I need Bucky who yearns. A Bucky that is desperate, but he’s not really sure for what. A Bucky that is so down bad for his woman that just sitting next to her has him frothing at the mouth. A Bucky that refuses to let people talk to his woman with anything other than peace and calm lacing their words. A Bucky who thinks the world of his woman and will be on his knees for her if she ever utters the words.
Too macho Bucky? Too manly Bucky? Too toxic Bucky? Never.
More like whipped Bucky. Lovesick Bucky. Touch her and you die Bucky. Burn the world down to warm his woman’s feet Bucky.
A man who knows the worth of the woman at his side and would do anything for her Bucky.
.
.
.
Anyways. Let me know if you want more rambles or for me to elaborate on any of these notions!
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › somewhere between golden-hour train rides, sleepy kitchen conversations, and waking up tangled together in soft sheets with Alpine purring between you, the lines between friends and flyers blur. and suddenly, the almosts start feeling a lot like forever.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI friends to lovers, fluff, domestic bucky, yearning, mutual pining, crushing hard, lowk idiots in love, feelings confession, alpine! implied stalking/being followed by strangers, brief anxiety/fear, buckys hyper vigilance comes out, protective & possessive bucky, kissing, smut, p in v, missionary & cowgirl, soft dom bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, oral f receiving, fingering, back to back rounds (👅), sleepy aftercare, bucky nd reader are in lurve, not beta read we die like men. (also halfassed proofread so...)
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 8.5k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › your honor i love them, i love domestic bucky and i want him forever and forever and forever also yeah i barely proofread this i was doing a million things at once and decided to just say fuck it so my fault if its wack
It happens on a Tuesday.
You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.
You home.
No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:
Eventually. Why?
There’s a longer pause this time, then,
Found something.
You grin at your screen.
If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.
Three dots disappear, then reappear.
Not an appliance.
You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.
By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.
You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.
White.
And glaring at you.
You blink.
“…Is that… a cat?”
The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.
“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.
“She followed you?”
“Yeah.”
“Home?”
He nods once.
“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”
“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”
On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.
“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.
Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.
“She’s so small.”
He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”
“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.
“She’s not—”
“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.
Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”
“He probably deserved it.”
“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.
“He existed near her.”
“That’s not a crime.”
You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
“You brought her here.”
“She wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”
He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.
“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”
She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.
“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.
He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”
You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”
“She needed one.”
You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.
She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.
Bucky goes very still at the sound.
“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.
“She likes me.”
“She tolerates you.”
“She loves me.”
“She met you ten seconds ago.”
“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.
Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.
You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”
His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”
“She absolutely is.”
He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.
“You know… we’re not—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”
But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.
Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.
Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”
You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.
“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.
“She deserves it.”
He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”
“She was defending her territory.”
“She weighs less than the pigeon.”
“She has spirit.”
He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.
“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”
“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s judging you right now.”
You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.
“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.
He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.
Click. He looks up at the sound.
“You take too many pictures.”
You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”
“I’m building a cat tree.”
“Exactly.”
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.
He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”
“She’s fragile.”
“She scratched a grown man.”
“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.
You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.
You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.
And now, your cat.
One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.
The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.
Chosen.
Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.
Bucky stirs.
“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.
“Claiming me.”
He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”
“She gets it from you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at you.
“I’m not territorial.”
“You absolutely are.”
He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.
Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.
When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.
New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.
You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.
At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.
The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.
It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.
He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.
Click.
He doesn’t look up.
The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.
Like he always does here.
You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.
There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.
“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”
He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
Click.
He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”
“Maybe.”
“Why.”
You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”
“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.
You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.
She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.
“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.
“She always judges me.”
“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.
“I am not weak.”
“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Click.
The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.
Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.
He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.
The subway platform becomes another favorite location.
You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.
He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
You lift the camera.
Click.
He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.
The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.
You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.
He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.
The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.
Click.
He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.
“Do what.”
“That.”
He frowns faintly.
Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”
“Like what?”
You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.
It becomes your favorite.
Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.
“Who is he to you?”
You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”
The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.
Your boss smiles faintly.
“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.
Lucky.
You think about that word the whole way home.
You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.
You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”
He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.
“Hey.”
You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.
“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”
The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.
He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”
His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“What?” You blink.
He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.
“Buck.”
He exhales slowly.
“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.
Your chest aches.
“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.
“Me too,” he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.
You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.
Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.
Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.
You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.
It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.
You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.
“What's wrong,” he murmurs.
“Nothing.”
You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.
It slips into something quieter one night.
You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.
“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.
“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”
“Yeah. People who know how.”
You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”
“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”
“I’m not losing—”
You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.
Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.
Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.
You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.
“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”
“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.
His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.
He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.
It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.
So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.
You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.
He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.
Your chest tightens.
“Buck,” you murmur softly.
He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.
You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.
The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.
It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.
“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause.
Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”
You huff quietly. “I can tell.”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.
By morning, you’re tangled.
Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.
You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.
He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.
You are.
You both are.
And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.
You don’t notice it at first.
That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.
You’re tired.
Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.
It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.
You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.
You don’t move.
And then they close again.
It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .
“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.
Too late.
The train lurches forward again.
The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.
You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.
The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.
“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”
You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.
So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.
You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.
And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.
You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.
Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.
Keep walking.
Don’t react. Don't—
They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.
There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.
He answers on the first ring.
“What broke?”
Any other time it would make you laugh.
Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”
It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.
“Where are you.”
You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.
“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”
“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.
“Stay on the phone.”
Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”
“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”
Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.
Your breathing stutters.
“Buck—”
“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”
Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.
You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.
The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.
You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”
You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.
The drive is quiet.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.
Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.
You’ve seen that look before.
Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.
“I’m okay,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.
Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.
“I know,” he says.
But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.
He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.
Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.
You shake your head. “No, I—”
His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.
“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.
“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.
The kiss isn’t careful.
It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.
It’s desperate.
Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.
“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.
The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.
“I know,” you whisper back.
“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”
Your breath stutters.
There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.
His voice drops, quieter but steadier.
“Be mine.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”
You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.
“I am,” you say.
There’s no hesitation in it.
“I've always been yours, Buck.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.
“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”
He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”
Your answer comes easily.
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.
His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.
The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.
You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"
"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."
The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."
"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.
His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.
His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.
His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.
"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."
He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."
A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.
"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."
You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, 8ikplease—"
His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."
And god, does he take his time.
His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.
"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.
"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.
You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.
"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."
His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"
"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.
His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.
"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.
He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.
"Good?" he rasps.
"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."
He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.
"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.
You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.
He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.
His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.
Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.
You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.
Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."
A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.
"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.
He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.
The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.
Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.
The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.
Everything feels warm.
Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.
You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.
You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.
Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”
His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.
“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.
Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.
“There you are,” you breathe.
His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.
“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”
You stop yourself.
Thought what?
That he left?
That this disappeared overnight somehow?
The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.
“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.
There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.
“C’mere.”
You let him.
He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”
A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.
“There she is.”
The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.
“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.
The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.
You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Like he’s still convincing himself.
He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.
Where you want to be.
You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.
“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.
Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.
“Yours,” you whisper back.
And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.
PAIRING: (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
WORD COUNT: 14.4k
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Your own boyfriend.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.
His favorite passenger.
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.
He liked it when you talked to him.
“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.
Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.
Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.
It didn’t stop him from hoping.
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat.
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.
It sounded right coming from you.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.
“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable.
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
“We made it through another day,” you sighed.
“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”
“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”
He already knew what it was.
“Protein bar?”
“Protein bar,” you confirmed.
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said.
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.
“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.
Something soft… and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.
“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”
“Same trip as always,” you replied.
Of course.
A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.
Never you.
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”
He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”
“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said.
It wasn’t always easy to do that.
“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”
You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on.
“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster.
“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper.
You really were something.
“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly.
A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there.
“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.
“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”
Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.
“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”
You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.
“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”
He liked to think so.
“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”
“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.
The kindest passenger he had that day.
“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!”
“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.
“Same thing!”
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.
“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently.
His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.
He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.
“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend.
Not once.
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression.
I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants.
I just wish it was me.
“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.
…I’m in deep.
“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.
That made him pause.
“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”
Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.
It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”
A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said.
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there.
“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No.”
Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver.
“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”
You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”
“They’re not bad,” he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.
“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”
He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled. “You better.”
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him.
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.
Always.
“Anytime.”
You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice today, too,” you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.
“Yeah?” he managed to ask.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”
It was an echo of his own words to you.
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he whispered.
He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.
But he was just your driver.
Nothing more.
“I’m in trouble,” he muttered.
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.
“Hey,” he said once you got in.
“Hey,” you echoed, settling in.
“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road.
“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”
He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”
“Did you have a good night?”
It was the best night because he got to see you again.
“Not too bad,” he answered.
You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”
You could have takeout with me.
“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”
Why did I say that?
“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”
He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”
“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”
Because you’re… you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”
You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”
“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.
It was him.
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.
You mentioned him to your family?
“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?”
“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.
His heart felt full.
And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”
“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.
She feels something, right? It can’t just be me.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.
Or… maybe he just imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”
You smiled softly before you got out.
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.
But he didn’t take it.
He kept that line drawn.
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything.
He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.
For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Life’s too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.
Not at all.
And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look nice…
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut.
“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.”
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”
Maybe he did.
Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Thanks, punk.”
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. I’m royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.
“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didn’t belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”
Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”
“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”
“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”
“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”
You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else.
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.
“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.
I chose well.
“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”
You giggled. “It sure does.”
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”
“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”
“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”
“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”
“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”
“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”
“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”
He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”
You smiled. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”
And I’m just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered.
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.
But maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.
“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.
His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.
You remembered.
“Of course, I do.”
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
“Here we are,” he said minutes later.
“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“That’s really sweet, Buck.”
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”
Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.
“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”
“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.
Say something. Do something.
But he didn’t.
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting.
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.
“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?
At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.
Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”
Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.
Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”
Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you.
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.
Smiling like she’s happy to see me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”
“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.”
“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”
“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.”
That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”
“The coolest.”
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered.
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way.
To hold you would be a gift.
“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place.
“Yeah?”
You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.
You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.
You gave him your phone number.
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.
“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”
“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.
This felt more right.
“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.
He couldn’t look away from you if he tried.
“Good night, Buck.”
“Good night.”
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional.
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.
“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”
Still counting like me.
“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.
“I’m still in trouble.”
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night.
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof.
A full minute was enough time.
“And?”
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.
MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.
But he couldn’t say that.
“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”
MFP: “I trust you.”
That made his breath catch.
He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”
She meowed happily.
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone.
You messaged him again an hour later.
MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”
He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”
He deleted it and started over.
“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”
MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”
Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”
MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”
That was a win in his book.
You didn’t message him again until Saturday night.
MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”
He smiled immediately.
“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”
MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”
“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”
MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.
“You, too.”
He read the message again after sending it.
Maybe it was another message that was too short.
And it was too late to erase it.
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.
MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”
He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.
“There’s no cat like Al.”
MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.
“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”
MFP: “I’m honored.”
He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.
It was his turn to message you first.
“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
MFP: “Do I have to have water?”
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.
“Need you to stay hydrated.”
Because he cared.
MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”
You’re too good to live on stubbornness.
“Still need water.”
MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”
Oh, that did something to him.
MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”
“I will.”
He would for you.
He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday.
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you.
But he checked his phone more than he should have.
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.
MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”
Relief hit him faster than he expected.
“Almost. You surviving?”
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.
MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”
He frowned a little.
“Hang in there.”
He hesitated before adding another message.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was another pause.
MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it.
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.
“Can’t wait.”
He meant it.
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.
Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”
Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like it’s that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.
It didn’t sit right with him at all.
“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.
“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didn’t say it.
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.
There were no comments on anything.
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didn’t I?
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either.
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back.
“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”
“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.
It worried him.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.
“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”
He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job.
You weren’t most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said… you care.
“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”
He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up.
“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”
You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”
A sense of purpose. A mission.
“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”
“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.
“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished.
“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”
You make me feel like I matter.
“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”
Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that.
What needs fixing?
“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”
You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.
He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.
“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before.
“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.
Lean on me if you aren’t.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You weren’t okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.
It had to have helped.
…Right?
His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.
Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin.
He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him.
He was just…
Your breath hitched on the next turn.
He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile.
It’s okay to break with me.
“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”
“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”
“Hey…” he whispered again.
You don’t need to be strong tonight.
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.
He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.
But he wanted to be there for you.
“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”
That did it.
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, no…
“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.
“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”
His throat went tight.
“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
It all made sense now.
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldn’t fix it for you.
“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.
“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”
Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.
Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.
“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…
“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear. “And you do. You have such a big heart.”
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.
“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back.
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.
You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked.
“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall.
“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.
“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted.
Bucky froze completely.
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.
“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.
I’m the best part of your week?
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.
“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.
You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.
You’re safe with me.
The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.
“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”
It wasn’t a question or suggestion.
Should’ve been doing that since the first night.
“I’d like that,” you uttered.
“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”
You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”
He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.
Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.
You took it.
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.
It felt like your hand belonged with his.
It feels right.
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out.
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand.
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper.
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.
Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number.
Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said he’s the best part of your week.
The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you.
Time to erase the line for good.
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”
You gazed at him expectantly.
“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.
“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.
“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.
“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air.
Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone.
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.
“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”
Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.
“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.”
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.
“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.
“I’d like that,” you said
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.
“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly.
You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”
Too fast?
I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.
“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”
“It is?”
“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.
“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”
“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”
He laughed. “Number seven?”
“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening.
“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”
“It’s a date,” you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Tonight wasn’t about that.
