling now where he was and what had transpired in the last 12 hours, and met her stare as she tore her wanting eyes from his cock. He sleepily noted to himself that the stunning woman’s eyes were, in fact, deer like. With a deceptive innocence to boot. “Morning,” he rasped out.

The gravel in his sleepy voice made Doe’s core flutter. “Good morning.”

Max stretched as he sat up, grumbling slightly at the full-body stiffness from hours on the floor. “What time is it,” he inquired.

“Quarter after ten,” Doe said. She sprang to her feet suddenly in all her nude glory, stepping gracefully over Max and their makeshift nest. She glided toward the en suite bathroom door, sure to make a show of the sultry sway of her hips as Max observed her every move. “I need a shower. Feel free to help yourself to whatever you want,” she said flirtatiously over her shoulder.

Much to Doe’s disappointment, Max had opted not to join her, instead treating himself to room service breakfast. She scoffed loudly as she entered the main living area of the penthouse and found him mid bite, the meal half eaten by now. “Max, you can’t fill up on that! Now you won’t be hungry for brunch.”

“What brunch,” he asked. 

Doe plopped down next to him on the plush sofa. “The brunch I’m setting up to introduce you to my father.”

“You said nothing about a brunch. I don’t do ‘brunch.’” 

“Look at us, completely skipping the honeymoon phase and going straight to shitty communication,” she said sarcastically, playfully nudging his shoulder with her own. “Lunch, then? That’s better, actually. That’ll give us a little time to get our story together and fix… this.” She gestured languidly toward him.

Max furrowed his brow at her, offended by her insinuation that anything about him required fixing. “What do you mean, ‘this?’”

“I’m sorry,” Doe said sincerely. “You’re practically perfect, it’s just—you cannot wear polyester to meet my dad, he will sniff out the bullshit before we even get a chance to sit down. And the watch—"

“The watch works every time,” he said defensively.

Doe laughed. “Well, it won’t work this time. That is the most embarrassingly fake Submariner I’ve ever seen. I’m almost offended you thought I’d think it was real at the bar.”

“You did think it was real at the bar,” Max insisted, defensively covering the cheap knock off on his wrist.

“No, I let you think I thought it was real,” Doe corrected. “You needed to impress me, and I needed you to think I was impressed—we played each other, remember?”

Max sighed in exasperation, his ego still slightly bruised from falling for her game despite all that was ultimately in it for him. “Fine, I’ll lose the fucking watch.”

“Good boy,” Doe teased, pecking his cheek. “So good, in fact, that we’ll just pop in to Bucherer on 57th and get you a real one. Problem solved.” Max turned to her suddenly, nearly giving himself whiplash. “What? We can go to Wempe instead if you prefer.”

“No—stop fucking talking. I don’t care about—that’s a $10,000 watch.” Max trailed off, shaking his head out of both excitement and revulsion. He wanted to be part of this disgustingly monied world just as desperately as he wanted to destroy those in it.

“Exactly. Pocket change,” Doe said, ignoring his demand of her silence. “Daddy doesn’t even notice when I charge anything under $30k. The last time I was on his radar was when I gifted myself a Birkin two years ago, it’s fine.” She carded her fingers through the hair at the back of his scalp, delicately scratching, watching Max close his eyes and nearly purr in response. “We just have to make you look the part and he’ll be none the wiser. The faster we win him over, the sooner we both have what we want.”

Max nodded, more in acknowledgment of her words than agreement. He hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to play fair. Here he was, so close to more money than he knew what to do with, and with the added opportunity to have even more than what was promised to him if he ultimately decided to fuck Doe over. If she followed through with even half her end of the bargain. After being continuously deceived by Madeline, then humiliated by Sandra turning the tricks he’d so carefully taught her back on him, he wasn’t so sure. In the meantime, he’d keep playing the part and let Doe think she had control. He had no real affection for her—merely attraction to her—so what did he have to lose?

Thinking she remained safely at the helm, Doe rose from the couch with a satisfied smile. “I’ll go finish getting ready and make the call,” she said. “It’s too quiet in here. Hey, Siri! Play Suga Mama by Beyoncé!” She laughed playfully and left Max to the rest of his meal as the sound system cranked the opening guitar licks.

____________

Max’s fresh suits and Rolex secured, he and Doe now sat in the back of her hired car as it weaved through the city traffic. Doe’s father declared himself far too busy for lunch but had agreed to dinner later that evening. On the bright side, this gave Max and Doe extra time to even out the fine details of their foolproof whirlwind fairytale romance. 

