Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.
Word Count: 7.4k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky
Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡
Part Two
Masterlist
You are bleeding.
The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.
The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.
Your breath is shallow.
The bleeding won’t stop.
With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.
You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.
A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.
Bucky is still in his bedroom.
Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.
That’s how it’s always been.
He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.
He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.
But you still keep running. Every time.
The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.
You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.
You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.
But fuck, it hurts.
You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.
You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.
The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.
Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.
And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.
Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.
You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.
You press your hands to the cool porcelain.
One more breath.
Then another.
Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.
Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.
It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.
Bucky is always nice.
You were friends first, after all.
Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.
Things had been easy, light, and simple.
You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.
Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.
It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.
You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.
You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.
Because there was no stopping from then on.
You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.
But you keep coming back when he calls.
He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.
But today was different.
He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.
He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.
His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.
Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.
There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.
His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.
He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.
He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.
He fucked you like it’s you he craved.
He fucked you like it was making him blind.
It did.
Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.
His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.
He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.
Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.
But it wasn’t today.
Because the pain only grew.
The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.
You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.
Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.
You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.
You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.
It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.
You know you should have said something.
You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.
But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.
So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.
And you let him.
Because you didn’t want to ruin this.
Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?
So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.
You still don’t stop bleeding.
It’s not your period.
You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.
But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.
But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.
There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.
So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.
And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.
God, you hate this.
Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.
But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.
You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.
You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.
A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.
“Hey, you alright in there?”
Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.
“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.
“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.
You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.
Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.
But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.
Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”
Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”
There is a beat of silence.
The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.
“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”
It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.
“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”
It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.
And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.
His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.
“Are you hurt?”
Your breath stays caught in your throat.
“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.
“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”
You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.
You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.
“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”
The door handle rattles.
“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”
You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.
“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.
The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”
You don’t move. Your knees are weak.
“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.
You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.
But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”
You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.
“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”
The door handle tugs again.
“I need to see you.”
You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.
“Bucky-”
“Please.”
That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.
“Buck, I need a second, okay?”
You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.
Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.
“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.
You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.
The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.
You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.
Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.
You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.
On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.
His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”
“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.
Bucky’s breath shudders out.
You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.
Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.
“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”
Your legs give out.
It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.
The impact rattles the whole thing.
A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.
“Alright, I'm coming in.”
Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.
The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.
Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.
His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.
His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.
“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”
You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.
Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.
“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”
You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.
But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.
He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.
His eyes are on you.
And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.
His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.
He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.
The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.
You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.
Bucky’s jaw is tight.
You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.
Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.
“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.
His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.
Then he stills.
His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.
His gaze drops.
The storm behind his eyes turns feral.
You know what he is seeing.
You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.
The blood.
A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.
For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.
You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.
But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.
Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.
“Bucky-”
“Hush.”
It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.
“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”
You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”
“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”
His grip on you is firm, but not rough.
His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.
Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.
His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.
He is shaking.
A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.
It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.
“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.
You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.
Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.
“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.
His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?
But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.
You don’t want him to see you like this.
It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.
Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.
He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.
With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.
You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.
And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.
You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.
You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.
But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.
None of it seems to matter.
Only you.
He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.
Then he takes off.
You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.
And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.
But the thing is, he is already making this worse.
Not in the way he thinks.
Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.
Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.
He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.
And this hurts so much more.
It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.
But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.
He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.
His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.
His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.
His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.
Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.
Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.
His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.
It feels like he is bleeding grief.
And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.
Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.
But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.
This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.
And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.
His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.
And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.
He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.
His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.
“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”
You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.
Bucky waits.
And again, that makes it worse.
Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.
He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.
You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.
His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”
You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”
Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.
A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.
His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.
He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.
He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.
“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”
You can’t look at him.
You want to. But you can’t.
Because he is too much.
Because he is everything.
Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.
There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.
Bucky moves instantly.
He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.
His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.
“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.
His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
His thumb catches a tear.
His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.
“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.
His forehead almost touches yours.
“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.
He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.
“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”
You choke on your next breath.
Your mind blanks.
He shakes his head, like he hates himself.
“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”
You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.
Words are lost on you.
Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.
His voice lowers. Softens.
“But I can’t do this anymore.”
His fingers tighten.
“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”
His voice splinters.
You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.
Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.
“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.
Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”
Bucky’s eyes go wide.
He looks broken.
His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.
You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.
Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.
“You thought I wanted you to leave?”
The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.
“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.
“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”
His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.
“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”
You feel everything crack open inside you.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.
“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.
Bucky’s face contorts in pain.
“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”
Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You had it all wrong.
And so did he.
You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.
You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.
“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.
Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.
With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.
His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.
“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.
You shake your head, but he won’t have it.
“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”
His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.
“You’re stayin’ right here.”
You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.
And Bucky melts.
Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.
He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.
His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.
“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.
Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.
You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.
Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.
His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.
“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.
Bucky gives you a warning look.
“It only hurts a little.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.
“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”
His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.
He is looking at you like you are everything.
“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”
“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”
You sigh.
“Bucky-”
“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”
Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.
Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”
He doesn’t even let you finish.
He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.
And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.
His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.
You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.
“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.
But you try to.
Because you want to.
“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”
Your profile pic somehow manages to surprise and confuse me every time you appear in my notes even though i should be used to it now because my discord pfp is identical
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