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I’ll be counting down the minutes.
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. “Good night.”
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.
He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.
You wanted to spend time with him.
“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.
Of course, it was you.
MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
He made a difference tonight.
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.
MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
“Yeah?”
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.
MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”
He reread the message until the screen went dark.
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.
Becca would want to meet you.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.
“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.
MFP: “You already have.”
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.
MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”
There it was.
Soft, familiar, and you.
“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”
MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away.
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.
“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.
Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.
He was counting down the minutes.
And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it.
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
summary: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door. he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience, but everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind.
warnings: non-canon; set in summer; second person (she/her pronouns for reader); age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky (I was inspired by logan howlett's personality); loner!bucky; size difference (he's beefy and has a soft tummy); they're both pervert tbh; protective behavior; possessiveness & jealousy; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; brief oral (f receiving); brief spanking (blink and you'll miss it); fingering; sexual acts in public; pussy pronouns; a few uses of 'slut' & he calls himself 'old' multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough sex; creampie.
word count: 13.5k
a/n: my second exam has been cancelled a few days ago because the professor is sick, so I got angry and stayed up all night on saturday to finish this wip that has been locked in my docs since this summer! it's really just porn without plot and I think it's definitely the filthiest thing I've ever written. don't like don't read. hope you'll enjoy 🍓
Bucky Barnes has chosen this life.
That is the part people never seem to understand.
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns; a place where people wave too much and chat way too long. Bucky doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates. That is as far as it goes.
He is in his late forties, and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, strong, built by labor rather than vanity: thick arms, powerful shoulders, hands rough with grease and scars. There is a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort rather than neglect.
And this only makes him more noticeable.
Women are aware of him, of course. He is an attractive, single man. The combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl works in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. The lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper end up in the first trashcan he sees— invitations and phone numbers he never glance at twice.
Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by myself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is something other people project onto him; he simply calls it peace. He has built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers, and he intends to guard it fiercely.
The neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned not to bother him, and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
And Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
He calls the cops when the rich couple two doors down throw backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He watches the patrol car’s lights flash briefly against his living room wall, jaw set, arms crossed, and goes back to his book the second the noise dies down. He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to get off his property without even opening the screen door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.” Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street. He has never decorated out of spite after that. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn not to park in front of his driveway, and not to ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They do not to expect pleasantries or smiles anymore. Bucky exists like a closed door— solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.
And it works. Until now.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud, too long. He watches from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before he starts complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone— a friend, maybe— reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head, stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it belongs there.
Bucky's frowns deepens.
You’re younger than most people who can afford a house on this street, and pretty in a way that feels unfair— soft, bright, effortless. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… Happy, comfortable. Like you fit already.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple— fresh off their last noise complaint— wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman shows up with lemonade to cool off, the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling "correctly".
He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts and finds him standing stiff in front of his door, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
“Hi!” You call warmly, voice hopeful.
Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes back inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself it’s nothing.
You’re just another neighbor, another disruption… Another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence on this street.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him.
“Oh, hi!”
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder. You’re standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t ignore you completely the first time you tried speaking to him.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… Noise.
“I’m your new neighbor.” You say anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name, but he just nods once, eyes already dropping back to the envelopes in his hand.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment… Anything.
However, you are brutally plunged in an awkward silence.
“Okay.” You drawl softly, then recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”
You wait another second, yet his gaze doesn’t acknowledge you. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes on his back, curious rather than offended. That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself it’s bad timing.
He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching in your hair. You pause when you see him, smile like it’s reflexive.
“Morning.”
He grunts, adjusts his jacket, and walks past you without breaking stride.
Another time, he’s unloading groceries from his truck when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement makes your skirt ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching as you balance on the balls of your feet. Bucky looks away too late, heart giving an uncomfortable thud in his chest. Heat creeps up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening as he forces the fleeting image of your soft skin out of his mind.
Bucky hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one, hands it to you without a word.
“Thank you.” You say breathless, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else.
You don’t stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day, it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, glancing his way.
“Hey.” You greet him softly one morning, like you’re testing the word.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much.” You add, not accusatory.
He stiffens, jaw tightening, and drags his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”
He’s already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake enough to tolerate existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours, struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear him, relief lighting your face. “Oh! Hi— sorry, I think this thing hates me.”
You laugh quietly, embarrassed, trying to close it. He watches for a second too long, the way your brow furrows in concentration, and you bite your lip when the bag rips more.
With a sigh, he steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciate that.”
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
“Have a nice day!” You call after him.
He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is said with affection and pride, with that tone people use when they are fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about how you helped her carry groceries inside. The rich couple brags— loudly— about how you offered to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you baked delicious cookies, and Mrs. Johnson praised you after you volunteered to help clean up at end of the last neighborhood meeting.
And Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard. And he grits his teeth every damn time.
“She’s exactly what this street needed.”
Bucky clenches his jaw.
He doesn’t understand it. How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these people just take, take and take? You are always so open, so willing to be involved, and God– your smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn… Real.
And worst of all, you still treat him the same. Still polite, still warm. You greet him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.
It irritates him in a way he can’t quite name.
Bucky is used to being despised, he knows how to live with it, justify it. But this quiet, persistent kindness… It doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.
And he doesn’t like not knowing what to do with you.
On a late summer afternoon, when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, irritation simmering low and constant.
He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already annoyed.
“Hi.”
He freezes.
You’re standing at the edge of his driveway, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly and wipes his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
“What do you want?” He asks flatly.
You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.
“I just—” you hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is open, genuine, brows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just… I wanted to know if there was a reason, since... You know, we are neighbors, and I’d like to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t do anything.” He simply mutters.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like pressure on his chest.
“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I try to respect that, I really do. I just thought… Maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”
“It was.” He replies roughly, too quickly.
You blink, taken aback, and a hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away.
“Oh,” You nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You then add quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That word makes his stomach twist. Bucky watches you walk away, the space you leave behind feeling heavier than the conversation itself.
That night, he lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
Your words replay in his head whether he wants them to or not. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his life intact. But for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to.
It’s later than he usually stays up, the house dark except for the low lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy from the day. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze there is.
That’s when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. And then he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop. Same height, same alignment. A clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the pale light of the screen illuminating your features. The lamp beside you casts a warm, golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in. You’re wearing pajama shorts that ride up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses, because he can clearly see your nipples poke through the fabric.
Something unfamiliar stirs in Bucky’s belly, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth.
He shouldn’t be watching.
The thought lands fully formed, sharp and immediate.
Bucky turns away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the curtain angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. The sound doesn’t reach him, but he knows it anyway. He’s heard it before, that soft melody that always sounds genuine.
Something tightens in his chest.
He forces himself to step back, to pull his own curtain closed with more force than necessary. The room plunges into shadow, suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead, and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The next night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit, you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open again. You’re absorbed, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
He leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
It’s almost… Fascinating, being able to see the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
You look beautiful.
The thought comes uninvited, unwelcome.
He swallows, jaw flexing, eyes narrowing like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. He tells himself that he just happens to be here, that’s all. Still, he doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
After that, it becomes a problem.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. He wonders if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the straps of your tank top slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast on.
When he does catch you, you’re often on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. You also check your phone with a small smile, often.
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Bucky comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small routines without meaning to: you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; you stretch your arms over your head when you stand, slow and unselfconscious, like you’re completely alone in the world.
When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze unfocused. You also have a habit of circling your bed before lying down, straightening the sheets even when they don’t need it. Sometimes you sit on the edge for a moment, shoulders slumping as if the day finally catches up to you. When you laugh, you tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.
You like background noise. A TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You wander barefoot most nights, nudging things back into place with your toes, absently rubbing your foot against your calf when you stop. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself instinctively, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.
It’s summer, and you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
Inside your apartment, you wear clothes that cling dangerously to your luscious body: short shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show your beautiful curves when you move. Sometimes you kick your sandals off the moment you get inside and pad around barefoot, toes curling against the floor. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, you scroll on your phone, or lie on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air as you watch something on your computer. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand, something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices. These details carve themselves into his mind against his will, and they feel personal, earned, even though they aren’t. You aren’t performing, you’re just living. And it makes observing you so much worse.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him: you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
Bucky perks up like a dog at his owner's arrival when he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately appearing as a pair of headlights follows. You’re not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. His breath catches once he reaches his bedroom after spending ten minutes behind the curtains in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you and your possible companion from his kitchen. Because there's a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re nearly naked on your sheets, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs are bare and parted, hands curled in the man’s hair and a head working furiously under your eager guide.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in pure pleasure.
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him.
His lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open. The sounds from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes eagerly devour the sight.
An itch burns deep in his chest, something raw and consuming trying to claw its way out.
Your moans and giggles resonate in his mind even after your room has gone dark and the only thing that can be heard outside are the crickets.
The worst part is Bucky doesn’t stop there. He finds himself watching, captive to your parade of lovers, growing jealous of the returning faces.
He tries to tell himself there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing: you leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you let the curtains stay apart. And the build-up eventually makes him cave, palming his cock on a night when you’re climbing on top of your lover of the day, breasts on full display and bouncing with a delicious rhythm. Bucky’s hardly hidden now, resting back in his desk chair with his sweats pushed down just enough to tuck his briefs underneath his balls, drawn tight as he fists his cock.
His hand is rough and calloused, the complete opposite of what he imagines yours might be if you’d ever stoop as low as touching him like this. The thought of something this filthy happening only makes his hips jerk harder into his palm, sweat pouring down his temples and every muscle contracting with the urge to release. Your moans faintly slip through your open window, finding him in the darkness like a beacon.
Bucky pretends you know he’s there, that you want him to hear, to see. He imagines your eyes on his cock as he grinds his palm over the head, his thumb slips over the slit, and suddenly he’s spilling over his hand with a pathetic grunt, breath shaky.
What a miserable, old man. Is this really his routine now?
It’s unavoidable: as soon as he gets home after work, the first thing he checks for is the light in your window.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, the fact that you keep going on dates with random men is unbearable.
He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and seething jealousy pour in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You've been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged any words since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.
They don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, twisting sideways in the chair until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the little things on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They don’t know that when you get home from work, you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling for a while. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those ten quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.
Two months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently— shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there, of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He hates how these men get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending not to watch you wrestle with the machine. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and bare. Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
“Come on.” You mutter, huffing.
Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and annoyed— at the mower, at himself, at the way he’s been staring too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning fast. “Oh!”
You hadn’t seen him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how abrupt he sounded.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.
“Ah.” You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”
He crouches beside the machine, hands moving automatically. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a pause.
“You don’t have to—” You start.
“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clears his throat. “If you want.”
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
“It’s fine.” He mutters, not looking at you.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely, weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of you, of the way the sun highlights the curve of your shoulder, the way you chew lightly at your bottom lip absently.
When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately.
Your face lights up. “Thank you so much!”
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.
There’s an awkward beat.
“Um,” You say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”
His stomach drops.
“I mean,” You rush on. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”
“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink. “James.”
He nods, ears burning. “Most people call me Bucky. My friends.”
Your smile softens in a way that feels… Less polite. More personal.
“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”
There’s another pause.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds, voice low, almost shy. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Once he feels heat creep up his neck, he looks away first.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern.
Your car won’t start one morning, hood popped open, you pacing your driveway while a guy from the night before stands there looking useless. Bucky watches from his window, jaw tightening. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
“Move.” He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
“Bucky, hi. You don’t have to—”
“Already here.” He mutters.
He fixes it fast, and the guy thanks him, claps him on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down until he leaves soon after, awkwardly kissing your cheek.
You linger.
“I really appreciated it.” You muse. “You keep saving me.”
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”
Sometimes it’s a loose stair on your porch. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy box you can’t lift on your own. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t watching from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much. Just grunts, nods, mumbles an occasional instruction.
But there are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that linger a second too long. When your eyes meet, he looks away, cheeks faintly pink, shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, you don’t push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it.
Bucky has come to memorize a few names, the one that stands out the most is Noah, a confident little shit.
The guy’s been around for days. He recognizes the car the moment it pulls up, parking a little too close to your driveway, staying a little later each time. Bucky has memorized the way he laughs too obnoxiously, the way he leans in like he already belongs at your side.
He’s also one of those that goes away once dawn hits. That’s what finally snaps something in Bucky.
It’s well past midnight when your front door closes behind you And Noah. Your lights go on, then the bedroom light. Bucky sits in the dark of his living room, unmoving, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ache.
He doesn’t sleep.
He reads with his eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he watches an old re-run of a dumb game show. But most of all, he waits.
Dawn comes slow and gray, bleeding into the street like a held breath finally released. Birds start chirping, and the world gradually wakes up, unaware.
Your front door opens, and predictably, Noah steps out, stretching, running a hand through his hair as if he’s had the best sleep of his life. Asshole.
Bucky is already outside, leaning against his porch railing with an air of insolence, observing like a predator eagerly waiting to bite on his prey’s jugular.
The man notices him halfway down the steps and slows. “Uh… Morning.” He greets, forcing a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.
Bucky doesn’t return it.
“You’ve been here a lot.” He grunts.
The man hesitates. “Yeah, well—”
“You staying?” Bucky asks directly.
There’s nothing casual about it, nothing friendly.
“No,” Noah replies quickly. “Just heading out.”
Bucky pushes off the railing and walks closer, stopping just short of the sidewalk. Close enough that the man has to tilt his head back to look at him.
“You got plans with her later?” Bucky asks, scowling.
The man frowns. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”
Bucky’s eyes harden, gritting his teeth. “It is.”