“Now, let’s go over this again, but this time like you really mean it,” Doe commanded, straightening up in the leather bench seat. “How did we meet?”

Max had allowed Doe to think she was coaching him as they created their story. He had revealed to her nothing of his life as a career conman, or anything else for that matter, so she assumed he was simply a desperate smalltime thief that she’d caught in the act of something she could use against him for leverage. Every so often during their brainstorming he’d redirect her to a more solid and believable point, but did so in a way that seemed chance rather than professional. With the overarching plot agreed upon, they were now in the rehearsal stage of production.

“Paris, two months ago. I was leaving Les Deux Magots after lunch on my last day in the city and I spotted you across the street at Café de Flore,” he said, his facial expression effortlessly softening to one of wistfulness and romance, as if he could see it all unfolding in front of him. A natural thespian. “Literally stopped me in my tracks—I didn’t have any time to come up with anything cool or charming to say before all the Parisians starting yelling at me, ‘Allez! Allez enfoiré!’” he said animatedly, adding a jovial laugh for effect. “All the commotion caught your attention and you looked at me,” he suddenly took hold of Doe’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and peered at her with his intensely blue eyes, “and you smiled at me. I’m not sure how I even got to your table, because I don’t remember my legs carrying me there, I just… found myself in the seat across from you.” 

Doe nodded, entranced by his performance and piercing gaze. “Go on,” she whispered almost soundlessly. 

He planted a featherlight peck on her lips and continued. “I didn’t even introduce myself or ask for your name. Just stupidly asked if you’d like to spend the afternoon with me.” He paused, waiting for Doe to pick up her part. He smirked as she wordlessly continued to stare up into his eyes, absorbed completely in his portrayal of her devoted lover. “Your turn, Doe,” he coaxed.

“Right,” she said with a sharp inhale, pulling her face back to create space between them to bring herself back to the present. “Right, sorry. Yes, you asked me to spend the afternoon with you and I didn’t question it—I mean, who would question the most gorgeous man just striding right up in the most romantic city in the world and taking charge like that? And we just walked and talked until sunset, when we realized you were about to miss your flight.” she embellished, hoping she was even a fraction as believable in her delivery as Max. “What brought you to Paris?”

“Pleasure. Nothing like Paris in May,” he said plainly.

“Good,” Doe affirmed as the car crept to a halt in front of their destination, bringing her fully back to reality and into the stress she'd been trying to manage all day. “And leave it at that— he’ll have no further interest in your trip and won’t respect you for being overly forthcoming about it.” She slid out of the car as her doorman opened her door for her.

Max rolled his eyes as he followed suit. “I get it, he’s a fucking asshole.”

“A narcissistic fucking asshole,” Doe corrected. “Curtis, would you please have our things sent up to my room?”

The elderly doorman agreed without hesitation, and Max tried to hide his amusement at Doe’s lack of self-awareness. Daddy’s a narcissistic fucking asshole, and you require the hired help to have your fake boyfriend’s suits sent to your private penthouse suite.

“What?” Doe snapped when they silently reached the elevator and the doors closed, reading the look on Max’s face. “You want them to drag through the lobby? Wrinkle? They’re Prada.” 

“Didn’t say a word.”

Doe huffed. “Whatever. You’ll thank me when the wire transfer goes through.”

___________

In the privacy of the penthouse, suits safely delivered, Max could feel Doe’s tension filling the air as she paced room to room trying to busy herself. She’d rearranged the new suits in her closet several times over, changed out of her clothes into a silk robe, found little things to tidy up while she mumbled to no one about how inept the housekeeping staff was. There were still hours to kill before dinner and he knew he that if he let her continue to stew uncontrolled that she’d call it off, or, perhaps worse, blow the whole operation right there at the dinner table. There’d be no coming back from a scene like that. He had to calm her down, for his own sake. 

On her next entry into the living room, Max put on the charm. “Doe,” he called to her sweetly. “Why don’t you come sit? You seem tense.”

“Do I?” She asked sarcastically.

Max fought his initial urge to snipe back at her, but kept hold of his composure. “C’mon, baby. How ‘bout I make you a drink? Double vodka tonic? You just go sit and I’ll bring it to you, okay?”

She complied with a resigned sigh, too easily softened by the way him calling her baby hit her ears— and her core. “Belvedere. Extra lime.”

Max returned quickly with her drink, not forgetting to take advantage of Doe’s top shelf whiskey for himself. He took a swill before setting down his glass and stepping behind where she stiffly sat, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and gently rubbing. Doe moaned in response, stretching her neck left and right to find more relief. “So tight. That feel good?” Max purred in her ear as he continued to massage the knots along her shoulders.

Doe nodded as she sipped her drink and relaxed further into Max’s touch. The alcohol, Max’s sticky sweet voice and his deft fingers at work together had her whole body loosening and wanting. “’S nice.”

Max watched below, smiling to himself when Doe practically squirmed in her seat, clearly effected just as he intended. “Good girl,” he praised, laying it on extra thick, drawing another moan from Doe. Right in the daddy issues. “Just relax, let me take care of you.” 

She wanted to, deep down. To just relax and be taken care of. But all she could think about was him. Imagining he was as aroused as she in this moment. Imagining herself wordlessly reaching behind her to palm him through his new designer trousers, hearing his delicious grunts of pleasure. Unzipping his fly and freeing his stiffness. Pumping his pretty cock while he tries to focus on working her shoulders. Another soft moan, more squirming as she ached for friction below.

“That the spot?” Max asked, increasing pressure where he kneaded.

Doe shook her head. “Lower.”

Max’s fingers descended slightly along her upper back. “Here?” 

She moaned, but shook her head again. 

“How ‘bout here?”

Another head shake.

“That’s as low as I can go from this position, baby,” he cooed, lips right on the shell of her ear. He knew exactly what he was doing. He let up on the pressure as he ghosted his hands over her shoulders to run them down her chest under her robe, but Doe quickly stood before he could reach beyond her collarbone.

In a swift motion, she untied the thin robe and let it fall to the floor. She gave no explanation as she walked to her bedroom, stopping in the doorway briefly to shoot Max a beckoning glance. He smirked, enjoying the view as he followed behind her. 

The scene that greeted him when he entered was debauched and it froze him on the spot. Doe was already lying prone on the large bed, ass poked up, glistening pussy in view. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, her expression full of feigned innocence. “I don’t think you can reach me from all the way over there. Don’t you want to take care of me?”

Max bit down hard on his bottom lip as he approached her in an attempt to exercise restraint. He was dangerously close to losing the upper hand he felt he’d had at the start of this little mission of his. He reached the bed, stopping right behind Doe, and began to hitch a leg to climb onto the bed and straddle her upper thighs.

Doe glanced over her shoulder again in time to catch him. “Ah ah ah, no outside clothes on my clean bedding. Besides, those pants are looking awfully tight now. We wouldn’t want them ruined, would we?”

Max lightly swatted Doe’s perky cheek, eliciting an excited gasp. “No, I don’t suppose we would.” He stripped fully and took his straddle position over her. He leaned over her, his hands finding her back again and rubbing lower passed her shoulder blades than had been possible before. His dick slid easily between her wet folds, the tip pressing perfectly against her swollen clit. He heard her curse breathily and returned her fake chasteness, kneading the space on her back a bit harder and bumping her clit slightly. “That’s the spot, huh?” Doe nodded and wiggled her ass against him in response, teasing Max and herself simultaneously. Another hit to his composure. He kept the rhythm of his hands as he worked and kneaded lower and lower toward her round, enticing bottom, making sure to accidentally rub against her mound along the way. By the time his hands reached the dimples in her back, she was positively soaked. “This too low, baby?”

“No,” Doe practically whimpered. “God, no.” She propped herself up on her elbows to lock eyes with Max. “Go lower.”

He almost felt bad teasing her like this when he saw just how blown out her pupils were, but he couldn’t help himself. “Lower?” He raised his brows questioningly as he palmed her ass and nudged her clit again. 

“Fuck,” she cried, his hands just inches away from where she wanted him. “Please, lower.”

Begging.

Max kept his left hand on her ass and traced the other up her spine, settling his fingers in her hair at the base of her scull. He pulled gently, bringing her back toward him as he leaned forward over her body so his lips could brush her ear again. “How ‘bout here?” He asked as his left hand grabbed the expanse of her cheek and the pad of his thumb landed just above her hot, weeping entrance. He abruptly let go of her bum before she could muster a response other than a strangled whine. “’S okay, baby, I know just what you need.”

Doe nodded furiously and shut her eyes in anticipation, sure her torture was over and that he’d be slipping his rock hardness in her with no further delay. He let go of her hair, both hands coming to grasp either side of her waist, and she dipped her head and wriggled her hips slightly higher to give him better leverage. She heard Max chuckle. Then, instead of feeling his entry, she felt the mattress spring up around her as he left the bed. Her eyes shot open in confusion and annoyance. Before she could utter a questioning word, she felt both of his large hands spread her cheeks and folds, and his tongue slowly tracing her needy core from her clit up to her waiting hole. 