There’s a pause, too long to not be uncomfortable.
The younger man swallows, awkwardly chuckling. “Look man, she’s great,” he says, like that might help. “I just— I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”
Bucky takes a small step forward, enough to make Noah flinch. “Then don’t come back.”
The man bristles. “You threatening me, old man?”
Bucky leans in slightly, voice dropping. “No. I’m warning you. This old man sees you around here again and he’ll fold you like a lawn chair, got it?”
The silence that follows is thick, charged. Noah looks past Bucky, down the empty street, then back at him.
“Wasn’t worth it anyway.” He sneers.
Bucky has to dig his nails into the skin of his arms to stop himself from beating this brat to a pulp.
Your date leaves in a hurry, car pulling away faster than necessary as the wheels screech on the asphalt.
He stays rooted on the sidewalk until the street settles again. His heart is pounding as if it’s trying to get out of his chest, but his hands have never been this steady.
The next ones are quicker. Less conversation, just a mere look, a question asked with an eerie calm. His presence alone does most of the work. Men who once returned now run away like criminals escaping a sentence.
Bucky watches them go with a sense of grim satisfaction curling in his chest. Because they never waited for you to wake up, and his girl deserves someone who stays. And each time one of them leaves and never comes back, it feels like he’s fixing something broken.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist, and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features; even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen again.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha, a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of a crowded bar wrapping around them. He listened more than talked, like always; nodded at the right moments; let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm down on Bucky’s thigh, eyebrow lifting in silent question.
He stilled it for exactly ten seconds. Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, sharp-eyed, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”
He grunted. “No.”
It’s a lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it— no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might have lost his favorite part of the night.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark. “You sure you’re okay, man?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk. The drive home was fast, his hands tight on the wheel the whole way.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear— that sharp, ugly thing in his chest— hasn’t gone away. It’s just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car— had the nerve to force you drive him home the morning after, like some kind of favor. The memory made Bucky’s jaw tighten, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know what they’ve got.
He parked, cut the engine, and didn't linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else is with you. Just you, alone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound leaving him slow and heavy, like he’s been holding it in all evening. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his chest eases just a little. He can tell that you are about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he briefly turns away to look for the sweatpants and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas, but when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air sharply leaving his lungs in an instant.
Your phone lies forgotten on the mattress by your side, while your covers have been thrown back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your sheer tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, shorts nowhere in sight. From where Bucky is standing, he has a clear view of the way your panties stick to your pussy, a wet spot already in the center. Your head is thrown back, lips parted as Bucky strains his ears to catch one of your sweet sounds.
He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself. You pinch and tug your nipples, letting it harden through the fabric and alternating it with your palms squeezing the flesh of your breasts.
His pants grow tighter, breath stuttering as your eyelashes flutter and your brows furrow, chasing the pleasure stirring warm in your belly. Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides.
What prompted this? Were you reading something dirty and got too worked up? Were you watching something on your phone and needed the same release you seem to crave after every date?
Were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
He watches your chest heave as both of your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor. He wonders what would you do if he were there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work, leaving you whimpering as he plays and sucks on your nipples until you beg him to stop. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket at home, still smelling your slick on the delicate fabric. Bucky would bring them to the garage so he could lock himself in the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock, or better, suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him all day during his shift, keeping his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo.
You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead you slide the straps off your shoulders and tug them down until your beautiful breasts are freed. You’re completely bare for Bucky to admire: nipples turgid, thighs spread, and hands feeling yourself up, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening core.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters, harshly exhaling as he palms his painful erection. He groans at the brief relief, noticing the fabric already damp, precum leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling at the thought of having you on your knees, peering up at him with that same innocent glint you have in your eyes whenever you greet him.
Bucky watches enraptured as your fingers finally reach your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your slick around, making sure to avoid your throbbing clit.
He’s never seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and licked and worshipped the way it deserves. Bucky could give you that: nurse on your clit, tongue at your entrance, encouraging you to grind against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and lose yourself over and over again in your own pleasure, squirting all over his face. He would be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever, wherever and however you want.
Your fingers shine as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Bucky can’t help it anymore as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans to wrap a warm hand around his hard cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He bites his bottom lip until it hurts to muffle a loud groan when he starts to lazily stroke his length.
He has to squeeze the base when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit. When they plunge inside, Bucky swears he can almost hear your gasp. He leans his forehead on the braced forearm against the wall, shoulders bowed. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable; he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his jeans, letting the fabric vulgarly hang around his thighs. He jerks his length as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin as his hands grope your hips.
At some point you pull your finger out, and Bucky has to tighten the grip around the base of his cock, toes curling into the floor and teeth gritting against each other as his dark eyes follow the length of your body. You sit up, only to reach for your nightstand.
His eyes trail on the curve of your ass, until a strangled grunt almost makes him choke when he finally has a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when you lie back, because in your hand there is a black rabbit vibrator. Bucky is dizzy. It's so pathetic that at his age he's been reduced to a lonely man spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks herself with a dangerously thick dildo.
He watches you drag the head of the toy between your folds, wetting the silicone with your slick. You must be so damn needy, because you immediately press the shaft in. Your muscles contract, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch as you push it all the way in. You toss your head back, your hand smacking against your mouth to probably muffle a deliciously loud moan before slipping down to harshly grab your breast, running your fingers along your hard nipple.
Would you squirm just as much as you are doing right now if Bucky were to fuck you, hips fidgeting from how restless and cock-drunk you are? Would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it?
Bucky’s hand matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically move the toy in and out, precum sticking to his fingers and he uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you are edging yourself repeatedly, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up, on the brink of the release that only a real cock like his could give you.
Your slick wets the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, the sheets... And Bucky licks his lips, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he firmly holds you down by your hips in a mating press, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making. They would burn every time water hits them, reminding him of the tightness of your pussy.
Suddenly, you fumble with the handler, pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back and your back perfectly arches up as you go back to fuck yourself with the lucky toy deeper so the unforgiving vibrations tease your clit. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, at the thought of how good you must feel right now with the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.
Bucky curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your body squirm, mouth forming a perfect circle and brows furrowing. He can tell you are close by the way your back arches, and your hips jerk up to meet the ruthless vibrations. He strokes his hard cock and squeezes on the tip at the same time you grind the toy into yourself, desperately circling your hips.
When you finally come, it’s entirely different from the previous times with your dates. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so gorgeous. Your features scrunch up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body desperately shakes in pure bliss. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins stroking his rock-hard cock frantically. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his heavy breathing fill the otherwise silent room; that's when he lets his eyes squeeze shut.
Your pussy would clench around his cock so nicely, and your tits would bounce with each deep thrust as your hazy eyes would look at him pleadingly, so dizzy from his fat cock you'd let the whole neighborhood hear how good Bucky fucks you. He imagines you begging for him to come inside you with that sweet, polite voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy pussy for days.
The pressure finally snaps and Bucky comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking, while hot spurts of cum coat his hand; it's so intense some spurts even end up soiling the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when this is possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had; the full-body shiver when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has him almost fall on his knees.
When he finally opens his eyes as he’s still trying to catch his breath, his sight is a little foggy, yet he can spot the weak smile on your face. Your arm is thrown over your eyes as if relishing in the fuzzy after glow.
Every part of him vehemently yearning for you has been sated for now, but Bucky knows this will never be enough.
You wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly of a citrusy perfume that does not belong to you, and the unmistakable scent of sex. The sun has been up for a while, light spilling warm and bright through the window. For a moment, you just lie there, staring out of the window, replaying the night before in lazy fragments— laughter, too much wine, more laughter, the weight of a body on yours that’s still here.
Ben.
A small smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it, small and giddy and a little disbelieving. You turn your head just enough to see him asleep beside you, hair mussed, mouth slack in a way that’s oddly endearing.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, moving slowly to not wanting to wake him. The floor is cool under your feet as you head to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You take a quick shower, humming under your breath and thinking about making pancakes. When you’re done, you dry off and pull on one of your sundresses, the kind that makes you feel pretty without trying. You smooth it down, glance at yourself in the mirror and put on a little bit of gloss.
You picture him sitting up in bed when you come back. Maybe smiling, teasing you about taking too long. But when you open the bathroom door, the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled where he was, no sign of him anywhere else. No footsteps, no muffled voice, no note. As if he had never been here in the first place.
With a sigh, you pad toward the kitchen barefoot, sunlight warming the floor beneath your feet.
A week of no dates isn’t long, not really. And yet it feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.
You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even showed as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You don’t understand it.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. And if you’re honest, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing– an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still… It stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, and attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. It left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all.
You’d started to wonder if the problem was you.
And then there’s Ben.
Ben is different. Not perfect, but easy. Familiar in a way that surprised you. He’s your friend’s cousin, in town for a short holiday, and she’d spent an entire week talking your ear off about how handsome he was, how sweet, how she just knew the two of you would get along. She wasn’t wrong, you’d clicked almost instantly. Conversation flowed without effort, and for once, it hadn’t felt like you were trying to be interesting enough to be chosen. That’s why it hurts a little more this time. That’s why today the quiet feels heavier than usual.
Something in your peripheral vision makes you stop. You turn fully toward the window that gives on your front lawn, and freeze.
Right there in your driveway stands Bucky Barnes, rigid, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.
And in front of him— half in, half out of a car— is Ben, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, movements jerky and nervous. He keeps glancing over Bucky’s shoulder like he’s expecting witnesses, fumbling with his keys, nodding too fast at whatever is being said to him.
Your neighbor’s mouth is a hard line, his brows drawn down, eyes dark and locked on the man like he’s pinning him in place with nothing but sheer presence.
You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need it to understand what’s happening.
Ben bursts out in a short, loud laugh, too fake, then slides fully into the driver’s seat like he’s in a hurry. The engine roars to life, and tires peel out of your driveway faster than necessary.
Gone.
You stand there, heart pounding, anger flooding your chest so fast it makes you dizzy.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
You don’t even put on shoes. You grab the front door, yank it open, and step outside barefoot, the morning breeze slightly cool against your skin.
“James.”
He actually flinches. Bucky turns slowly, like he’s already calculating how bad this is going to be. His jaw tightens when he sees your face— bare, furious, eyes blazing.
“What was that?” You demand.
He exhales through his nose, slightly bowing his head in greeting. “Morning.”
“Don’t,” you snap, stalking closer. “Do not do that. What the hell was that?”
He looks away, and that alone makes your blood boil.
“You just scared him off,” you say incredulously. “Didn’t you?”
“I talked to him.”
“If looks could kill he would be in a fucking casket by now.” You retort.
Bucky simply shrugs. “He got the point.”
“What point?” You lash out, taking a deep breath after.
His head snaps back to you, eyes flashing. “Listen, I was just making you a favor.”
You laugh, sharp and loud. “A favor!? Oh please! From where I’m standing, you’re a man who ignored me for months, barely acknowledged I existed, and now you suddenly think you get to interrogate the people I bring home?”
“I wasn’t interrogating.”
“It sure as hell looked like it.”
He steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
“Do you do this with everyone? Is it some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor? Or are you obsessed with me?”
His jaw tightens, but you press on, words spilling like a waterfall now that you’ve started. “Do you have any idea how confusing you are? One minute you won’t even answer when I say hello, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, fixing my car, carrying groceries like it’s your job—”
“I was helping.”
“—and now this?” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Charged.
He looks at you then. Really looks. Barefoot on the concrete, eyes still rimmed with drowsiness, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
“I want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. “From what? Dating?”
“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”
You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“They take what you give them and then run,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction. “You’re not.”
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt protectiveness, yet you refuse to back down. “That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time to guys who don’t even have the decency to stay– who don’t see what they’re getting… It drives me fucking insane.”
Your chest tightens, still your brows furrow. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
“I didn’t ask for... Whatever you are doing.” You mumble.
“I know.”
“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to talk to me!”
Bucky steps closer without meaning to. Too close. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, sharp and bright, but there’s something hot and far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then swallows.
“Every time you bring someone home,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”
“And yet.” You mock ironically.
“And yet,” he admits, exhaling harshly. “I lose my fucking mind.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” You swallow, steading yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end. “You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”
His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint not to touch you.
“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”
“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.
“To stay away from you.”
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to go away, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea— your anger, his lewd actions, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But his body doesn’t listen.
All he can think about is how your warmth reaches him effortlessly even through the thin fabric of your dress; the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous.
And now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last inch between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides to the point his knuckles turn white, like that would be enough to hold himself back. His pulse makes his ears ring, drowning out reason, pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything— or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
Not gently. He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth.
He reaches for you like it’s instinct, like gravity finally wins. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, thumb brushing your cheek. His forehead dips to yours, breath uneven.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire. You can feel him everywhere without him completely touch you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creep up your neck, and the way his blue eyes keep flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make has your heart wildly pounding in your ribcage. You realize, dimly, that Bucky's been fighting this longer than you have— that every step he’s taken toward you these last days has cost him something.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere, and see what happens when he finally lets go.
You stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for. Something akin to hunger quickly flashes in his eyes, before he finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you expected: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, crashing into yours with teeth and tongue, hands moving fast, sure, one still gripping your jaw and the other fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed immediately as he deepens it, tilting your head back, looming over you until you’re forced to take a step back or be crushed by him; still, his arm tightens around your torso with a low growl.
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching at his shirt, fingers digging in the fabric. You kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frantic pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, chest heaving and thumb brushing your cheeks like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Fuck.” He mutters, wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it disappears, with bruising urgency, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.
A rough sound tears out of his chest between kisses. He pulls back again enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. “You have any idea how hard it was watching that?”
You blink, breathless.
He laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurts him. His grip tightens, grounding himself. “You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I couldn’t.”
Those words make you still.
You press a hand to his chest, gently but firmly. “Bucky. What do you mean?”
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours, that pink blush appearing high on his cheeks.
“I watched you.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to at first. It just… Happened. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and honest. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... When you weren’t.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.
He stills. “You— what?”
“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly but not forceful; it’s got a bruising sort of gentleness that makes you wobble slightly, his arms squeezing your waist until you're pressed firmly against his chest. His body is a wall, hot and solid, and you quickly melt into it.
“All this time I’ve been beating myself up for it.” He pants against your lips, making you gasp as his mouth trails down your neck. “An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving his cock into your sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.
“But you are just as filthy as me, sweetheart. So fond of keeping your curtains wide open at night for me to see everything.”
Your heart hammers in your chest as his other hand grips your jaw firmly, not enough to hurt, to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”
You’re hooked, unable to challenge him, your fury reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him as his wandering hands end up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.
“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S–Someone is going to see.” You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, before leading you behind your parked car in front of your house. “Better stay quiet then.” And he is pressing his hand against your core, his fingers sliding into the front of your panties to allow his middle digit to play with your slick. His large frames crowds you against the vehicle, his other hand palming your ass.
You feel so exposed yet so alive, your core throbbing as your fingers clutch at his shirt, and your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.
“Yeah? Feels good, doesn't it?”
You tilt your hips into his hand, a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low chuckle, teasing you with expert precision.
“How were they, hm sweetheart?” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, surprisingly put together as he quietly lower your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. Then, his palm comes down on your ass, heavy and sharp, making you whimper. “Answer me.”
“Not–not like you.” You admit, head falling back with a gasp as his thumb works over your swollen nub, rubbing it to a steady rhythm. “Oh fuck.”
“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That's why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those boys weren't satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol' neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Your breath hitches as you feel your climax frantically building, raw and electric.
“Don't be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking.
“Hm I've indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing against your palm. Your eyes go wide; you aren't sure how long he’s been dealing with it, but the hardness of it has you swallowing, slightly intimidated by the large size.
Your fingers twitch where they’re trapped between your bodies, squeezing at his shaft as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.
“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear, and his fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.
“Quiet or that asshole Murray will come out.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”
You can’t find the words even if you want to scream that no, you only crave Bucky's attention, though the possibility to be caught with him fingering you against your car only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction on your clit.
“C'mon, baby.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep squeezing his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I'll let you touch it.”
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I— Fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his shoulder.
“This what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs against the top of your head, cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling. He barely hides his smug smile, leisurely looking around for any nosy pair of eyes, while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn't just make you come in the middle of your driveway.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky's breath hitches at the sight of your glistening temples and hazy eyes. “Need more.”
His tongue traces your lower lip and a whimper escapes you, before he makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts it in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. Bucky then pulls back just enough to let you both breathe.
“Lift your dress.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bent over the windowsill in his bedroom.
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters, voice low and rough. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs, testing your resistance as you welcome the gentle press of his fingers inside with a whine of protest. He promised he would let you touch it. “Don't whine. I have to make sure she's ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?”
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip as the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can't believe you're really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It'd be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what's going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes' house– the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being– and your lips keep parting in shameless moans.
“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you moaning for a grumpy, old man's dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs out as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... Who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Bucky for everyone to hear.” His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the cool air as he takes a tentative lick. “I knew you'd taste fucking delicious.”
“Careful, old man.” You shoot back, breathless but so eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can't go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... Anything can— fuck!”
Two of his fingers penetrate your hole at once, leaving you gasping and trembling. “Ah, look at you going quiet.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”
You nod whimpering, giving over to his dominance. It's incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
He’s relentless, holding you right there as your hips literally hump his face, writhing against his mouth.
“Tight little pussy.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches intently as your slick wets your inner thigh. Quickly standing up, he fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip dark and swollen; he finds some relief by stroking it, while his other hand smooths down your back. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, the fat head of his cock gliding through your swollen folds, up and down, then teasing your entrance. “But you’re gonna let me do it, right baby?”
Your nod is just as eager, quite pathetic you'd add later. You rock back just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, and sparks shoot through your body.
His smile is borderline wolfish. “That’s right.” He leans over you, enough to whisper in your ear. “'M gonna ruin you, pretty girl and you're gonna thank me for it. Understood?”
Once the tip breeches your hole, your back goes rigid. “Bucky I—I don’t think it'll fit.” You admit with wide eyes. He simply chortles, cooing as he hears your shaky exhale.
“Don't worry, sweetheart.” His hands soothe you, trailing up and down your sides, eyes locked on your pussy as he pushes through your folds, coating his girth with your slick. “You can— shit— you can take it.”
He eases into you slowly, each inch leaving you panting and clenching until he’s fully inside, until you’re stuffed and squirming under him. His breath hitches, forcing himself to still for a moment, letting you adjust to the burning stretch.
“Look at you.” He grunts, a layer of arrogance in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your sides as he rocks forward. “See? Took it just fine. You were made for me, sweetheart.” Your walls clench around him like it's terrified he might disappear if you don't hold tight enough, and he gradually builds a steady rhythm, using his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill.
The sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to block your scream is a sharp reminder of the unusual silent morning. You feel impossibly full and stretched. Each thrust makes your spine arch; Bucky fills you just perfectly, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.
“It'd be enough for our neighbors to take a look outside of their window, or open their door, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut you are.”
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly and not too fast.
“They could be watching right now.” He taunts in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your chest, before lowering the front of your dress as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.
Your pussy clenches at his teasing, gaining a mocking laugh from him. “Yeah? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded hands tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from the one you're used to. Bucky's hands are weathered and callused from his job, he's always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while slamming your pussy toward oblivion; it’s intense and raw, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
“She’s begging for it.” His voice is a low rasp, chest heaving as much as yours, even if he keeps up his cocky facade.
Your entire body locks in, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You're pretty sure the squelching sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonate loud and clear across his front lawn.
“Yes yes yes! Right there fuck, right there!”
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
“Gonna come Bucky, oh God, please need it so bad— fill me— shit!”
“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you clench. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I'll make you leak for days—”
“Yes yes yes, please!” You blabber loudly, forgetting completely about the fact that you're basically getting fucked raw on a windowsill in the middle of a random Sunday morning. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips grinding back and your pussy milking him.
“Fuck fuck– that's it, that's it, good girl. Gonna fill you up so good.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
“Fuck, such a pretty slut.” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your whimpers alone sending him over the edge. “I’m coming, baby. Fucking–” One thrust. “Take it.” He groans, loud and broken, finally spilling thick and hot inside you, his cock pulsing deep until you're left full and shaking like a leaf.
You are grateful for his possessive and bruising hold on your hips since your legs are so weak you'd be barely able to keep yourself up. Meanwhile, Bucky is trying to catch his breath against your neck after his powerful orgasm, careful to not put all his weigh on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were right. Maybe he really did get a cramp.
When he finally slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, making him chuckle with mirth as he helps you in an upright position, gently to not hurt you. Who knows how long you've been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge anything else. A sharp sting prickles your lower back, but you couldn't be more satisfied.
“Good girl, you took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own soreness. His lips press a soft kiss on your forehead, then on your lips, before he sighs content, eyes closed and lips brushing your temple. “Finally mine.”
The months of stolen glances and quiet, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it's just you, him, and no barriers between.
Still... Sometimes you meet him at your window, though this time you sit right in front of it, legs spread and eyes fixed on him. And Bucky takes it all in as he fists his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy; occasionally, it's some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
You moan a little louder than necessary now, just for him. Your eyes lasciviously trace the broadness of his shoulders until they reach his strong arm, flexing as he pumps himself. His free hand always grips the frame so hard he once cracked it to hold himself back from running to you, to keep up this little game you proposed as you started dating.
The anticipation builds slowly and achingly each time. You drag it out for him, rubbing your clit with teasing circles while you call his name so sweetly he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm himself down.
And when you finally come, his pace quickens, the fire in your belly igniting back wild and untamed at the sight of his own climax.
And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants still unbuttoned... Well, it's not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
Summary: Bucky wants a taste when you bake something for him.
Word Count: Over 1.5k
Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slight possessive behavior, feels, body positivity, bit of fluff, confident Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Happy Moanday, lovelies. Set in the same realm as Just Right. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Chubby!Bucky who stands in front of the full-length mirror, shirtless and his sweatpants hung low. He filled out in all the right ways with his soft belly, thick thighs, and a broad chest.
Chubby!Bucky who smiles a real smile at his reflection because he likes what he sees. He feels no shame in the extra pounds or how his body looks.
Chubby!Bucky who isn’t just okay with how he looks but loves it. He’s comfortable and confident in his skin, feeling perfect just the way he is.
Chubby!Bucky who briefly remembers how he was once a weapon, his body an instrument of destruction. Now he’s a man who gets to choose what he eats, what he wears, and who he loves.
Chubby!Bucky who runs a hand along his belly, feeling warmth and softness instead of the abs he once had. He lets his stomach hang proudly instead of sucking it in when you’re close by, knowing you like how it looks and feels.
Chubby!Bucky who teases you from time to time and asks, “You like what you see, sweetheart?” He does that when he’s wearing clothes or naked.
Chubby!Bucky who knows his look turns you on no matter what from the way your breath catches, your pupils dilate, how your fingers itch to reach for him. It makes him feel good.
Chubby!Bucky who doesn’t flinch or tense up when you touch him because he has nothing to fear. He leans into it every time, craving it, craving you.
Chubby!Bucky who inhales, drawn to the kitchen due to the smell of cinnamon and butter. He knows you’re whipping up something delicious, though it isn’t half as delicious as you.
Chubby!Bucky who loses his breath when he sees you in nothing but an apron and a top that barely covers your ass. He can’t say you’re the only tease in the place since he purposely didn’t put a shirt on.
Chubby!Bucky who leans against the counter and crosses his arms, watching as you carefully roll out the dough. He smirks when you pretend not to notice him looking, but he doesn’t have to touch your face to know it’s hot under his stare.
Chubby!Bucky who stands taller when you steal a glance at him and sees you bite your lip. He looks good, and you both know it.
Chubby!Bucky who smiles to himself as you put the dough into the waiting pan. You’re making one his favorites, and it means the world that you’re doing that for him.
Chubby!Bucky who has to bite back a groan when you purposely reach for one more thing on a high shelf (that you don’t need), your top lifting and giving him more of a show. As much as he loves his body now, he loves yours even more.
Chubby!Bucky who strides across the room and stops behind you, pressing his warm and massive frame against you while he kisses your neck. “You baking something for me, sweetheart? Or are you just teasing me?” he asks, nuzzling your skin as you tilt your head, your breath hitching.
Chubby!Bucky who nips over your pulse when you breathe, “Both.” Of course, you’re baking for him and teasing him.
Chubby!Bucky who slides a hand under your shirt and apron to tease your breasts, smirking when you gasp. Call him greedy, but he can’t keep his hands off you.
Chubby!Bucky who groans when his other hand brushes your wet panties, making you whimper. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, his voice rough with want when he rasps, “I think you’ve teased me enough. I want a taste now.”
Chubby!Bucky who closes his eyes when you press back against him and beg, “Please.” He’s hard, aching to be inside you, but he wants to take care of you first.
Chubby!Bucky who lifts you onto the counter with ease, flour coating your thighs, and kisses you slow and deep. It’s like he’s savoring the first taste of his favorite dessert.
Chubby!Bucky who deepens the kiss but doesn’t rush. You helped teach him the pleasure of indulgence, taking his time, of being worshipped and worshipping in return.
Chubby!Bucky who pulls away and murmurs, “I just need one taste.” The unspoken words “to start” hang in the air between you.
Chubby!Bucky who kisses your fingers, your inner wrists, removing the apron and shirt so he can kiss your breasts stomach. “You feed me, love me, ruin me,” he whispers.
Chubby!Bucky who sinks to his knees and gazes up at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “Let me have you,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh.
Chubby!Bucky who pushes your panties aside before you part your legs more, silently offering for him to eat until he has his fill. You’ll never keep him from his dessert.
Chubby!Bucky who makes you grip his hair, your cries filling the space as he licks and plunges his tongue deep, savoring your wetness the way he savored your kisses. You’re his favorite flavor.
Chubby!Bucky who is determined to make you come on his tongue before the timer goes off, though he’s certain you’ve forgotten all about pre-heating the oven. The inferno between you two is much hotter and important.
Chubby!Bucky who gets his wish when you cry out his name, your release flooding his mouth. He moans greedily, taking every drop he can because it’ll never be enough.
Chubby!Bucky who kisses your mouth when he’s done, his belly pressed against yours as he pulls you close. You may not enjoy the way you taste, but he thinks it’s a delicacy.
Chubby!Bucky who sighs when you take him out of his pants, his cock hard, heavy, and ready. He brings you back to the edge of the counter so he can sink inside you, inch by inch.
Chubby!Bucky who moans with you as he bottoms out, and freezes when the timer beeps. “I was hoping to get you off again before that went off,” he teases, making you laugh, too, and tighten around him.
Chubby!Bucky who presses his forehead against yours when you say, “Ignore it, and get us both off. Please.” That’s all he wants to do.
Chubby!Bucky who fucks you gently, your nails digging into his shoulders as he makes you cry out again. The smell of sex somehow works well with the kitchen aroma.
Chubby!Bucky who feels tingles at the base of his spine when your hands roam his body, wherever you can reach. His body is your temple, like yours is his.