His pace picked up, drawing animalistic noises from Doe as he skillfully ate her from behind. Her body quaked and trembled before him and his cock grew almost painfully hard at the thought of how many times he could get her to cum in this position. He gave her ass an encouraging squeeze and settled his mouth over her sensitive bundle and sucked, grazing the edges feather light with his teeth. She was in pieces in seconds. 

“Fuck, yes!” Doe yelped. “Just like that, Max. Don’t stop— don’t fucking stop, please.” 

He wouldn’t. 

“So fucking good. You’re gonna make me cum, baby, please,” she babbled as she grabbed at the bedding underneath her. 

He hummed as he nursed her clit then, basking in her enthusiastic praise. In control or not, he was so turned on he just wanted to be good for her.

The vibration of Max’s pleasure sent her over the edge. Her words, if they even were words, became unintelligible as she lost all control. Max didn’t let up, drawing out her orgasm for her as long as she could, and when she was nothing but a panting mess, he still didn’t stop. Just one more, he thought, giving her ass another playful knead.

He gave her sensitive bundle a momentary break, moving his attention to her dripping hole. He prodded and lapped expertly, tasting the evidence of just how fucking good he was making Doe feel. As her sounds began to intensify again, he torturously slowed his pace. He maintained a leisurely speed until Doe had seemingly adjusted, then raised his intensity again. 

“I— I’m—“ she sputtered, trying to formulate words coherently.

“One more, baby,” Max said, verbally demanding but mentally pleading. “You’re such a good fucking girl, I know you can give me one more.” He dove back in when she didn’t protest. His tongue moved more erratically, but no less dexterously, as he brought her back higher and higher, closer and closer to her peak.

“Max— fuck—yes—“ she gasped in clipped fashion, unable to say more as she rode her second orgasm. 

Max reveled in his ability to reduce her to a babbling, trembling mess with such ease. When she seemed fully spent, he released her and demanded no more. He slowly rose, reclaiming his previous mounted position, softly caressing the flesh of her still lifted bottom. “Was that low enough?” He teased, falling back into their previous banter.

With all of the energy she had left, Doe propped herself up on her elbows again and met his gaze over her shoulder. She was finished being playful. “Fuck me. Now.”

Max’s dick twitched at her command and he happily followed it. He sank in effortlessly, her heat so slick and ready to take him. They both cursed out loud as he filled her. “Fuck. So wet. This what you wanted?” He asked, pulling her hair with a gentle force to demand her attention. “Tell me, baby.”

“Yes,” Doe keened as Max set his rhythm. “Yes— needed you so bad.”

The obscene sounds of Max diving in and out of her wetness and her expressions of need for him were almost too much. “Needed me,” he repeated. “‘M not gonna last if you keep saying shit like that to me.” He tried to slow his thrusts to draw off his imminent orgasm, but Doe wouldn’t have it.

“Harder,” she ordered. Max complied without argument, lasting be damned. He wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t mind. He fucked her hard and fast, pulling her back to his chest by her hair to bring her pleasured chants closer. “So fucking deep. Just like that. Keep fucking me like that.”

“Yes,” Max growled through gritted teeth. “Fucking tell me what to do.”

“Keep going. Just like that—fuck!” She shouted.

He could feel it in his spine creeping faster and faster as he approached his edge. “Feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. Tell me where to cum.”

“My back” Doe murmured. “Paint my back, baby.”

Max quickly released his hold on Doe’s hair and wrapped an arm around her waist, gently guiding her back down on the bed beneath them. He sat back up, gripping her hips and drilling in and out of her and taking in the view of her perfect ass jiggling with his final thrusts. He grunted as he pulled out, milking his hot spend over her back as she’d requested. His eyes rolled back in his head as his load kept coming, the feeling of it on her skin drawing sultry, satisfied sounds from Doe beneath him. He groaned loudly with the last drop and rolled next to her, breathing deeply as he came down from his high. 

As Max caught his breath, Doe peered over her shoulder to try and get a look at the fresh made masterpiece on her body. “You’re a very talented artist, but I don’t think I can go to dinner like this.

_____________

Max stared at himself in the full length mirror before him, freshly cleaned up and suited for the big night. Adequately fucked out, he and Doe were both much calmer than they had been hours before. They rehearsed their story again, settled on a simple explanation of how Max came into money that wouldn’t draw suspicion, and went over the highlights of what not to say to Doe’s father. Max’s fears of Doe’s implosion had also mostly subsided. All said, they were about as confident as they’d ever be.  