Chubby!Bucky who almost loses it when you moan, “I love you, Bucky.” Your love makes him believe he can accomplish anything.
Chubby!Bucky who snaps his hips a little harder, moving in you a little deeper, when he moans, “I love you, too.” He’ll always love you.
Chubby!Bucky who moans into your mouth when you tip over the edge, filling you up after a few more thrusts. It feels like heaven every time.
Chubby!Bucky who carries you to the bathroom to clean you up, murmuring “You’re always so good for me…” in a low voice. His heart skips a beat when you exhale, “You’re perfect to and for me.”
Chubby!Bucky who feels his chest get tight and says above a whisper, “Thank you.” He’s thanking you for loving and accepting him as he is.
Chubby!Bucky who later eats a pastry off your body once you finally get to bake it, licking crumbs from your chest and groaning as he works his way back down. You really are the best thing he has ever tasted.
Chubby!Bucky who smirks and raises an eyebrow when you tell him, “I thought you just wanted one taste.” Did you really think he’d stop at one?
Chubby!Bucky who smiles when he looks up at you, his lips shining as he moves back up your body. “You deserve a taste of something sweet, too,” he says, feeding you a bite of the pastry.
Chubby!Bucky who kisses your forehead later as the day comes to an end, cherishing the fact that he gets to have you in his arms and in his life. He feels in his bones that he’s worthy of the life he has now.
Chubby!Bucky who holds you closer, your hand caressing his belly in a tender gesture, and whispers, “You make me feel like I’m worth something.” His heart races when you smile and whisper, “You’re worth everything.”
Chubby!Bucky who removes his dog tags and puts them around your neck. You hold your breath, your eyes filling with tears when he says, “So are you, sweetheart. So are you.”
Chubby!Bucky who sighs when you kiss him, his thumb wiping away a tear that slips out. It isn’t a proposal with a ring, but it is a promise that you belong to each other and always will.
Chubby!Bucky who falls asleep in your bed with a full belly, a full heart, and your body curled up against his. He’s safe, loved, and happier than he ever could’ve imagined.
I know no one asked for this, but I couldn't help myself. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
It wasn’t even meant to be a thing. You had it sitting somewhere in your closet for ages, it was the comfiest thing you owned. After you moved in with Bucky, you’d sort of forgot about it, often wearing your cute little sets of pjs, soft satins and silks all with dainty lace trim. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination and left your boyfriend smitten every single time so who were you to try and dress otherwise.
You loved the smirk he’d give you as soon as he walks through the door, hands caressing your skin, slipping up your top to skim your hips. His voice would practically purr in your ear about how gorgeous you were.
“Lookit you all pretty for me baby”
“All ready for me doll, could slip these little shorts right to the side and jus-”
“M’so fuckin lucky I get you like this, could come home to you like this every day and nothing else”
Yeah, it’s all well and good until you put your clothes to wash and look for something comfy to wear to finish up the chores. Your eyes land on your mumu and you’re happy to slip in on; you know Bucky wouldn’t mind. He never demanded you dress in your sexiest house clothes anyway, it was just something you enjoyed teasing him with.
He’d already texted you that he was tried and ready for bed so this was absolutely perfect. You have your favourite tv show playing in the background while you grab a broom and get to work.
-
Bucky fiddled with his jacket, grabbing the house keys, ready to scoop you up and go right to bed. He just makes it through the door, smiling when he hears you shuffling around, he can’t wait to-
Then he sees you and something switches.
Maybe there was a full moon out because he has to suppress a growl.
There you are, sweeping the living room, the scent of your body wash still lingering in the air, no make up on your face, house slippers on your feet and wearing that.
Where the hell had you been hiding that.
In that moment all he can see is you, pretty ring in that finger, belly swollen, heavy breasts filled with milk, achy feet, your hand supporting your back with his baby in you. He may as well have tunnel vision. He loved those cute sets you wore but this? You in his place with a fuckin mumu on like you’re his perfect housewife, looking all domestic and comfy, what the fuck was he supposed to do with himself. Not you just sweeping there as if you didn’t just give him the fastest erection he’s ever gotten it almost hurts. You may has well have had “breed me” printed on your ass because that’s what this entire thing was doing to him.
He doesn’t waste a second, striding over and scooping you in his arms, ignoring your surprised yelp, heading right for the bedroom. There’s no sexy words, no touchy build ups, no smirk, no nothing.
“Bucky! What are you doing-”
“Y’can’t just walk around like this and expect me to not do anything about it baby” he shakes his head like you just offended him.
“What are you talking about-oof” you squeak as he drops you onto the bed, tearing that leather jacket off before pouncing on you.
“Where have you been hiding this thing, huh” he paws at your body through the soft material, his dick ready to burst out of his tac pants. You giggle when you realize what he’s staring at, his eyes raking up and down your body like a piece of meat.
“I’ve always had it Buck, just forgot it was in the back of the closet-oh my god!”
He’s already pulling up your mumu, granting himself full access to your bare body, a satisfied grunt leaving his lips. You’ve never seen your boyfriend like this, dilated pupils, his pants pulled down just enough to free his cock. He looks so primal and desperate to fill you, shoving those plush thighs apart.
“You look too fuckin’ sweet like this, just asking for me to fill you” he swipes his cock through your folds, hissing when he feels how wet you already are for him. “M’gonna get you so pregnant baby, you’ll only be able to fit in this and nothin’ else”
When I tell you he doesn’t waste a minute shoving his cock in, fucking you like his life depends on it, every primal and animalistic urge coming out full force.
“Gonna breed you gorgeous, pump you up till these pretty nipples leak milk n’you’re all achy”
You barely get a word in, already hurling towards an orgasm, who the hell was this and what did they do to your sweet Bucky (you were not complaining at ALL. AT ALLL)
He can’t even stop his mouth with the way it’s running faster than he can catch.
“Could’ve fucked you right as I walked through the door mama, y’know that?”
“You want that? Can feel you squirting around my cock baby, don’t worry, I got you”
“Y’like that huh. Fucking me up like that, lookin like my pretty sweet lil housewife waiting for her husbands cum”
“My innocent little doll doin’ chores, all comfy n’ sexy thinking this wouldn’t make me lose my fuckin’ mind”
“God m’ gonna cum so fuckin’ hard, shittt”
He ruts into you pushing his cock in as far as it would go, his tip kissing your cervix. He’s absolutely ready to burst, theres no way-
“Y have no idea how fuckin full my balls are seeing you like this, gonna give you every single load n’ put a baby in there, fuck, FUCCKKKK take it-ugghhhh”
-
One worn out, fucked out and empty, I mean empty balls Bucky later:
18+ Hi, I have adhd and I need a bright eyed virgin college Bucky partnered up with the one girl in class he has the biggest crush on. You. It doesn't help that you're in you're final year while he's still in his second but that just adds to how attracted he is to you. I need him to be such a sweetheart when it comes to working with you and being a complete gentleman on all the study dates. I need those study dates to go from warm coffee shops and the library to his place, a little apartment that’s close to campus.
Imagine how fuckin' needy and desperate he'd be, he wants to impress you bad, compete with those older college boys who also compete for your attention. He's more than happy to play it cool like he's done this before, those sneaky subtle touches, flirty comments, a little wholesome cuddling when it's late getting more and more handsy each time.
When he finally has you in his bed on his lap, your tongue laced with his, study notes be damned, he does everything in his power to keep his moans down, to keep his erection contained in his sweats, to keep his cum from prematurely spilling from his cock. The way your grinding on him has him panting between kisses, his hips lifting up to chase more. He pulls his cock out of his sweats, the tip already weeping, groaning when your hand wraps around his shaft with languid strokes. He doesn't want to waste another minute, practically tearing your panties off.
You make a teasing comment about how he's not as innocent as you thought and mind does jumping jacks because that's a win! It means he's doing a good job yet his mouth fucks it up by running in the opposite direction-
"I'm a virgin"
Why did he say that.
Your soft grinds stop. Your hand pauses on his aching erection. It was all great until he lets it slip that he's a virgin.
"Bucky why didn't you tell me" you coo, your hand coming up to cup his cheek, stroking his skin. "We don't have to go further if-
"No!" He shakes his head, God he needs this, your wet pussy is right there, "I want this angel"
“Are you sure you're ready-
“Fuck yeah, get on it” he holds his cock up for you, it's already standing tall and proud, thick and leaking, "It's all yours, take it, wanna put it in you so bad, please-"
That's all you needed to hear because here is this sweet, fucking gorgeous puppy offering himself on a silver platter, begging to sink his pink virgin cock in you, who were you to say no.
"Alright Jamie, shh" You tease him again taking his tip and smearing it through your folds to get it nice and wet and it drives him feral. The breathy moans he lets out while having his lip caught between your teeth has to be the prettiest thing you've ever seen. "You like that? I don't want to rush it for you baby boy"
You were going to kill him.
You were 100% going to kill him.
Your words alone were causing little spurts of precum to squirt out, he didn't even know his cock could do that, whimpering with each drop that ran along his length.
"M'so hard it's leaking, c'mon do something angel, wanna make you feel good"
"Shh, let me take care of you" You line yourself up with his flushed tip, letting it brush against your entrance before sinking down on him and Bucky nearly cries, your wet heat squeezing every bit of him.
"Oh fuck it feels so good, shit angel-oh my God your'e fuckin' tight" His head his thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself not to cum.
"R-ready?" You may not be a virgin but his fat cock is stretching you like you've never been stretched before and that just turns you on more. This sweet virgin boy with the prettiest dick, the most handsome face, nearly in tears waiting for you to move. You're the only one to make him feel good like this, that perfect length throbbing and desperate for you.
"Yes, fuck yes please, please baby-oh fucckkk" He begs, his jaw hanging open when you start to move, giggling when you feel him squirm from under you, thrusting up for more. "Y'feel so damn good"
It doesn't matter than Bucky is a virgin.
Doesn't matter that this is his first time.
Shit, doesn't matter that you were going to take care of him. His brain fights between letting you take lead and being a complete greedy baby and you can guess who wins when he flips you over and starts to pound you from behind between slutty moans, your ass bouncing off his thighs.
"Can't-help it- fuck sorry angel you just feel-so good-need it, need all of it, fuck, want it, want it so bad" His desperate needy whines make you nearly squirt with the way his hands dig into your legs pulling you back to meet his thrusts. He's slamming his cock into you like he'd trying to mark you from the inside, memorize what every divot and curve feels like within your walls.
"Fuck-Fuck Jamie!!!" You cry, his cock hitting places causing you to see stars. "Take what you want baby boy"
"Don't say that-oh fuck, Shit m'gonna cum-can't-angel I can't hold it- tell me m'your baby boy" His pace falters and he nearly stutters, he doesn't care that he sounds like a subby mess, all he can focus on right now is the way his dick wants to blow and being your baby boy who needs to be taken care of. That achy feeling between his legs has taken over every thought and nothing else matters.
"Let go baby boy, c'mon, be a good boy and cum, you're doing so well Jamie"
"F-fuck-fuck angel I-'m'cumming,HNGGG" He slams himself all the way into you with a deep groan, never ending ropes of his spend spilling onto you and his bed. "Shit it's so much, s-sorry angel"
"Good boy Jamie, you did so good" You coo while his hips stutter, spurts of his cum still throbbing into you. You're poor sweet boy is a mix of embarrassed and selfish, refusing to pull out his semi hard cock out of your warm tight pussy and also feeling bad he didn't last as long as he'd hoped. You try to move so you can cuddle him but he doesn't want you going anywhere, collapsing you in his arms.
He doesn't want this to be a one time thing, little does he know this is going to keep going until his entire apartment floor knows his name.
anyway. sorry. I wasn't going to even bother with this and here we are, a true adhd moment for me.
18+ smutty smutty with some cocky roommate Bucky. I had a fleeting image of this man sitting on the couch with his legs spread and it was all downhill from there. I'd absolutely love an enemies to lovers where you're pent up and going off about how all your recent dates have been shit and to top it all off, you have to come home to him and well you'd absolutely rather-
"I'll fuck you if it'll get you to shut up"
"Excuse me" Your rambling came to an immediate halt, blinking at the soldier, coherent thoughts no longer forming, did he really just-
"I said I'll fuck you if it'll get you to shut up" his baby blues stared back at you, those pink lips quirking up to a smirk, this fucking little shit. "Take what you want"
Smut under the cut.
"That's it, that's it baby" Bucky groaned, gripping your hips guiding you up and down on his length, his girth stretching you each time he thrusted to meet your bounces. "Look at you now, can't even get a word out now huh"
You moaned, eyes rolling back, fingernails digging into his shoulders feeling him in your belly, the band growing tighter. How the fuck were you so close already, this was a bad idea, you were so close to the edge, why were you fucking this stupid cocky little shit, the spongy head of his cock hitting that exact spot that was going to make you cu-
"C'mon, eyes on me pretty" His gravelly voice cut through your cockdrunk daze, his dick getting harder at your fucked out state, "Look at me when I make you cum, keep em' open, yeah good girl" He started thrusting harder, taking you apart like you were nothing more than a ragdoll, your pussy making a mess all over his lap.
"Makin' a mess all over me too, this is what you needed yeah? Nice fat cock to fuck you stupid, empty that pretty head, keep riding me like that angel, yeah fuck yourself on me, just like that-shittt-gonna make me blow-fuck"
"Bucky-Bucky I-oh God fuckkk" You cried, shit you really just moaned his name, his filthy mouth making your pace grow sloppy, your desperate cunt trying to milk his length, he was actually going to make you cum, were you really going to give him that satisfaction? You'd love nothing more than to say you've had better but you fucking haven't, you were so close, "Can't-can't hold it, s'too much, gonna c-um"
"I know, I know princess, I got you" He cooed, his grip on your thighs digging into your skin as spots start to cloud your vision, wet slapping sounds and your moans filling the room, his metal hand slipping between your bodies to rub your swollen clit.
"Fuckfuckfuck-Bucky'm'gonna cum!-"
"Cum on my cock princess, milk it, make that little pussy cum all over me, s'what m'here for, fuck yess-gonna fill you right up princess-FUCKK" Bucky nearly roared at the feeling of his cock flooding your cunt, each pulse met with your walls squeezing and sucking him in deeper, "Shit, there's-there's so much, take it all-
You bit down onto his neck to muffle your screams of pleasure, your entire body pulsing and trembling as waves of ecstacy crashed over you, damn him for making you feel so good.
****
"You're real quiet now, angel" Bucky whispered, his fingers gently stroking up and down your back, the both of you still on the couch, his soft length still inside you.
"Shut up" You mumbled, hardly having any energy to roll your eyes, the cool sensation of his metal hand soothing you to nearly fall asleep.
"Mhm, you seem real comfy all fucked out on my cock"
"No" You wanted to saunter off like that mind shattering orgasm meant nothing, like you wouldn't feel him inside you for days but his arms were so thick and warm and his lap was so comfy-
Yes, we've seen drunk!Bucky in Pretty Girl. A drunk reader could be fun.
Your Girl
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're very vocal about wanting Bucky Barnes.
Word Count: Over 1.7k
Warnings: Drunk reader with no filter, drunk confession, dirty talk, humor, slight feels, talk of consent and communication, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
“Raw. Next question.”
You sipped your drink, the room going eerily silent. It was the quietest it had been since everyone gathered in the lounge for some drinks hours ago. Pairs of eyes stared at you with a mix of fascination and shock as your words hung in the air.
Just moments ago, Clint had been going through his phone and showing everyone candid photos he managed to snap of everyone. Most of them were hilarious, but the most recent one wasn't hilarious at all. It was clearly hot based on your reaction.
“What did she say?” Steve whispered to break the silence.
“You heard what she said. Everyone heard it,” Sam whispered back, giving you a quizzical stare. “How many drinks have you had?”
You held up a finger followed by another couple. “Like this many. And water. Hydration is so important.”
“Hold on. Back to what you said a second ago.” Clint turned the phone toward him with a raised brow and slowly turned it back toward you so you could see it again. “You know that’s a picture of Barnes, right? Not some model or actor?” he asked.
Bucky Barnes, the beefy super soldier who was trying not to shatter the bottle in his metal hand as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes. Clint managed to snap a photo of him when he removed his shirt after a recent workout, which begged the question of why he was taking the photo to begin with. Bucky wasn’t looking at the camera since his eyes were shut, but his parted mouth, slightly messy hair, and sweat shining off his torso made him look like a thirst trap. The sweatpants only made the picture that much hotter.
“Yeah, I know. He’s hot. We all know he’s hot,” you shrugged. “And I said what I said.”
Bucky audibly exhaled. You had a penchant for being very honest with the team which they appreciated. If someone asked for your opinion or thoughts on something you didn’t hide how you felt. You were careful not to be cruel if you disagreed with anyone, but you still led with honesty. Alcohol didn’t change that.
So, if you said you thought Bucky was hot and you wanted him to fuck you raw, you meant it.
Clint exchanged a quick glance with Natasha before the redhead nodded to the spot beside you. The spy looked like she was having a hard time not smiling. “And you know he’s sitting next to you, right?” she asked.
You downed the rest of your drink and shrugged again. “Yeah, I know. And I’d let him fuck me raw. Every day. Twice on Sundays,” you said unapologetically as Steve coughed. You swung your head toward Bucky with a sultry smile and leaned in a little closer. He smelled your perfume before you sat down tonight, but now the sweet smell combined with your natural scent was making him dizzy. “You’d fuck me raw, right? Maybe fuck me from behind so you can get nice and deep.”
The bottle shattered which only made you smile more. Bucky’s nostrils flared and everyone backed up a few inches, except for you, the newest member of the team. The person who loved to leave little treats and snacks for him to make sure he ate throughout the day. The same person who made a show of bending over and stretching in front of him whenever you two worked out together. The only one who seemed to get a real smile out of him since you showed up like a shining beacon of happiness and sass.
And now you were telling him you want him to fuck you. Raw. He thought about it, of course- how wet and snug you’d feel around his bare cock, how you’d take him like a good girl. He pictured you sobbing his name and squirming as he pinned you down and brought you over the edge again and again. Licking his lips, he imagined the taste of your arousal on his tongue and wondered if he could make you squirt. He sure as hell wanted to try.
Bucky heard Thor’s footsteps, but didn’t take his eyes off you as the God of Thunder took a seat. “Clearly, I’ve missed something.”
“I said I want Bucky to fuck me raw,” you said without missing a beat.
Bucky bit back a groan. He was two seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder like a caveman and taking you away from everyone. There were so many filthy things he wanted to say and do to you…
And your bluntness didn’t seem to bother the blonde. “I thought you two were already having relations. With how close you two-”
“I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘relations’?” Clint asked. “Relations.”
“Is that not what they’re discussing?” Thor asked, taking a sip from his flask. “Though if there is no protection there is the risk of procreating, but they would have beautiful offspring.”
You leaned in a bit closer, but Bucky gripped your arms to move you away from his spot. “I don't want the glass to cut you.”
“You're so thoughtful. And amazing,” you smiled. He adored your smile. “And if a breeding kink is what you’re into, actually breeding me or not, I’m all for it. I’m wet just thinking about it.”
Thor laughed and held up his flask. “That’s the spirit.”
Bucky’s cock twitched in his pants. “I know you’re wet. I can smell it,” he all but growled. He inhaled so deeply he could actually taste it, and he wanted more. And if he could smell it, Steve could smell it.
Steve jumped up when his best friend glared at him. “I think I’m done, too,” he said, not wanting to face Bucky’s wrath even though it wasn’t his fault he also had heightened senses.
“Let’s go, boys. I think these two should talk without us,” Natasha suggested, hauling Sam up by the arm and giving both of you a wink. “Be good, okay?”
“No promises,” you replied in a sing-song voice.
“Shouldn’t they get a room? I’m just saying,” Sam said as Natasha dragged him away.
“Breed her well, Barnes. Make us proud!” Thor shouted. Steve hauled him from the room, too, with Clint hot on their tail.
“Alone at last,” you giggled. If you were at all embarrassed, it didn’t show. And now that the two of you were alone, the tension skyrocketed. “You know, this isn't how I pictured saying any of this, but here we are.”
“Here we are,” he said. He couldn't believe you wanted him, but you did.
“I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable or weird. I’d never want that.”
“That’s the last thing I feel,” he exhaled, still gripping your arms when you finally moved into his lap and straddled him.
“Good,” you smiled, leaning in for a kiss.
As much as he wanted to feel your lips against his, he stopped you. And as much as he wanted to tear your leggings away and have you then and there, but he couldn’t. “I’m not fucking you. Not tonight.”
The playfulness slipped from your eyes. So did the smile from your face. “Oh. I thought…” you breathed, looking away and quickly blinking. God, he hoped there weren’t tears in your eyes. “You don’t actually want me, do you?”
Bucky hadn’t meant for his words or stopping the kiss to come across as rejection, but that was exactly what happened. “That’s not–”
“Oh, my God. I ruined everything, didn't I? Why did I open my mouth?” You sniffled and tried to move away, but he wouldn't let you. “Six months of friendship and crushing on you and I-”
“Hey. You didn't ruin a thing.” Bucky gripped your chin with tenderness he didn’t think he was capable of anymore, and his heart broke when he saw the tears swimming in your beautiful eyes. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life,” he admitted, brushing a tear away that fell. “But you’ve been drinking, and that means you can’t fully consent, and I will not take advantage of you, no matter how you say you want me or this. I respect and care for you too much for that.”
HYDRA took consent away from Bucky for a long time, and it was one of the worst feelings in the world. He’d hate himself for doing anything with you without your full consent. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who did that. The man you deserved would be the one who properly took care of you in and out of bed.
And he’d be the best man for you if you let him.
“So, you do want me?” you asked, your voice uncertain.
“I did say more than anyone else, and I meant it,” he replied. You had to believe him. “But our first time should happen when you're sober.”
However you wanted your first time to be, he'd make it happen. He'd make love to you or fuck you or both. As long as there was clear consent and communication, he’d give you everything you needed and more, and he knew you'd do the same for him.
The smile you gave him repaired the cracks in his heart. “You’re a good guy, Bucky,” you said, snuggling against him. “And it isn’t just sex I want, but, well, I do want to have sex with you.”
“You’re adorable,” he chuckled and rested his chin on your head. “And I know. It isn't just sex I want either.”
Bucky wanted to take you to bed, but he also wanted to take you out on dates. He wanted to make you laugh and smile, wipe your tears and comfort you when you cried, and be the one you confided in. He wanted to be your man, and he wanted you to be his best girl.
“I wanna be yours,” you sighed as if you read his mind, his heart skipping a beat. “Can I be your girl?”
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes when he kissed the top of your head. “You can be my girl.”
And tomorrow once you were sober, he’d officially ask you to be his girl.
Happy Moanday, lovelies! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Bucky searches for Alpine when she gets out one night and finds her curled up with you.
Word Count: Over 1.6k
Warnings: Drunk reader with no filter and Alpine likes her, bit of grumpy!Bucky, humor, attraction, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: @starlightcrystalline sent me this IG video and I had to do something for her. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky was going to kill Sam. No, not really. He wasn’t a cold-hearted killer. Just because Sam hadn’t shut the door fast enough didn’t mean it was his fault that Alpine ran out. Accidents happened, and she was lightning fast. It still stunned Bucky and Steve when Sam shouted that she got out because she hadn’t taken off like that before. Super soldier speed hadn’t worked since she was gone by the time Bucky got to the front of his place.
They split up to look for her, and he didn’t want to wake anyone up since it was late, but he was worried since Alpine had gone past his neighborhood. She was his little buddy, his kindred spirit. He wanted her to be okay. He didn’t want her to get lost or hurt.
“Alpine?” he asked, rounding a corner and looking around. His shoulders dropped when he didn’t spot her. “C’mon, Al.”
He went down another block when he heard an unfamiliar voice in the distance, his body going stiff. “Oh, my GOD. You are seriously the cutest cat EVER.” Was this stranger talking about his cat? “Your fur is as white as snow and so soft. OOH. Is your name Snowball?”
“Snowball?” he muttered, jogging in the direction of your sweet voice. Wait, why did he think your voice was sweet?
“You’re a little purr machine! I just want to take you home and cuddle with you and keep you FOREVER.”
“Oh, no, you fucking don’t,” Bucky snarled, rounding another corner. He didn’t care how sweet you sounded. You were talking about possibly stealing his cat, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.
He sighed in relief when he saw Alpine before his brows furrowed. She was curled up in your lap as you sat in the middle of the sidewalk. He had to blink to be sure his eyes were working correctly. Alpine never took to strangers like that. She liked Steve and Sam, but it still took her time to warm up to them.
Shooting them a text to let them know he found Alpine, he wondered who you were and why she was snuggling with you.
“Al.” He whistled as he jogged the rest of the way over. Instead of jumping out of your lap like he expected, she curled into you more and purred. Maybe you had some sort of special power that made his cat relax.
You tilted your head up and Bucky forgot how to breathe for a second. Even under the harsh light of the sidewalk lamp you were beautiful. Fuck, maybe you had some sort of special power over him, too. “Hi!” you said a little too loudly, like you didn’t have a clue how late or quiet it was. Inhaling, he could smell the alcohol on your breath from where he stood. Jesus, were you drunk? “Hooooooooe, my God. You are the hottest man I have ever seen in my life. Just… ” You waved a hand at him. “Holy fucking shit.”
He was thankful that it was either too dark for you to see or you were too drunk to notice the pink in his cheeks. Not to mention, he was in jeans and a black t-shirt. He hardly looked hot. “You’re drunk, but thanks for the compliment,” he stated, reaching out for Alpine who stubbornly stayed put. Seriously, what was her deal? She didn’t know you. He didn’t know you.
“Annnnd I’ll be sober when I wake up tomorrow, but you’ll still be really hot. That’s totally not fair.” You giggled after a moment and held Alpine up to look at him. “Isn’t he hot? Like a model or a god or something made up in a lab.” You tilted your head. “Or my dreams.”
Bucky frowned, as if he didn’t talk to his cat on a regular basis. He was trying to ignore that you were clearly physically attracted to him. That wasn’t the usual reaction people had when he came around. Not in today’s age at least. His glare didn’t even phase you since you continued to smile at him. “Al’s a cat. She can’t-”
“Meow.”
Your lower lip trembled and he feared you’d burst into tears. He had no clue what to do if you cried. “I’m soooo sorry. I didn’t know she was your cat. I swear.” His eyes widened when you tried to get to your feet, his hands going to your hips to help steady you. He was reluctant to let you go, and he felt like an ass because he probably scared you. “She just came right up to me and I only wanted to pet her for a minute.”
Your smile turned into something triumphant. “See, she agrees with me,” you said, rubbing your cheek against Alpine’s before you gasped. “Wait, you called her by a name. Do you know her?”
Bucky let out a breath, wanting to get back home and get some sleep. He had had a long day. “Yeah, she’s my cat and she got out a bit ago. Could you please give her back so I can go home?”