Doe approached from behind in her getup for the evening— a well-fitted cocktail dress. She looked Max over slowly, soaking in how incredible he looked in his fresh attire. “The tailoring is really doing it for me,” she admitted freely, brushing a phantom lint from his shoulder. “And the watch. Was I right, or was I right?” 

Max studied his reflection closer and smiled. He looked the part, and he fucking loved it. When he was finished looking at himself, his eyes drifted to Doe. His breath hitched slightly in his chest, and he quickly cleared his throat in an attempt to snap the fuck out of it. She had been beautiful and striking every moment since he first looked at her, and even more so once they’d spoken, but something about the way she presented right now made him feel a twinge of something for the first time. “That dress is…” he trailed off, unable to come up with the appropriate adjective.

“Thanks, baby,” she said sweetly, brushing back a few strands of Max’s hair that had fallen out of place, kissing his cheek, and shooting him a wink. “Sorry, I thought we were getting into character. Too much?”

“No, it’s good,” he replied. I think I… like it? He thought. The suite’s phone ringing jolted the thought from his head.

“Shit, that’s the car,” Doe said before moving to pick it up. “Showtime.”

___________

“You. Were. Perfect.” Doe lauded Max’s performance as her driver shut the door behind them, punctuating each syllable.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Max assured her, taking her chin and pecking her soft lips. The success of the night had him running on an all time high.

“Hmmmm,” she hummed a bit tipsily with a proud smile. “Say ‘stock options’ again.”

“Stock options,” he whispered into her ear and dipped his head to pepper kisses on her jaw.

Doe moaned, giggling childishly from her own rush. “God, you’re good. That’s not even what we’d rehearsed— ah—“ he ventured lower, nipping and sucking the supple skin of her neck, “but it was even better. You were such a natural— yeah, right there— which I guess should scare me, but it’s so bad and dangerous and sexy.” She felt like she couldn’t stop the words pouring out of her mouth without something else to occupy it, and why wait to reward her oh so deserving partner? Her hands slid from Max’s collar to the buckle of his belt, undoing it and opening his button and fly with impressive speed and grace, then quickly hitting the button to raise the partition. 

Max removed himself from Doe’s neck and helped her free his hardening cock without question. “Get over here,” he insisted as he tugged her delicate frame to bring her into his lap.  

Doe shook her head and shimmied out of his grasp. “No, wait, n-n-no, I want to taste you,” she clarified. “Please? I’ve wanted to all day, then you put on this fucking suit. I told you the tailoring was really doing it for me.”

Max cocked his brow at her. “Thought you were just getting into character?”

She looked down at his dick and back up to his face as she slowly started to lower her head toward his lap. “Please?” She asked again, doe eyes peering into his blown out blues, hands reaching and stroking his upper thighs. “You were so, so good for me.” His cock jumped at her praise. “So pretty,” she cooed. She smiled victoriously when she felt his fingers wind through her hair, gently leading her down the last few inches to take him in her mouth.

Max exhaled a moan, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the top of the leather bench seat, letting Doe reward him for his performance that evening.

If this was what his new life was going to look like, even just temporarily, he was willing to put on whatever show he had to.

[delusionalvenusian]

SEBASTIAN STAN at Kering Women in Motion Dinner at Cannes Film Festival.

[delusionalvenusian]

[delusionalvenusian]

Verbally soft doms who tell you how amazing you feel, give you many compliments and kisses, while being as rough as they can with you and pounding into you so hard your might break

[delusionalvenusian]

Imagine trading stories with Bucky about holiday traditions you remember.

You notice he brightens a bit as he talks about Christmas and how back when he was a kid his ma used to wait until Christmas eve to put up the tree. How fun it was to spend the afternoon with his parents and sister making the house magical before heading off to bed at night full of excitement.

Imagine the way his face softens from confusion to the sweetest smile when he wakes up on Christmas eve to you in the living room with a fresh tree and all the decorations you could get your hands on last minute, insisting on setting it all up together after breakfast.

[delusionalvenusian]

Velimir Khlebnikov, from “The Night Before the Soviets” (tr. by Gary Kern)

[delusionalvenusian]

"I'm in public" bf 🤝 *sends him nudes* gf

[delusionalvenusian]

i am a sucker for the typical stoic fictional man who is actually so soft for his s/o. who buries his nose into the crook of your neck and wraps his arms around your waist whenever he can. maybe he’s not always good with his words, but for you? god. he literally hands you his heart on a silver platter

[delusionalvenusian]

i would like to be loved like a fanfic or fucked like a fanfic but i will take both please and thank you

[delusionalvenusian]

“Take the lover who looks at you like you’re some kind of magic.”

— Frida Khalo