Bucky kept a hand on your hip when Alpine finally moved into his other arm. He felt better, but wouldn’t relax completely until he was at home. “It’s okay. I’m glad she did,” he said honestly. Because Alpine went to you, it made it much easier to find her. “Wait a second.”
“What?” you asked, making him lose his breath again when you looked him in the eyes.
He had to blink a few times and snap himself out of his stupor. What was wrong with him? “Why the hell are you out here by yourself?” he asked, trying to keep his anger in check when he took in your outfit. He was so concerned about Alpine that he didn’t clock right away that you were in a semi-revealing black dress. It was gorgeous, and that kind of look could attract all sorts of attention. Even if you weren’t drunk and all alone, the thought of someone taking advantage of you made his blood boil.
You nodded to the building beside you. “My place is RIGHT there, but it’s soooo sweet that you care about my wellbeing.”
“Which apartment?” he asked.
“Okay, you may be really hot and I may be drunk, but I don’t know you, so I’m not telling you my apartment number.” You wrinkled your nose. “That’s how true crimes start.”
He snorted before he could stop himself. At least you were smart enough not to tell him. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re alone out here.”
“My friends and I were celebrating a birthday at the bar a few blocks away and the birthday girl wanted to play drinking games and my luck was terrible tonight since I kept losing, or I guess winning if you count drinking as winning?” you explained, shaking your head. “Anyway, my sober friend dropped me off, but your cat walked over before I could go inside,” you continued, smiling and scratching behind her ears. At least you hadn’t walked home alone. “And it would’ve been rude of me to ignore little Snowball.”
“Her name’s Alpine,” he corrected you, but there was warmth in his tone instead of annoyance.
“My apologies, Queen Alpine.” You booped Bucky on the nose. “And what is your name?”
Bucky blinked and blinked again. He couldn’t believe you just booped him. If Steve and Sam had seen that… “It’s Bucky.”
You didn’t react to his name, simply giving him your name, too. “Do people call you ‘Buck’?” you giggled. “Because Buck rhymes with-”
“I think you should get inside,” he cut you off. “And make sure you drink some water and have some aspirin waiting beside you when you wake up.”
“Awwwwwwwwwww. You really do care about my wellbeing,” You leaned into him, stars in your eyes. “You’re a good man. I can tell.”
Bucky cleared his throat. Why would you think he was a good man? “Well, if Al likes you, you can’t be all bad.”
“I can be bad if you want me to,” you whispered exaggeratedly and winked. “Sorry, I have no filter when I drink.”
“Yeah, I sensed that,” he deadpanned. It was kind of refreshing. “Do you always flirt with strange men like this?” he asked, feeling a surge of jealousy for no reason.
“Just you, stranger,” you answered. He believed you only because you seemed too sweet to lie. “Thanks for being nice and letting me snuggle with your cat.”
You had to be drunk to say he was nice. “I’m a grump.”
You booped his nose again. “Whatever you say, Mr. Grump,” you said, giving Alpine one last pet. “See you later, Alpine.”
The meow Alpine let out sounded so sad it almost broke Bucky’s heart. “It’s late, Al. She needs rest, and so do we.”
“Night night!” you called back, somehow managing to walk in a straight line up the building door. “Sweet dreams!”
“What if Al wants to see you again?” he asked.
You paused and smiled over your shoulder. “If you want to see me again, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
As tempting as it was to ask for your number or give him yours, you were drunk. You’d probably forget all about him in the morning. Besides, you might have a boyfriend. So he held Alpine closer and watched you go inside, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You gave me a real scare, Al,” he said, walking away as Alpine looked back at the building. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll see her again.”
For Alpine’s sake, he hoped they’d see you again.
And for his own sake, he hoped you were single.
Had to be done, lovelies! When and where will he see you again? See what happens next with Late Night Recap. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
꒰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ꒱ how you made bucky barnes into a morning person.
꒰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ꒱ smut. oral. MDNI!
꒰ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ꒱ just watched thunderbolts !! it’s been like five years since i last wrote for bucky. i feel like i’m back to my roots!!
ever since moving in with you, bucky's favorite time of the day became the morning.
he got to woke up with you still letting out quiet snores in his arms, nuzzled up into his neck seeking warmth, the small breaths you were letting out hitting his bare chest, causing shivers to run down the man's spine, and he'd start pressing kisses along your jaw until slowly starting to trail down your neck.
you'd wake to the feel of his stubble tickling the skin of your breast, your eyes still pressed closed as quiet chuckles escaped you, his lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue darting out to give the hardened bud a tentative lick, only to stop the teasing by sucking on it sharply, your back arching up to meet his mouth.
when you finally managed to open your eyes, you saw that your boyfriend had pushed the oversized shirt you'd stolen from him to bare your body to him, and as if sensing your eyes on him, bucky let go of your nipple and looked up at you with a small, self-satisfied grin on his lips, "finally got your attention, it seems."
"don't be too proud of yourself." you pushed a strand of loose hair behind his ear, "i'm only half-awake."
"oh?" bucky raised his brows in amusement, pressing a feather-light peck on your lips, and somehow even that was enough to send electricity running through your veins, "i think i can fix that..."
the cold vibranium of bucky's hand pressing on your stomach was enough to cool your body down, even though sweat and other liquids had already stuck to your sheets under you.
you were squirming underneath him; your bedroom was filled with the noise of the filthy squelch of his thick fingers stretching you out. one of your hands was gripping his hair, the other bunching the sheets as he flattened his tongue on your clit.
your legs were hooked over bucky's shoulders as he greedily sucked on your clit, licking up your arousal like a man who'd spent the last week in the sahara; the overwhelming pleasure that came with every flick of his tongue or every curl of his fingers inside of you made you unsure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away.
"bucky..." you whined his name each time you got close to coming, only for the man to let out a chuckle against your pussy that vibrated all throughout your body, the man determined not to quit until you were shaking and shivering from the orgasms he gave you.
and when bucky finally got you to admit that you couldn't handle any more, he slumped down next to you on the bed, a satisfied grin on his face as he watched you try and catch your breath, only for him to take it away by pressing his lips on yours, the taste of your arousal still on his lips.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader.
synopsis. sick as a dog and buried beneath a pile of blankets, you make the mistake of sneezing during your nightly check-in with bucky. hours later, you wake up to soup on your stove and someone in your kitchen. based on this request.
warnings. post-manchild!, roommate!bucky, sick!reader, established relationship, fluff, suggestive.
reader inclusivity. the picture included in the header is in no way a representation of the reader!
wordcount. 2.4k
hyde's input. i've had a chest infection for like a week, y'all, so i'm killing two birds with one stone by fulfilling a request i got over a month ago and also giving myself a little self-indulgence.
manchild au masterlist.
It starts as a tickle at the back of your throat.
Nothing too aggressive, just… Irritating, uncomfortable, crawling over your pharynx while the hour moves forward on a desk clock. Other than a few more trips taken to the water cooler than usual, it hardly disrupts your day.
When the shackles of work come off, you drag your feet home with an exhaustion settling atop your shoulders. An ordinary event, this reaction is expected when considering what awaits you at the end of your journey: an empty apartment. Time is supposed to ease troubles. But the absence of Bucky is not a trouble, it is a disruption. Every time he leaves, a tectonic plate shifts in your heart and you’re left shaken to the core.
It is not that you cannot function without him, no; the feminism in you would never allow a man to leverage such an effect over you.
The damage is in the small things, like when you finish the last bite of whatever sweet treat he baked before leaving, behaving like the loyal dog he is and obeying Sam’s call to heel; or when you roll over to flee the first rays of the morning sun attempting to seduce your eyelids open, and find his side of the bed empty, nothing but his scent lingering on bedsheets; or when you find one of those sticky notes he’s so fond of, tiny tethers of himself buried in crevices of a home you have both been reshaping together: an i love you stuck inside a kitchen cupboard, a reminder to take your lunch-break folded inside your purse, a wear me when you miss me pressed to the jumper you intend to steal from his side of the wardrobe.
No matter what the trigger may be, it never fails to punch you in the gut with the knowledge that he really is away, protecting the world like he protects your heart.
That tickle in your throat blankets itself in a chrysalis as you settle in for the evening. You eat alone, make it through half of a movie alone, shower alone, and, at last, crawl into bed alone. Head on the pillow, that is when the tickle reemerges, a butterfly travelling down into your chest and making itself a home there.
Realisation brings on the wave of illness, a once dormant force now running a full-fledged attack on your system: a runny nose, a pounding head, a terrible ache pulsing from the centre of you.
Come morning, you’re running: a) a fever, and b) late for work.
They send you home before noon with a demand to visit the pharmacy and to rest.
Your evening is spent drowning in self-pity and a cough bottle.
The phone lights up sometime after 4 am, mid-coughing fit. You freeze at first, sluggish under the effects of your medication, before at last fetching it off the night-stand and answering.
You know it’s Bucky just from hearing him breathe down the line, patient and silent as he awaits your greeting. While you know you should speak, that you should minimise the dangers of the call being traced, something worms itself inside your heart and decides to remind you of the longing stored within all four chambers. Barely a week since he left, yet you miss him so deeply you’re driven to reckless behaviour.
Instead of your voice, you give him silence.
Bucky doesn’t push, doesn’t sigh with exasperation or clear his throat in a way that screams hurry up. He matches your silence, absorbs it from all the way in wherever-he-is. If you close your eyes and wrap your arms around his pillow, maybe you can pretend he’s really next to you, breathing in your ear and trailing those feather-light touches, so characteristically him, up the length of your back and soothing the sickness right out of you.
But that same tickle from earlier has to ruin it before you even get the chance to try, migrating up into your nose and coaxing an unexpected sneeze out of you. Quiet, and muffled into your hand, it’s still enough to force you to finally speak.
“Bucky,” god, your voice is a wreck; croaky, and breathy, and barely reaching above a whisper. It’s pathetic enough to summon tears into your own eyes, self-pity returning with a vengeance as you scoot across the mattress and rest your head on his pillow, drowning yourself deeper in the shadows of his un-presence.
“I’m here, doll.” But he’s not, and it only makes your eyes fill quicker, tears pouring down and staining the pillowcase.
He hasn’t chastised you for saying his name, a second risk taken in the haze of a cough syrup sickness. Nor has he hung up, cutting off the call and following a tradition set long before he traded the couch for your bed. He’s lingering, existing beside you so long as the speaker remains glued to your ear.
By the time he hangs up, you’re fast asleep and smothering your face into his pillow.
Moonlight still rules the sky when you come to.
The ascent to consciousness is slow, the ache in your chest now gone global and enveloping the rest of your body. You send out a search party in the shape of your hand, wading through a sea of blankets and used tissues only to come up for air, empty-handed and perplexed.
How did it wind up on the nightstand? And, when had you left a glass of water and pain killers at your bedside? Shrugging the blanket and your confusion off, you grab for your phone and your eyes expand to the size of plates.
You’ve slept an entire day away.
And still the exhaustion is imbedded in your soul, a magnet that threatens to pin you against the mattress and force you into another round of sleep. You’re slowly giving in to temptation, eyes fluttering shut and body sinking back down onto Bucky’s side of the bed. The strings of dreams are slowly weaving themselves together, pulling you into a land where you’re back in that supermarket aisle, unable to spot grapefruits nor the longing looks being shot your way by your soldier… Until a not-so-distant bang snaps you right back into consciousness.
“Shit!” It’s muffled through the door, but you hear it all the same.
Sluggish in your reaction, it takes a full minute of willing the movement for you to toss your legs over the side of the bed. Chills run up the length of your calves as your feet meet the cold floor, only for a second before they find the safety of fluffy slippers. Your footsteps drag as you move towards the bedroom door, the shuffle of a zombie gravitating towards a potential meal. Except this meal is less nutritious and more a possible predator awaiting you on the other side, ready to pounce and consume you.
Maybe that’s why you twist the handle with apprehension.
The first thing that hits you is the smell — earthy, comforting, a hug that envelopes you in the feeling of home. It takes every molecule of self-restraint to not pull in a breath big enough to explode your lungs and roll your eyes back in pleasure. And then you hear it, a voice crooning softly from a speaker. Sinatra? It’s so quiet, it’s hard to tell, but you’re almost certain it’s him. The last thing to fully register is the sight before you: a pot stewing atop your stove, while Bucky stands over it with a wooden spoon in hand, stirring it in slow circles.
The first thought that crosses over you is that this must be a dream; the hyper-realistic kind where you somehow manage to gain consciousness of the fact you are not in the waking world. You blink — once, twice, and then thrice — and rub your eyes for extra measure.
Nothing changes, Bucky is still there. Here. Home.
And now that you are fully taking him in, you take note of the fact he’s still in tactical gear, heavy boots, and, is that a bruise on the back of his neck? He turns before you can confirm your horrified suspicions, face filling with delight for a beat or two until melting into a vision of concern.
“You,” wielding the spoon, he points it in your direction and completely misses the way it drips onto the floor. “Should be in bed.”
In an unexpected reaction, his voice brings tears to your eyes. Perhaps the fever has conditioned you to cry at the relief just hearing him brings.
“You shouldn’t be here,” fortunately, you have enough willpower to hold back the flood while you speak, but the dam is a teardrop away from bursting and staining your face with pathetic waterworks.
“Nearly a whole year of sharing a bed, and you wanna kick me out now, doll?” Bucky is on the prowl, crossing the distance at a speed your backward shuffles are no match for. Still, you persist with your attempt to keep space between you. “Here I thought we were going steady, too.”
“No, home. You shouldn’t be home,” defensive hands try their hardest to create a barrier, an invisible force-field that will magically hold back the strength of a super soldier on a mission to wrap himself around you. As expected, he wins, arms snaking over your waist and pulling you in. You melt, instantly, and regret it. “Sam needs you.”
“Sam is a grown man with wings, a shield, and Joaquin to watch his six,” Bucky tightens his hold, like he just heard the thought of pulling away that ran through you. Lips press to the crown of your head. “I’m needed elsewhere.”
That critical teardrop finally breaches over your lower eyelid; the cotton of his shirt catches it.
“I’m fine, Buc-”
“You sneezed,” he says it like it physically pains him, like it sickens him to the core. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“Only happened after you left,” the sentence is barely coherent, mumbled into his chest. You don’t doubt that he hears you, not when his shoulders de-tense as though you have torn the weight of guilt from off of them.
He stumbles backward, slips a hand between you both, and tilts your eyes to meet his own. A metal thumb swipes over your cheek, wiping away a tear before it stains more of your skin, “Still, I should’ve known, shouldn’t have left you on your own.”
“I know your buddies invented time-travel,” he grunts out a half-laugh, that thumb still soothing your face and completely unaware that the tenderness behind his touch is only rousing more tears. “But you can’t know every time that I’m going to feel sick.”
“I’ll tell Sam tomorrow that I won’t be helping out anymore,” from the way he’s talking, one would think he is the one floating through the numbing medicine of a cough bottle.
You don’t even get the chance to call him out on his insane proposal, because the idiot is leaning down and threatening you with his lips.
“Nuh uh,” your protest is followed up with a coughing fit sneaking up on you, that tickle returning to your throat at the most poignant of times. A hand meets your back, a gentle pat that accompanies you through the rough patch of clearing your airways. “Are you trying to end up sick, too, you idiot?”
“Love it when you talk all sweet to me,” god, you hate him. And you love him, like nothing else in this world. You show it to him by lightly shoving against his chest, rousing a laugh from it. “Even better when you get a little rough with your loving.”
“Watch me get real rough and delegate you back to the couch.”
“Ouch,” there he is again, trying to tempt you with a kiss. You turn your face and let his lips drag across your jaw. “After I flew all this way for you.”
“James-”
“Ooh, you’re using my name,” he’s practically whispering it directly into your ear, the hand at your back dragging you that little bit closer. “Which usually means I’m in trouble.”
“You will be,” you make a mistake, turn back to look at his eyes. In your defence, there’s been a particular lack of blue in your life for the past few days. “If you kiss me and end up sick.”
“Super soldier, remember?” So close, you can taste him. The ghost of a touch brushes over your lower lip as that blue you’ve been missing disappears slowly behind a curtain of eyelashes. “I don’t get sick.”
His kiss is a rebirth.
A come-back-to-life your flat-lined heart has been missing, a current of electricity that jolts through you and reminds you what it means to feel so in love that it is rotting you slowly; from the inside, out. Like any good poison, he’s the antidote to himself, an ailment only cured by the persistence of his presence.
If you were a little more selfish, you’d beg him to make true on telling Sam he’s never going on another mission… But you both know that isn’t something he could live with, not when there is a wrong out there he can attempt to right.
“So, you’re no longer just a baker,” is the first thing you say when you both pull back for air. Not too far, though, foreheads kissing as he brushes his nose against yours.
“Figured you probably need feeding,” and because he is a fiend for expressing his affection through touch, his lips press to your forehead. “Gotta sweat that fever out of you somehow.”
“I can think of a few ways you can make me sweat.”
“Says Ms. Don’t Kiss Me, You’ll Get Sick.”
No doubt he can see the need for sleep etched into your features. Still, he doesn’t call you out on it, just smiles as you fail to be seductive through the croak of your sore throat, “My lips aren’t the only thing you can kiss.”
“Mmhm, whatever you say. Food first though,” vibranium threads with your fingers as Bucky drifts away, dragging you along after him toward the kitchen. “Even made you my mom’s special soup, used to cure me right up when I was a kid.”
“What, like a century ago?”
“Not really the thank you I was looking for, y’know.”
+ extra hyde!
· it's been a while since i wrote anything manchild related, lowkey was stressing that i had forgotten how.
· anyway i hope you enjoyed this very self-indulgent fic!
· you better all be tuning into the bwa collab otherwise mommy ( me ) will be angry <3
Sex with Bucky had always been good. He always made sure to satisfy you first before he did with himself. He made you feel so good, you had almost passed out a couple times.
You weren’t on the pill, so you two would use condoms. He had never asked you to start taking it- first of all, he didn’t even know about it when you two first got together. Being the old man that he was, synthetic hormones didn’t exist back in the day. Second of all, he didn’t mind it. Sex always felt good with you.
But there was an itch- a thought that would pop up into his mind in the most random moments and not leave for a while. How would it feel to do it without the condom?
He didn’t remember if back in the forties he had done it without protection- he didn’t even remember how sex felt before doing it with you for the first time.
But this thought of his started to come up in his mind more often than he liked to admit it. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to ask you to just- throw caution to the wind and risk it.
It wasn’t about not wanting kids- hell, he wanted to have a family with you- just not then. It wasn’t the right moment, not with him still healing from his past and traumas.
One night though, while you two were laying in bed before going to sleep, he didn’t think he’d hear you ask him about that.
“My period’s coming in a couple of days” you murmured: “And I’ve been thinking.. since I’m not ovulating anymore-“ his eyes widened when he realized where the conversation was heading.
“You want to..” he said, voice low and breathy: “We could.. try, without.. protection.” You finished his sentence, looking at him in the darkness of your shared bedroom.
He gulped thickly, eyes wide and breathing already getting heavier at the thought of feeling you without anything between you two.
“Can we do it now?” He asked, his tone showing just how desperate he was and had been feeling. Your response to his words was a quick kiss to his lips and a softly muttered “Yeah”.
His cock was resting right on top of your heat, leaking and twitching as he trailed his kisses up your neck to your lips: “Good?” He asked, voice rough. You nodded and looped your arms around his neck.
With a shaky breath he lined himself with your entrance, then bit down on his lip when he pressed himself against you- and when he finally slid inside you? The feeling of you, warm, wet, tight around him- it almost made him come on the spot.
“Shit-“ he cursed under his breath, his hips stilling as he panted: “You’re so- fuck, you’re so tight baby-“ he almost whimpered, his eyes scrunched shut.
His words made you clench down around him and his hand flew to your thigh, trying to keep himself grounded and not just bust right then and there.
“Bucky-“ you whined, urging him to move: “Please” he pleaded, voice shaky and breathy: “Just.. just give me a moment..” he panted, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
When he finally felt like he wouldn’t come the moment he started moving, he gently rolled his hips against yours and once again the feeling was overwhelming.
He didn’t know if he could ever go back to use condoms- because fuck yes it did feel good with it but without it? Being inside of you felt like heaven.
He didn’t last. How could he? When you felt that good? He collapsed on top of you, panting harshly in your ear, his body trembling from the force of his orgasm. You were trying to catch your breath beneath him when he started peppering soft kisses to your skin.
“Don’t know if I’ll ever want to use condoms anymore..” he joked and you chuckled, looping your arms around him. It was going to be a long night.
i can’t sleep, so i’m making it your problem. (warnings: somnophilia, unprotected piv, creampie, possessiveness, mention of blood)
i was told to tag some people so: @flockoff-featherface @earthsmightiestbenders @chateaubarnes @iamthatonefangirl
the bed creaks and bucky just about curses.
he survived the torturous scream of the front door’s hinges and the brutal journey across the apartment’s noisy floorboards, just for this? to have the silence of the night interrupted by a mattress with too many springs and his overwhelming weight pressing down on an aging bed frame?
thankfully when his eyes find you, you’re still the gift of peace and rest, all wrapped up in a bundle of blankets — more blankets than normal, like you’re just trying to replicate the stifling warmth of having bucky next to you in the bed.
and now bucky can breath again. a deep, long, slow release of air out his nostrils, every muscle in his body switching from government weapon to homebody lover-boy.
all roads lead to home, but home is no longer a building for bucky barnes.
it’s this.
you.
sleeping in a bed he calls his own, dressed in one of his shirts, collared with the weight of his dog tags around your neck.
he peels back the blankets slowly, carefully, and a hand meets your thigh before the thought even hits his brain. smooth and warm, he welcomes the feel of you, flesh fingers drifting up the expanse of it. fingertips meet lace and hook themselves beneath it.
you show the first sign of life as your panties slip over your knees. nothing dramatic, no gasp of air or a sudden opening of your eyes.
just a squirm.
but its enough to let him know you’re welcoming him in, welcoming him back. even while you’re shut off from the physical world, you answer his beck and call like an obedient doll, legs spreading wider the further down your underwear travels. by the time he’s tossed them into the abyss of the moonlit bedroom, you’re splayed open and tempting him to take a peak a what awaits him beneath the hem of your his shirt.
bucky lets himself be tempted, weak willed and unable to resist that which calls to him… you belong to him, after all.
you told him that yourself, not even a week ago, tears spilling out your eyes as he watched you fall apart around him for the sixth time in a row.
his mouth meets the inside of your knee, and you squirm again, this time attempting to shut him out from your garden of eden. bucky redirects you with a nudge of his head, forcing your thigh back out to where it belongs: far away from the other one.
he can smell your arousal. subtle, barely there, the beginning of something that does not even know it’s about to happen. if you’ve heard of pavlov’s dog, get ready to meet pavlov’s cock… well, bucky’s cock, conditioned to harden at even the thought of you, spread out and needy.
luckily, you are not a figment of imagination.
bucky steals a taste, however, just to confirm how real you are. licks a slow, tentative strip up the seam of your cunt. his eyes roll back, a man turned pathetic at the smallest mouthful of his lover.
you gift him a sigh, arm curling over your abdomen as though to swat away the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
he indulges in one more taste of you before he’s peppering a trail of kisses over your hips.
the sound of his belt buckle fills the room, metal softly clanging as he frees himself from the shackles of clothing. no doubt, you’ll moan at him in the morning for leaving his gear strewn on the floor.
but for now, you’re moaning at him as he slowly teases his cock over your hole, coating himself in the first drops of lust that pour out of you.
it’s barely a moan, really. more a hitch in your breath, catching on your throat just as his tip catches on your opening.
bucky sinks into your walls with patience he hadn’t thought possible, torturing himself with the warm, sticky, nerve-awakening embrace of your pussy.
a whisper of your name, the first thing he’s spoken since boarding the jet with home on his mind.
both your pelvises kiss as he burrows himself to the hilt, hands pressing down on the mattress in a fight to restrain himself from collapsing completely atop you and crushing you beneath his stifling strength.
you’re still asleep, and a part of him can’t help but feel guilty… not because you wouldn’t want him like this, welcoming himself back into his home, but because he knows you’ll cry in the morning if you wake up to find him suddenly next to you without him even attempting to waken you.
he’s torn.
on one hand, he wants to wake you.
on the other, his hips are already rolling slowly, dragging out the pleasure of each thrust and sweetening the feeling with the sight of you shifting beneath him.
so receptive even while you sleep, your lips break apart in a gasp after bucky momentarily looses grip of his control and snaps his hips into yours, filling his ears with the squelch of him filling you.
he won’t last long. not after weeks away from you. he’s pent up with stress from the mission and a whole load of cum he’s been saving for you, unwilling to waste a drop on the quick release of his hand around his cock.
“shh,” he hushes your whine, pride swelling in his chest as he imagines what kind of dream you’re having right now, by design of him fucking into you while your head rolls on a pillow. “‘s okay, sweet girl, just me. just bucky.”
like you can hear him, your legs slip wider apart and bucky unexpectedly sinks deeper into you, tearing a grunt from his throat. his grip on the mattress is failing him slowly, palms growing sweaty as you grow wetter.
“such a good girl. my good girl. letting me use you while you sleep, soaking our sheets while you’re dreaming.”
and his grip on sanity is fraying, falling apart almost as easily and willing as you are, walls clamping around him as an orgasm washes over you.
“bucky?” god, you’re so cute, forced awake as he continues fucking you, sleep etched across your features.
“missed you,” it’s almost a sob, heaved out of bucky as he finally let’s himself give in to collapsing atop you, wide shoulders caging your frame beneath them as slow rolls of hips divulge into a frantic hump, the wetness of your pussy singing to him while his heavy balls slap against you with each thrust. “my perfect girl. always taking me so good.”
“you’re- ah,” he likes you best like this, lost somewhere in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep. it’s so easy to overstimulate you this way — one little orgasm and you’re already losing yourself, on the fringes of a second one. “bleeding, buck. oh god. you’re bleeding.”
“not mine,” he hushes you with a kiss, for both your sakes. it’s getting harder to talk, to think, to do anything other than feel you. “didn’t want to shower yet. just wanted you, needed you.”
your arms finally wrap around him, and that’s when bucky breaks, crying out a broken call of your name as he spills into you, rope after rope of hot, thick, sticky cum filling your pussy.
his face meets your neck, breath panting against skin as his hips continue to rut into you, like if he tries hard enough, he can force his cum even deeper.
“i missed you,” he whispers into you, sighing with relief as your fingers dance over his back, featherlight touches that lull him into a state of pure relax.
“i missed you,” you echo back, and his heart physically aches in his chest, angry that it will never physically be in your possession — it just has to conform with being pressed against you. “but you seriously need to shower.”
a chuckle escapes him and you giggle, accidentally squeezing around his cock.
“i know,” he pulls back from your neck and presses a kiss to your jaw. “join me? we’ll save water.”
+ extra hyde!
anyway no more goon night, good night i need to sleep <3
